1000 For a while in the dark night I travel with poetry.  That is part of my shame and desolation.  But at the end we part ways.  I do not travel into the land of bleak death. The pale horse does not take me on its back sans merci.  Rather I become bold.  From somewhere the words come to me.  Kiss me with the kisses of your mouth.  I grab this god around his neck and his being pervades my soul.  The rest is oblivion.


I deconstruct.  I have been reading St. John of the Cross.  I am imitation.  I am fake.  I am at Fontrevrault la plus troublante.   I am the spinning door.  I am the bad show.  But I am not pale.  I am.


I am writing this in Bangkok.  I have been hurt by the emptiness of Buddhism, and I have secretly invited the blood-red kisses of Jesus to heal this wound. I have been cooled in the fiery jealousy of this god.  I must say, of this God.  I swear there is no other.  I leave all these devas and idols.  He is the only one.  I don't want him, Him, to leave me.  Love is a terrible bondage.  I put the bands on willingly.  His hands on my hands, we do it together.  This word-scape is my escape. 


It is of the essence of our religion that words are not nothing, but are of the Word, which for us is spilled out blood, drunk, enlightened.  Beyond the weakness of the senses.


I have spent my life with logic and mathematics books.  I intimately know the complexities, intricacies and delicacies of reason and reason's magic symbols.  We are not far from alchemy, our science is now on the doorstep of fantasy.  I can feel it.  I let the feeling take me.  And cut me.  It is all unspeakably real.  Red real.  Read and reread until my eyes hurt and if they would only bleed I would feel better.  This is all beyond the senses.  The far a priori.  In the dark night when I come undone.  And the shirt falls to the floor.


The symbols of reason are all gestures lovers make for each other to show the delicacy of the pain they are in.  This age of reason began in love's anguish.  We have tried to escape it by going into the practical, but it hasn't worked.  Love's worry has only increased.




1001 Poetry names the eternal things into our minds. It brings back to us what we have always known. It lets us see the one face we have been looking at forever. It takes us out of the entanglement we call life, and suddenly we are in a far place with the simple things themselves. The poet says the word war and if he says it correctly, that is to say, if that maddening thing the poets have named Poetry permits him to say it and is with him in his saying, then that great spirit appears before our minds, and we are silent. We have known this thing forever. We know its look and its smell, its feel and its taste. We know it in sensa that are themselves become pure and separate from mere life and its tepid sensings. The sound of the word War from the poet's breath dins forth in the great silence that is everything that war is.

Poetry names love beside the word war, and we know exactly what he means. He will not waste our time by saying look it is here or look it is there. He will just say the word, and we will already be stepping onto holy ground where it itself is, away from any earthly or heavenly battlefield, away from any particular friend with friend, that thing we have known for all eternity, and the blood from our heart rushes up into our throat. To then speak is to speak without speaking the very eternal speaking that seemed for a moment to be right there with this man who called himself a poet. Who named himself.

The Naming and the Speaking, the Word and its Going Out, the Real Things invading our shadow lives, the things that make us swoon and go blank and lie dead, the things that leave us with only the blazing light; these are the things that have left poetry and its poets so shunted and thrown down here where we are too busy for all this right now. Maybe later.

We have learned to turn our back to Poetry and Eternity. Of course we have. We had to find a way to stay alive and not be overcome. We no longer believe. We insist we no longer believe. We are the young boy who insists he is not in love. Who trembles when he is alone because he knows he is in love. So he seeks the incessant talk of friends. He becomes society's darling. Society's poet. The poet without Poetry. Himself an eternal thing we also know. This also is Poetry and true love. The hardest poetry to write. The hardest love to endure.




1002  Most of the time we live with shadows and wraiths and spooks and all those things that are there, but then again aren't really there.  Ideas we understand, but not really.  Maybe there really is no idea there.  Lovers we love, but not really.  Maybe there really is no such thing as love.  Success we are about to attain, but what is that.  Surely on the other side of attainment there will have been nothing there at all.  And on and on.  And so it goes. Ex nihilo nihil fit.


We have gotten used to it.  It has become something comfortable.  We knights of infinite resignation to the inevitable nothing have settled in.


Why is it like this?  Well, there are reasons and then reasons for those reasons and reasons for those reasons farther beyond who knows or even cares.  Scholars make money claiming they have found what might be a path through this wilderness.  They write a book, have a party and get drunk.  The next morning they will mumble something about having made a clearing where light can shine in on this benumbed world.  I really don't think so.


I am a scholar.  I will show you the path (mis)taken above.  I moved from the word "maybe" to the word "surely".  I moved from "it is, yet it isn't" to "it isn't".  From the moderate, to a degree, I'm not sure, it could be, socially conventional middle to Nothing.  I went from shadows to Pure Form.  From words words words words words to Reality.  I jumped and landed in Platonism.  The great Nothing staring me right in the face.  I love to jump like that.  Away from the spooks.  Sometimes I jump the other way though.  To the Something full of existence.  Always the extreme.  Always intense.  Always the grinning Cat among the sleepy pigeons. 


As you can see I am not a good scholar.  I jumped myself right into the middle of my analysis.  Anyway, as Protagoras said, "These thoughts, Socrates, are OK for adolescents, but not for grown men.  Grown men should be fighting wars, making money, being politicians, and raising a family."


I need to calm down and try to convince myself that the gods really have left or died or petered out.  And yet when a pretty young thing looks into me with those piercing eyes, just like in old poetry, sighs, just like in old poetry, turns as though to say, don't you really want this fine little ass, just like in old poetry, and makes me beg, just as it has always been done from right out of the way things have always been and must be, no shadow of a doubt, this is real and has always been and must be, a god.  Or nothing at all.




1003  Let me try once more to speak the difficult things of philosophy.  Perhaps the unspeakable.  Surely Difficulty and ontological Muteness are real.  They are with me even now.  Intimately.  And I am close to my trying.  Maybe it's my own, maybe it is given to me.  And I feel I am close to speaking.  Though I know that without his maddening presence I will never speak the Difficulty of the Difficult nor the Unspeaking.  I lie in wait to watch myself being caught up.  I will proceed by adopting the look of casual prose.


We know the fact that the sun shines hot.  We know each word and its meaning and that one joins with another into a sentence. Words name things and sentences name facts.  Facts have things as their constituents (I speak as philosophy books do, neither too precisely nor too loosely.)  Facts though cannot be named, only things can. Things reveal, but don't speak how they fit into facts.  I can speak a sentence, but I cannot speak the senticity of a sentence nor the thingness of a thing.  Not the factness of a fact, not the rule of their ordering in a fact.  Nonetheless I know all these things.  I recognize them each time I see them, and I know that they are eternally self identical.  I know Identity and Difference.  And I can name them easily and you know them easily, but now with difficulty I look for words to say a something more.  Everything I have spoken of has an inner being that I have not found or revealed or possessed.  Each is a sun that shines hot.  I stand before God.  I burn.  Cool love is for another time.  He is trying me.  I walk the city parks at night with Wittgenstein.




1004  Between the emptiness of Buddhist nihilism and the ruddy fullness of Platonic realism.  Between the madness of Nietzsche and of Phaedrus itching for flight.  Between no abstract thing and all conceivable and inconceivable abstractions.  Between he is not here and he is here.  Lies me.  There is no between.  It's all or nothing.  I am that disjunctive thing.  Lies, lies, lies.  He is lying.  To you, at you, on you, with you.  For you.  The empty words pile up.


My Lord is the Logos, therefore I am a writer.  All things reduce to absurdity.  I live with all these things and the reduction and the absurd.  That I can say that is the proof of my sanity.  I am simply speaking as a scholar trying the limits of thought and speech.  Socrates was the most erotic thinker.  Between the beautiful and the ugly.




1005  I'm a nice man.  Ask anyone. But I'm trying to write true religion and true philosophy at the end of the twentieth century.  It's been a wild century.  A destructive century.  How can I be merely nice through all that?  I can't.  But I am nonetheless a nice man.  Ask anybody.  I have wanted to write casually and clearly.  Sometimes I can.  Maybe I am now.  But I wait for it to change.  It always changes.  And soon.  It has to change.  Here at the end of the wild destruction at the end of the twentieth century.  Here in sex-clogged America.  With unbelievably intricate computer logic that aids in its transmission.  And AIDS.  And politeness.  And the police.


Religion is true, therefore there are gods and Him.  Philosophy is true, therefore everything exists.  Without the last little piece it all collapses.  These are true because Here we are.  The logic is inevitable.  Here at the end of the twentieth century we have become precise.  He is coming even now.  The commotion is great.  Flesh sticks out.  The Soon is always too soon.




1006  No introduction to any philosophy is ever possible.  As with the infinite sphere whose center is everywhere, the beginning thinker is always at the culmination of what has been an infinite journey.  The future, if there ever was one, is present.  His words are no more than a speaking to that.  He is with his infinite self.  What he says makes no difference.  It’s all to be said soon.  The past is the future swallowing itself.  The end is the middle is the beginning.  The order to things is just not here.  But the Order of order is all there ever was.


Order itself is not a thing in this world.  Nor is The Beginning.  Nor The End.  And The Middle is not to be seen.  Philosophy, the Transcendent, The Form of the World, the most clearly known, evident to all, a child playing, is not here.  There is no introduction to it.  There is no ladder by which we can climb up to it.  There are no words that can catch it.  Any speaking, any writing will do.  The beginning philosopher begins again.


The Infinite has become easy for us now.  The mind for us overmen knows how to catch up with itself.  We are ourselves.  The world in its strangeness is familiar to us.  We wait for the latch on the door to move.  He is close.




1007  Particulars and universals are timeless.  They are nowhere.  The Nowhere and Timelessness.  Things hang like jewels, glittering in the nighttime of Being. The thought of Difference that analysis has revealed.  Unthinkable.  And the catastrophe of their smashing together in impossible unity.  The One that cannot be.  Gloomy super-existence.


The great structure of philosophical analysis, a juggernaut our lovely god rides within.  Heart piercing love, the most universal, with all the shattered particulars.


The things of philosophy exist and are seen.  We are passively in Being.  Being for us is the great commotion of a paradise of beloveds.  Being being the most beautiful of them all.  Irresistible force upon the mind.


Ontology turns to religion.




1008  In our everyday thinking, our scientific thinking, our conventional thinking, our thinking is propositional.  It is subject-predicate.  It is sentential.  The wind is blowing. The night is beautiful. The stars burn.  Thinking gathers.


In our philosophies the sentences come apart.  Each word names a distinct thing.  Things that by themselves we know intimately, but which we cannot think or speak by themselves in their aloneness.  If I say "blowing", I think of something blowing.  And so it is for "burn" and "gather".  My thinking and speaking looks for a subject.  If I say  "star" or 'wind" or "night" or "thinking" each becomes the predicate of an infinity of bare particulars.  This star, that star, countless unseen myriads of stars.  One predicate, many bare particulars.  Each particular an x.  Each x different, not in property, but only in its difference from all other x's.  Philosophical unsentences.  Unthought.  Finally the "is" that unites each particular with a form.  X is a star.  This is a star.  X is burning.  The many predicates crowd in on one particular.  Each star crowds into The stars.  X's become a class.  And philosophy in its cutting separates the class from its elements.  The ___s becomes an existing pure logical form.  The form of class.  That particulars and class are united is then a deeper unspeakable, unthinkable thing that philosophy speaks and thinks right nicely.  Perhaps in its eternal dream.  A thing of the gods.   Some false, some true, all existing.




1009  Philosophy asks questions about existence because the philosopher finds in such questions, in the Question itself, and in ancient Existence the only salve for the wound of love.  He asks the question and the door opens.  He lets the words form on his mouth.  He himself will smear them all over himself.  Of his own anointing he becomes the Answer.


The answer is long.  It is hard.  It is too much to speak.  The eternal night has not been deep enough.  I am the night.  The drilling goes on.  The few lights I have glare.  Existence and the Question insist, and I still continue with my answer.  The oil and the sheen and the machine of love.  The two-in-one.  There is no other answer.  All the numbers are.  Existence has gone deep.


The answers and the questions about the existence of numbers and relations, and universals, and individual things, about the Tie and the First and the Second and all the things that never were and You Never Were and Screaming and unheard crying sitting with that stuff all over your face and     The door just closed!  Which side are you, oh my God, on?




1010  This is all beyond the power of speech. This is all beyond the power of human intellect to think. So I write in dream metaphors.  Blatant contradiction.  Dissolving boundaries.  Failed explanations.  Childish analyses. Pure metaphysics.  From logic to the Logos to the strips of flesh walking the streets. Irony and iron bars. Holy body eaten to holy bodies eating.  To speech eating itself.  "Beyond" is just a word. There's nothing beyond it.  An empty frameword that captured the real thing.  And your mind with it.  There wasn't enough time nor space for a nexus, everything was shoved up close.  The critical examiner never came.  The everything spun and spun and spun.


The end of language and of the learning of language is pleasure.  It should be pleasure.  Or it is the death of language.  With nothing spoken at all.  Thus it must be about rhythm and its movement.  About the surprising appearance of a well-formed body of words right in you and coming out of you and going back into your head saying only itself, you quietly overhearing yourself.  You and your pleasure are one.  The Word.  You are suddenly what it has been forever.  With it you never were not.  And your head spins.  It is Him.  That Face.


I always end up speaking the philosophy of realism because a real thing has forced itself upon me.  It would be pointless to try to speak nothingness with the mystics.  Or to argue what should be with the legalists.  Or to invent stories of the far away for romantics.  He is too much even now here with me.  I cannot deny the world because everything here speaks of him.  Its hardness is his hardness.  Its fleeting emptiness is me.  Across the skin right above the nerves in his eye.  I am in the electrical saltiness.  I'm too tight.  Just that, no more.  Nothing.  A hard presence.


I am because he is the impossible thought of this and them a different this together with the one thing that they are.  This and this are hard, and long, and heavy.  So many things that aren't one.  As far from each other as the sky from my fingers here.  Together, one simple thing.  One thought.  Of.  All that.  With it.  The one and the many collapse.  Being with a something else, nothing.  One thing.  Impossible thought.  But sure.  The only sure thing.  I will never be able to leave it.  He's speaking to me.  I love him totally.




1012  The primary distinction here is that between the individual and the property it bears.  Between matter and the form that informs it.  Between this and what it is.  Between the universal and the particular that exemplifies it.  All many ways of getting at the same thing.  The distinction is one.  It is the internal structure of this place in Being.


After the separation is complete the Platonist moves in.   He studies with a lover's intent intending and grasping the ontological things themselves.  Form without matter.  The universal alone.  The nexus before it has brought together any world.  He is outside.


The philosophical form of the world is not in the world.  Any speaking of it is a speaking of nothing.   Philosophy's thoughts are absurd at best.   Perhaps he is just confused.  But philosophy is what we are all about.  Our only passion.


The anti-philosopher is of course correct.  We have fallen.  Let us hear nothing of universals and Forms and Eternity.  It's all words, just words.  The secret pleasure of images of images of images.  Momentary brain jerks.  Encoding trying to encode itself.  Programs lost in machines.  Maybe dark matter.  The feel of a hard thing in your hand.  The knowledge that your lover will be your death. Love sickness.  The wasteland. 


One of the boys from Plato's Garden comes out onto the wasteland to sit with and talk to the non-philosopher.  The boy's beauty leads him into a dream of paradise.  A dream of reality.  Of Forms.  And immaculate distinctions.  And this here clearly, calmly right in front of you.  No secrets.  Everything in the Light. 


And the boy knows the Desolation.  He is lost in the hide and seek game of love.  His lord is the Unknowing beyond Being.  He is Machination and Calculation.  Without his eternal Form of the Secret there are no secrets.  Without his dressing and undressing there is no encoding.  He is the hard thing in your hand.


There are no anti-philosophers who do not contemplate the Form of Anti-Philosophy.  He knows the Wasteland.  His anti-Platonism is Platonism.  He himself is the boy.  The Boy.  The Dialectic turns.  All are redeemed.   He waits for the second coming.  He is wild with intensity.  He has also tried for the impossible cut.




1014  I really don't know what these Buddhist monks are looking at.  Or trying to look at.  They talk about the fleeting existence of all things, from rocks to gods. And about the direct awareness of things right at their rising into existence.  They know that they are that direct awareness right then, for that too is a thing.  And I suppose they are somehow directly aware of the rising.  Maybe they go so far as to see the emptiness out of which it all arises.  They talk about cause or dependency, which they may also be aware of.  I really can't tell how far they go in talking about such "abstract" things, which, it seems to me, also exist there to be seen, though they don't arise.  Nor does rising arise.  Therefore, they don't descend or whatever back into nothing.  They seem to stick close to transient things and never onto the ground on which they are built up.  They probably would deny that there is any such thing.  That the emptiness is rather the non-thing beyond it all.  I can't get into or onto nothingness.  It's to close to nothing at all, though, of course, they would deny that.  But it is, and all their what is really boring scholastic explanations explain their way to nowhere.  I'm sure they would agree and think that's really beautiful. Which I guess it is.


I really don't know what these monks are down to looking at.  The nowhere ground.  The gloom out of which it all arises.  Into the light.  And the arising.  It's inevitably sexy, orgiastic, the sudden thing, Light - it's in you. They sit there so calm.  But they aren't.  They're all moved by that which doesn't move.  That thing that just sits there.  Eyes half-coming.  His top-knot erect.  Right through his head.  The eaten chants stuffing themselves into it.  He is low, as low as the ground.  He is the darkness.  Ringworm and all.  Now that's something.  As low as Jesus.  So near God.  The one thing they wanted away from.  He's back.  I know what they are looking at.




1016  I have written nothing on these pages that is sublime or magnificent or elegant.  I have written the ordinary.  We have long ago become the overmen.  The nausea of littleness is easy now.  Soon these words will perform an ordinary somersault, flash once or twice, become paradox, the form of our god, a god long since talked to death, and stand up right there in front of you asking for your one more time applause.  And you will give it.  From nothing, nothing.  The sublime, magnificent, elegant ordinary nothing.  This too is Being.  This is God.  Nothing has escaped us.  We have it all.  It is all real.  This is the other side of Being.  Being turned inside out.  The Super-sublime.  Surely nothing more than the divine gloom.  So willful.  Glory beyond grace.  A dark thing.  The retching itself.  The Boy with his own knowing.  And you are trapped in the oil on his face.


Now you begin to figure a way out.  The figuring lasts a long time.  The exit appears and then disappears.  It was either no exit or you weren't prepared to take it.  You don't know whether you'll ever have time to get prepared.  Or if it's transcendental and death is the exit, what's the use of squirming around now?  All your intellectual squirming has, in fact, made exiting an ever remoter possibility.  And you have learned to love the feel of squirming itself.  It fits with the beautiful distance that the exit lies in.  Surely in the thought of that you have become the bridge across.  One more construction that worked well.  You're such an engineer!


The students you are leading through the ever growing labyrinth must learn to build ladders out over the wall.  To see their own seeing.  To have ideas of ideas.  Of ideas.  To escape inward.  And outward, at the same time.  To twist and squirm to their heart's content.  There's nothing to learn.  But Learning itself.  To learn language.  Is to learn Language.


I write Desire and Will.  Nothing else.  After all the cuts of analysis have been made, while still bleeding, the heart still beating fast.  The lover close at hand.  These words come, I suppose, to be a soothing creamy thing, but they only make my path more slippery and my fall more direct.  Into his arms, through me, holding me there like a piece of meat.  He will eat.


Desire itself, unlike desire, is still.  It is Still.  Such Stillness may be at the heart of boundless commotion.  It is surely Commotion itself.  A god desiring, though still, is not so Still as is God's Desire. Yet, after saying all that, I am left with the very ordinary commotion of these words.  My desire is ordinary.  I am not even still.  Still I go on.  There's nothing else to do.  This is all there is.  I am Desired.  I hope I am.  I don't know.




1017  Surely in my English I am after the movement and the stillness and the ecstasy.  I want to blank out in paradox.  I want to spill out over the expanse of its inward going.  The little words of pure connection, unconnected.  Movement accomplished.  Up close.  Separated off.  Outside the whole thing, standing up.  I go off.  And the stillness.  Just held there.  Just there.  Trembling.  Until it's over.




He is so many things.  How can he be all of them?  But I know that the one beauty, pure and holy thing is in all of them.  But what are they that he could be in them?  There is nothing there to be in.  I break and fall.  I rely on the fixedness of my words to catch me.  He is that tool.  That too is him.   Fire and a knife and a laying out.




In the nostalgia and the memory of things absent things become beings present.  From things to beings.  From the sane, casual ordinary to the pain and sickness of ghosts.  From prose to beating rhythms of intensity.  From a thing with a healthy distance to the too close.  In nostalgia and memory we know beings directly and immediately, therefore with pain and anxiety.  Beings are eternal, things that have stepped outside time.  For a moment you followed.  And the otherness to where they never left.


We know the Eternal Forms through Memory.  In memory we are up close to the timeless.  And it is in the curls of Eros.  The boy of desire.  The things of the Being of beings.  Dark gods.  The timelessness of the timeless.  The knowing that we surely must become.  The Rape that must take hold.  In philosophy things are forgotten as absent.  Being and Presence are everywhere.  It is incessant.  It is Him.  Adonai.  My breath


The dialectical dance of presence and absence, changing partners too often.  It's only Him.  So many faces.  The one face.  My face.  I dance by myself.  My arms around my own waist.  Wasted.




1018  I love those writings that say existence is a mistake.  Buddhism and Platonism and all the Sufi verbal twirlings and twirlings and twirlings.  Buddha himself sits there on his little seat so eyes half closed unable to move pure sex, the world burnt away in the thick flame of Desire.  Narrow waist, round pecs, top-knot standing straight up, his hand open holding it all.  Existence is gone in the break of orgasm, a blanking out that is nowhere.  He may never come to, he is so-gone. The tight, little one.




1019  There is no opposition between a philosophy of absolutes and a philosophy that infolds the philosopher at the moment of his writing.  Nor the reader the moment his eyes see his words.  Both right then see the absolute.  The soul is taken; everyone is with Philosophy in His palace far away. 


We clearly, obscurely, distinctly, vaguely, calmly, passionately, presently, remotely, verbally, tactilely, visually and as a sweet whisper in our ear know directly and clear through naked existence pressed against us in us in shattering oblivion.  Beyond that there is no more.


My knowing is a knowing itself.  Present to me is Presence itself.  Existence is mine.  I am with the last things.


Here at the end of the world, the Great Bazaar, all monies changeable, essences piled on tables, hanging on the walls, scattered on the ground, falling through the hands of boys striking a deal with you, going cheap, just for you, dirty faced angels, at this last moment just before everything slips into eternity, in the commotion of the nexus between, between time and There, nothing, a dream, a piece of writing, a thing read, this moment here, the place of the Real, the only really real.


Can you feel that we are in a dance, Just you and me.  My sentences flow.  But they flow nowhere except around you and through you and you through them.  Repetition of the same and the almost the same slipping off into eternity, a nonsense word for a nonsense thing, but a thing which you know very well and which you are right now and you know it.  How can I get you closer to yourself?  Am I offensive to you?  How could I be?  You can't see me.  There's nothing to see.  You may imagine me any way you like.  No one will see.  God himself will not be looking on, because this is God.  You are with the final Thing.  There's nothing more. 


This thing you are reading is almost done.  Soon existence and you will be going off somewhere else.  What's to be done?  He will not leave you.




1020  When I watch clouds gather, I am not watching what is not the clouds, but is something fleeting of my mind.  I am watching clouds and their gathering.  Then the intimacy between me, my mind, and the clouds and the gathering is complete.  When I see a rose there is no distance at all between Rose, a form seen many places and many times and that thing I see.  It and the form are intimate.  They are not me, but I too am intimate with their intimacy.  The many particulars and Forms and me.  The world and my mind.  All the presences and absences.  All are present with each other, themselves, in the openness of Being.  And each is intimate with the other.  That intimacy is the Form of Being.  Nothing is hidden.  The many things are not an illusion.  Every pair tied in intimacy is indeed two, their division is real.   Otherness is also present.  The tie of intimacy is a third.  But it is a third that disappears and leaves the two alone.  Love is shy and coy and self-effacing.  Likewise the interpenetration of the two is complete.  Each is all through the being of the other.  They are one.  Their twoness has been forgotten.  Their otherness never was.  Such is the illogic and the madness of love, the heart of Being.  My words have made no mistake.  They too are intimate and perfectly adequate with Being.  And with me.  I write what I see and know.  When I write of the great extendedness of the sky, I am that.  My arms are around it.  The words have gathered.  Into a thing that always was.




1021  I am like the Sufis before they were captured by those in love with crying and dejection. Back when the beloved Boy was their delightful delight. I am like Rumi who fell for Shams-i-tabriz, the magically beautiful, who was hunted down and killed. I am like Lysius, ignored, determined, daily singing the praises of his beloved. I am like Jesus, who came back from praying and discovered all his friends asleep. I am. like his friends, asleep, waiting for their lord to return from prayer. I am like the Beloved wondering why my lovers have fallen more in love with loss and the pain of my absence. I insist I am the one who will be loved, these self-effacing ones will have to go.

My beautiful beloved, I will have you in my arms. I will be beautiful in your arms. And the starry heavens shall be ours. Though to the sophisticated this sweetness is repulsive, and the sweetness of liquor is lovely, it is not so to me. I am. Oh tiresomeness to the jaded, in jumpy, nervous, anxious anticipation, giddy with delight.    Even this time of not having is hard presence. My insistence is your very presence. My will have is I do have. Presence is all through this non-presence. The problem and the non-being are. I will figure it out in a hard figuring. Let the sweetness be doubly sweet. Let the arms be doubly delightful. Let the kiss be heart tearing. One blood. Running together.

I leave the forlorn extendedness of space and step inside the tent of his intention. In the Logos, the Divine Mind, all is present in the One. The straight line extended is one, simple thing. The multitude of strands of hair is the thing to be known and seen and felt and tasted all at once. The senses fall together into one thing. The universals in all their otherness and multiplicity are one thing. The Idea is simple. It is the one thing we can all look at. It is the one thing we all contemplate. Not here and there or you or me but everything all of us in its unity. Caught up. And held.

Only the lover, entering the lover's tent can see. Out on the streets, even then, I am entering.

Then he leaves himself. Extendedness again extends. The streets are hard and cold. I must play his game again. Why? Will I forget forever? Will I too fall in love with crying and defection? No, up ahead he has appeared and beckoned. He is the very street. What else can I do?

The unspeakable truth is that the One and the many are one and other. And the "and" between them and the set of both and the "of" exist and speak loudly and are the Logos lifted up, Analogos, and the collapse in the Swoon and the "I have spoken it truly and perfectly". And the eyes half-closed guilt sexuality of it all, sure failure. Anathema, is all there is. Your fright is that you know exactly what I mean. Sin boldly.




1022  To abandon my words to him is to have to go out with danger.  Out into his city of questionable glances.  What was it I said?  Did he say it, or was I just mumbling?  Do my words have His meaning or are they just cum coming out of my mouth.  Is that their meaning?  In his city where things compress.  Am I alone?


Let me express myself more clearly.  To abandon my words to him is to lose that politeness that keeps you from jambing your flesh up my mouth.


Desire fills me and I want to be filled with his words.  I abandon my words. 


In the city of gods.  Their flesh so desirable, so sickly, Saddhu Jamb.  Burrough's ooze.  The danger of disease.  Ill at ease.


But I abandon myself to Him anyway.  There is no other.  With Him I become anathema.  He will find a ladder up and out.  Up onto the rooftop where St. John waits.  I am St. John.  I wait and look down on the city.  The breeze is cool.  He is with me now, all over my back. 




1023  In nostalgia and the memory of things absent things become beings present.  From things to beings. From the sane ordinary to the pain and sickness of ghosts.  From prose to the rhythms of intensity.  From a thing with a healthy distance to the too close.  In nostalgia and memory, we know beings directly and immediately, therefore with pain and anxiety.  Beings are eternal, things that have stepped outside time.  For a moment you followed to where they never left. And the otherness that created this world was gone


Plato says, surely you remember that Plato says, that we know the Eternal Forms through memory.  In memory we are up close to the timeless.  And it is always in the curls of eros.  The boy of desire. 


In Philosophy the most basic things are remembered.  The relating of things relating.  The bare this of each and every this.  The Ordering that gives order.  The dark command.  Palladium gods in the gloom of the godhead.  The timeless mess of the timeless.  The knowing that we must become.  The Rape that must take us. You know exactly what I mean.  In philosophy thing are forgotten as absent.  Being and Presence are everywhere.


In the dialectical dance of presence and absence, changing partners too often.  It’s only Him.  So many faces.  The one face.  My face.  I dance by myself.  My arms around my own waist.  Wasted.  It’s Him.




1024  The emptiness of things, the dialectical collapse, the mistake, the boy who feels his own non-existence, the trembling at no distance at all from the fullness of realism.  The growing, the intensity, the point of no return, the face, the cut, the falling, the emptiness.  The eternal return, the eternal going under.  Beauty in the darkness of the godhead.  It is there, but it doesn't exist.


The holy Logos is the pimple-faced boy in glasses manipulating vectors and turning and pushing until it all repeats in repetitions in eternal differences, sticking out, with residue.  Is he cross-eyed?  We can't tell.  He isn't there, but he exists.  The boy of no work, beauty and nothingness.  The boy of work, no beauty, pushing.  The empty and the real.  In a slow dance together.


I am the place of their dancing.  I am the difference and the repeating and the push itself.  I am the emptiness and the beauty and the cut.  I am the place of philosophy.  I am Ergon and Agon and the Calling.  My existence is entirely questionable.  I am the scandal you threw away.  The work you could never do.




1025  Jesus, 'O Pais, Sophos become flesh, the Logos that orders the universe, Number, Form, the being of all the fiery sensa, relata, relatum and relation, the Difference and Fixity that grounds each this and that, the Being of Being that is intimate with Being, the heart of intimacy, the Beloved I see in each beloved here.  I turn and turn and you are everywhere.  Every face, every glance every touch.  All disappearing until only you remain.  And I am nothing.  I am without art.  I am the open space between all the categories of this grinning Being.


I confess that when I was a boy I fell in love with the eternal shapes I drew with compass and ruler, of numbers' perfect fit, of difference infinitesimally falling.  Such things are the beauty of youth.  And its wildness and willfulness and complete self-satisfaction pervades the whole extent of this otherworldly heavenly topos.  This logos is a boy.  Its flesh is Jesus.  When he was killed I didn't know whether to laugh or cry or die with him.  When I was given his body to eat, I did it gladly.  Over and over again.  The One and the Many.  Heartbreak and perfection.  Number and lip.  Compass and arm.  Ruler and glance. The disappearing difference between him and me.  Confounding the sages.  Greek and Jew.  Natural identity.  Apocalyptic beauty. Computer theory.  Boys with joy sticks.  Reality at their fingertips.  Touching the God that is.  The scandalous ladder.  I went up.


Boys and pure logic are the questionable symbol of each other.  Mischief and paradox.  The breaking of the purely Other. 


I have written here in prose directly.  I have written the simple truth.  Without attractive artifice.


Is the God we worship without bodily form?  Yes. He does not have form.  Rather He is the being of bodily form.  He is the form of such form.  He is the form itself.  And He is the being of the connector "have" in "You, my friend, have a most beautiful form."  And further, He is the particularity that makes you just you.  God is all through you and is you.  He is even the simple fact that you have that form. With the Hindus I see God everywhere.  With their philosophers I wonder about this one thing being many.  With their devotees I fall prostrate before all the lovely beloveds, my one idol repeated and repeated.  I will not jump the unity and miss the beauty of this boy's heartbreaking Difference.


For Westerners, We Hindus are cast out as idolaters.  For the strict monotheists we Christians are cast out as idolaters. For the Christians we Platonists are cast out as paiderasteV, the lowest of the idolaters.


I am Hindu, Moslem, Christian, Platonist paiderastikoV idolater..  I am Sufi.  I am an American rebel.




1026  These writings are my words spoken to me in the mind of you.  Not you.  You are free of them.  Free to do with them as you like.  I have had my say.  I am not you.  The break is absolute.  But in you I am listening to myself.  I am speaking to Being.  I am.  You may listen to my listening and speak in my speaking.  If you like.  Before you read this I already heard your answer.  I know you assent.  The words themselves insist on it.  They have taken you as they have me.  I am not them.  I am free of them. These words speak to me in the mind of you.  And they speak you into the mind of me.  But we are both free of them.  In their speaking me to you. 


Now maybe you can see what I am about.  In all those words I communicated nothing to you.  This isn't ordinary prose.  In them I saw Being, speaking, independence, breaking, assenting …. Word messengers revealing holy sparks into the air between your and my eyes and this page.  I wrote them for the sheer pleasure of seeing them.  My listening was a seeing.  My speaking was a show.  It never stops.  Come with me.  Electric…boy#s tripping.


In me and you the words are incarnate.  In them I can see you, and surely you can see me.  I have written you and me and laid us out.  My voice hangs in the air.  Mobiles.  Speaking crystaleyeses.




1027  Analysis – my preoccupation.  I strike and go.  Being shatters.    Like crystal.  Like a windshield.  Into stardust.  And slivers that work their way under my skin.  The fire and the fever begin.  I drive on unshielded from the spirit, the wind from eternity.


That the skin of my thoughts becomes bright red divides from the Bright and the Red and the bare this of this.  Thought divides from me and the skinness of skin and of.


Pieces different from the whole different from That the pieces are of the whole.  Different from of.


And And.  Forming a mere collection, a list, nothing.  Until the fact of the fact comes that.....


So many times I have taken apart the world.  Things hang in timelessness.  So many times I have put them back together.  And the world is there.  The making and the unmaking is there.  And I am there, equally made and unmade.  And my anxiety and shortness of breath that it is so.  I drive on. A spirit, a god, a great preoccupation fills up this unknowing breaking up of knowing.


I look for the cause of my coming undone       and my filling up.   I see Cause.       I am effect.  It and me.  And then the Question.  A logical, scientific, scholarly question.  Without passion I question Being.  Why? What?  How is it with you and me?  A lover's hidden passion.  A silent wildness.  What am I to you?  I demand to know.  Are we two or one?  Are we two in one?  Are we just in a broken logic skidding into a tree along the side of a road?




Analysis and the philosopher's passion for analysis are one, not two.  The form of the world informs his mind.  Its difficulty is his own difficulty.  Its mystery is his.  And the inevitable that comes is Being itself.


We easily feel the holiness of the world.  We are drenched wet in its cold otherness.  The shivering sometimes won't stop.  The breaking up of analysis reaches all through us.  The philosopher and his philosophy are not two.



The fact, actual or possible, a complex made of simpler things, made of the simplest things, breaks off from those very simple things and is itself other.  The unthinkable.  The unwritable.  The thing I have made you think.   In this my philosopher's writing.




1029  After reading the texts, the only method there is is to put the texts aside and look at the world in front of you and see what you can see.  Only then can you know the meaning of the texts.  Only then can you see that they are true or they are false.  Aside from the words and the thinness of concepts, you must go to the thing itself.


The scholar has learned to love his books and the words that flow from them into his mind.  He is caught in their maze.  Those through whom the words came are his true friends.  He has forgotten the world.  The world has forgotten him.


Words unhooked from existing things are birds flying in the dark of night.




1030  I have no will to bring about a final understanding.  I let the swirl swirl.  I let the chaos display itself.  I become the common.  I do not transcend.  I descend.  I am in life, not around it.  I am without the appearance of a system.  The order is lost.  The abstraction couldn't be maintained.  It couldn't even be stated as a starting point.  But the pleasure was there from the beginning.  The finger slowly moving up my back.  The exquisite sensation. The fall.  The light before my eyes.  I have been sure of myself.




1031  I think facts.  And I think the pieces of a fact.  I think that the pieces are of the fact.  The fact and the pieces are different.   "This is wild extravagance."  A fact.  Made of "this", "is", "wild extravagance".  Aside from the pieces is the fact.  Without the fact, the pieces are merely a list.  Within the fact, they gather in being.  But who can think the difference between fact and its pieces.  In philosophy we think such a thing.  A god's thoughts.  A thinking beyond thought.  And my speaking and writing it either holy or nothing.  The or becomes and.  A holy failure of language, nothing and holy.




1032  I write the questionable.  The Boy, the god, the unrelenting anxiety of love should, of course, never appear in proper scholarship.  Nor in ordered society. Nor in words that pretend to be the truth of religion.  I have written the questionable.  I have written it precisely and without cover.




1033  Squirm to your heart's content. There's nothing to learn. But Learning itself. To learn language. Is to Learn Language.

I write Desire and the Will. Nothing else. After all the cuts of analysis have been made, while still bleeding, the heart still beating fast. The lover close at hand. These words come, I suppose, to be a soothing creamy thing, but they only make my path more slippery and my fall more direct. Into his arms, through me, holding me there like a piece of meat. He will eat.

Desire itself, unlike desire, is still. It is Still. Such Stillness may be at the heart of boundless commotion. It is surely Commotion itself. A god desiring, though still, is not so Still as is God's Desire. Yet, after saying all that, I am left with the very ordinary commotion of these words. My desire is ordinary. I am not even still. Still I go on. There's nothing else to do. This is all there is. I am Desired.  I hope I am.  I don't know.





1034  It is a principle of realism that the unity of an existent is itself something.  The unity of a particular with its form is a thing not reducible to either the particular or the form.  And the fact that the particular is united to its form by a uniting is also irreducible to any of the three.  Moreover, there is more over the fact.  The simple thought that this particular is united to this form, that it is a fact that .... is also something that cannot be overlooked, though for most of philosophical time it has been. But we must go farther.  A thought is a form also united with a particular to make this thought – a fact.  And this thought is one with the fact of which it is the thought.  Unities pile into unities.    Clear divisions between. Dependencies and independencies.  Separations thinkable and unthinkable.  To the thinkable inseparable. To the unthinkable inseparables.  To the purely simple things of thought, fact, dependency, separation, negation, form, particular, unity. existence, thing, simplicity and purity – each only by and in itself.  The many pieces of Being.  Each lord of its own realm. 




1035  Philosophy divides.  Is divided.  Continues dividing relentlessly.  The worried, passionate concern about falling into bad philosophy.  The mind trying to be so steady and clear falls in love.  The flesh emerges.  Thought trembles.  The sharp edges on your carefully laid out categories kill.  Philosophy becomes murder.  The soul falls through the spaces between what can be thought.  Reason has changed to myth.  Fearful gods spin around you.  His glance has nailed you to the wall.  You have become a holy icon to be contemplated.  Hindus place you in the emanating circles of tantra.  Love and logic unite.  A worrisome thing.  Not to be revealed.  



The manic uranian Eros of Plato lies in the dreams of the boys continually walking, around and around, denouncing themselves.  I have pronounced all the names of these nameless ones.  Names that are the names of nothing at all.  Philosophical things.  Super real.  Dark eyed beauties.




Pure Spirit.


Nothing holds. I am paradox.  I am contradiction.  I twirl and twirl seeking a resolution and rest.  I can't figure out what I believe.  Nothing holds still.  My mind is total disintegration.  I am on the verge of insanity.  I am mad.  I am evil. I am without proper form.  I have no being. There is no me to be.  I am not me.  I am other.


I will find someone who is.  Who knows what he is. Where he's going and what he wants.  Someone who is himself.  I will be him, which I can do because I am other than me.


Through the emptiness of total paradox.  Through that total non-being.  Through the darkness of nothingness itself I become him, he who is.


But I am a parasite.  He has to put up with me.  I sap his being.  I am killing him.  I am insane.




1037  The Greeks conquered the world not with power, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, not with money, nor fear, nor the persuasion of words, and not because they knew the Good.   They conquered the world with Beauty.  They forced the world to fall in love.  As they had done.  As I have done.  As America is now forcing the world of its time.  The one Time that is always Here.  America is the world gathered into one place.  The world is conquering itself with itself.  With its own terrible, irresistible beauty.  Holiness abounds.




1038  The voice in these writings speaks something that has often been spoken in the world's speaking.  In my writings I have spoken nothing new.  Nor is my way different.  It comes out of the religion of us all.  I and We speak of God, Spirit, and Love.  Of the Lover and the Beloved.  Of Sin, Madness and Eternity. Of philosophical things.  Being, the Forms, the One and the Nexus.  All of these words have been used and used and used to death through the centuries.  We all know them, and we all have totally failed to understand any of them.

The form of these writings is not that of a still life picture, substantially and objectively out there for you to contemplate.  Their form is movement, up close, too close, subjective, keep going don't stop, erotic, more that anything else erotic because He is there, uncontrollably there, as a thief in the night.  It is the spirit, and the wind, and the breath of the dervishes, the bacchantes and my grandmother's Holy Ghost religion.  And it is the bleakness of the world after He goes, and the night of love is over. And it is the wasteland that every lover knows.  The depression.  And the grimy guilt.  It is His eternal return.  The heart pounding prospect.  The Too Much when the senses break.  The peace.  And the Perfect Understanding.

I have written nothing on these pages that is sublime or magnificent or elegant.  I have written the ordinary.  We have long ago become the overmen.  The nausea of littleness is easy now.   Soon these words will perform an ordinary somersault, flash once or twice, become paradox, the form of our god, a god long since talked to death, and stand up right there in front of you asking for your one more time applause. And you will give it. From nothing, nothing.  The sublime, magnificent, elegant ordinary nothing.  This too is Being.  This is God.  Nothing has escaped us.  We have it all.  It is all real.  This is the other side of Being.  Being turned inside out.  The Super-sublime.  Surely nothing more than the divine gloom.  So willful.  Glory beyond grace.  A dark thing.  The retching itself. The Boy with his own knowing.  And you are trapped in the oil on his face.

Now you begin to figure a way out. The figuring lasts a long time. The exit appears and then disappears.  It was either no exist or you weren't prepared to take it. You don't know whether you'll ever have time to get prepared.  Or if it's transcendental and death is the exit, what's the use of squirming around now? All your intellectual squirming itself; it fits with the beautiful distance that the exit lies within. Surely in the thought of that you have become the bridge across.  One more construction that worked well.  You're such an engineer!

The students you are leading through the ever-growing labyrinth must learn to build ladders out over the wall.  To see their own seeing.  To have ideas of ideas. Of ideas.   To escape inward. And outward, at the same time.  To twist and




1039  You have fallen in love with something.  What shall we say it is?  A face, a glance, a shoulder?  A sleek machine?  An idea?  A possibility?  The nighttime strewn around?  A street and a wall?  A lonely living soul in prison?  For my purposes it makes no difference.  You have encountered the most difficult.  You have found the Difference that will be your undoing.  A piece of logic.  Simply, x is F.  Marks on paper, so matter-of-factly laying out the tremendous divide you are now forced to live with.  A this and the what that it is.  This face is the face of all faces right here.  This right here is beyond itself into all the places of this face , all faces in this one face.  You have fallen in love with the essence of the essence of faces.  And you have fallen for this one right here, only this one.  Two very different things somehow together.  A tremendous chasm bridged.  But the bridge is itself questionable.  It too is two.  And one.  This is the inexorable, relentless logic of love.   In the one thing loved the essence of all is loved.  In the essence, the one thing disappears.  The one thing threatens your vision of the all.  Each demanding your love.  Each resisting collapse into the other.  The particular and the essence together in a dance, without resolution, always moving.  It is you who are in the prison between.  And someone has fallen in love with you too.


Philosophy speaks the speaking of logic.  It makes a big show of speaking about particulars and universals.  Individuals and properties.  Word things and sentence facts.  Connectors, existents, and subsistents.  All and some and this one.  It is really speaking about the heartbreak and the joyous prospect.  The terror and the gentleness.  The darkness and the light of life.  It reveals in symbols the division at the heart of what we are.  It works in the workings of all our nighttime movements to learn to love this thing that has happened to us.


The fact is brute.  X is F.  The totally independent of you.  Unbending to your wishes otherwise.  It just is.  The unchallengeable.  You will bend your knee.  You must. 


You go into the heart of fact.  You see the ontological pieces of this unmovable god.  You look at is.  You have dissected your own love.  The stilled passion of logic connives with you.  A lover's great show of dispassion.  A necessary thing.   We have to live somehow.  Love is too great a god.  Eros, the boy who commands even ancient Zeus.  The Logos steers.  And the Questions.  Do you love the particular or the universal in the particular?  Will the god in the particular rage with jealousy?  How can you keep peace between the two?  In the universal nothing at all.  Have you already been abandoned?




1040  Because I am a lover, I want only the real.  Enough with dreams and deception and promises and endless waiting.  I want words and songs and visions and a touch filled up with Being.  I want the firm, hard, gentle, smooth riot.  I want eyes that see and ears that hear me.  I want me to be real.  I want the Last Thing.  The Big Lettered Thing, Real, in my hand, smeared on my face, at last, a god, shuddering holiness, take it, blank out, it's HimMe together.  I don't despise Grand things.


Because I only love the real and desire the real, I don't have the real and am not the real.  Because I am a real lover and my desire is strong and real, I am closer to the real than having and being can be.  I write desire, and it is Desire.  I fall through the space around all the Forms of Being.  Difference and Otherness and Trembling are mine.  I am stripped.  I am fetid and pocked.  I am the Too Sweet.  I am the end of the regress infinitely into the really real.  I am philosophy which is about nothing, thus I write about boys.  I am Phaedrus and Socrates under a tree in the sun.  I have not offended the god of love.  I have not inserted the hateful t in the manic.  Nor separated logic from the fiery glance.  I am the simple falling through the deconstructed.  The pieces flare up in the night sky.  Cheek is close to lip.  I love the real.  The red real.




1041  Because I believed in the reality of eternal Forms, I came to desire only them.  Because my desire was tight in itself, I moved in always closer to the One form of the many forms, the desire of desire.  Desire begetting desire begetting the world.  I fell into unknowing beyond knowing, a knowing an the heart of unknowing.  I knew the wind, the plains of truth, the open steppe out onto Being.  I became mad.  I spoke the words this god gave me.  This god who believes in belief.  The substance of belief.  Terror to the pundits.




1042  Facts of themselves are neither actual nor not actual. The earth is really big or not depending on where you look at it from.  I am intelligent depending on …….  This weather is beautiful  … if you are a duck.  Love is wonderful … sometimes.  How can the same fact be the case and not the case?  What is a case anyway?  Is actually such a thing that can depend on something else?  What is this depending thing?  Is the one fact in two settings really two facts?  Are the two facts then pushed together into one?  Have we here transgresses the bounds of where reason should go?  Have we fallen into the labyrinth of love?


Maybe all facts are actual someplace, and then of course not actual – other places.  "Of course" actuality for one fact cannot coexist with non-actuality "at once".  But facts "cross" into other places and settings.  Don't they?  Or is there just one fact for each fact, but that one fact has many appearings "in" many different places.  Overlooking the fact that the notion of place suffers the same fate as fact. The one blows up into many, which are no more than one.  That is the act of actuality – the many in the One.  And that's a fact.  But what makes it so?


Surely I see all this in an intellectual light.  It is around them and through them.  It is not from me.  And that I see it and see my seeing and that it is I who see.  All lit up.  In the eternal youth of the soul.  Kisses close.  Brilliant.  A thief come in the middle of the night.  Soon gone.  Your very Being taken.




1043  First philosophy, ontology, metaphysics, looks for the ultimate things and divisions that ground our experience.   Philosophy, just as science or even cooking, looks for simple things  "in" the complex.  Philosophy, however, looks for those things that cannot be broken down any further, thus they are "ultimate things".  Also I say that these things "ground" our experience, rather than "cause" it.  Cause and effect is a connection from science; it is experienced, and thus it too must be "grounded" in something else.  Likewise, that the simple is "in" the complex must be grounded. 




1044  Here at the end of Philosophy the last step is easy.  After we have described the intricate things present and absent, a world.  After we have named the most subtle connectors giving enough unity to make a world, and fallen into the noplace left with the appearance of unchanging time relations.  After the complex has been properly distinguished from all the simple things constituting it.  And actuality and potentiality separated from the facts they pervade. Particularity from particulars, universality from universals, subsistence from the subsistent, and facticity from fact.  After our philosophies have laid out what must be there for there to be the fact of this world.  After the world is right there.  We back off.  Turn around.  And wonder about philosophy itself.  What are these philosophical facts?  We then see all the ontological jewels hanging right there in the brilliant night of thought. We see clearly their pure cut into each other.  The One.  And the Question.  How have we been able to think this?  What grounds philosophy itself?  What are these otherworldly things?  Sophos has appeared.  "For wisdom would arouse terrible love if such a clear image of it were granted as would come through sight."  In this last intellectual vision of Intellect and Being, each itself, the love pouring into the mind is overwhelming.  In us Being has seen Being.  Thinking has thought Thinking.  Love has loved Loving.  We are the place.  Dasein.




1045  I have written nothing but songs.  I am singing of my own singing.  The song is singing of itself.  The singing is the writing.  The writing is the song creating itself.  I am the writing.  I am the work of pulling and laying down.  I am the word lain down.  I am the uttering that is the mark drawn out.  I am the energy and the actuality of the song.  The being of the song.  The force within it.  The writing.


I am the gathering.  From out of nothing, I pull the parts together.  I swell up and am.  The work separates from me.  I am the nexus of independence.  I watch myself.  I hold myself.  I put my hand into myself.  What I am, Being with itself is.  I am of Being with itself.  My song is Being with itself.  I am in the Pleasure.  The Pleasure is Being.  Being is tri-partite in itself.  Aside from Being there is nothing.  The Nothing is within Being.  Being emanates from me as from itself.  I am Being.  I am the Nothing I gather Being from.


I am the very light.  I am the polished.  I am the inflamed.  I am the naked.  I am the reproachful.  I am the swift runner.  I am the sling that hurls.  I am both the spirit of Greece and ancient Israel.  I am in the thunder.  I am the voice of the song.  I sheer of to other things.  I call.


I am presence and structure.  I am outline and a coming toward you.  I am Nexus.  I am the independent.  I am the art of myself.  I am forever one thing.  I am of myself.  I have not thought it necessary to depend on another.  I am the audacious.  Perhaps the Arrogant.  I am the Smooth.  I am Pleasure.  I am the Rush.  My strength is strength itself.




1046  In a complex thing is a simpler thing.        A simple thing is folded up in a complex thing.  A complex thing folds over a simple thing.  One simple thing with one simple thing fold together.  Folded with a simple thing is another simple thing.  They are in the folding.  In a is a ,  a is folded up with itself,  a is a folding up into a,  a and b fold together in  aandb,  each in the other  - one thing – two-in-one,  aandb is one with a and b,  this a and that a are both, unity and difference folded together into one complex.  The folding is neither.  Ultimate difference.  Let it be. 




1047  In a violent Act of grasping you possess the form separate from matter.  Whiteness without a white thing.  Not a white thought.  Movement without a thing moving.  A curtain that hides nothing.  The godhead without gods.  A knowing just as that.  Violently you take the virgin thing.  The boy is caught.  He is yourself.  You are the separate Forms of Plato.  You are the outer rim of the celestial spheres.  You are the vision the others fall from.  You are the things seen.


Knowing the simple you are the simple without nexus making the difference between the open space of the not of not this or that just the disjunction itself floating seasickness.  Comfort me with apples, stay me with flagons.    I feel the wind starting to rise.




1048  In the pure analysis of Being, in that most violent act of the most violent, We, neither light nor darkness, but de-light, find in the rush and ripping of intellectual wind, scattered pieces, jewels, trinkets of understanding, markers on our way across the vastness.


I have found a this.  A thing without quality or form.  A pure this. Bare.  It is without number.  Without order.  It is not a fact.  Neither mental, nor physical, nor perceptual, nor anything else.  It is always there.  It is my every I-don't-know-what.  Just this.  I love this.  Alone with this.  Far from the public place of the intelligible.  The purely unintelligible.  Just this.  Holy.  It is Him.


I ripped open logic and mathematics.  I found the shy little thing.  If these is those and this is that then that is those and this is these.  He is is repeatedly.  A coy and playful god that is the form of the world.  In the noplace between the secret place of this and that and the great towering circles and spheres of ascending and descending intellectual Light, Over-arching Unity, he either, I don't know which, draws them all together or holds them apart.  I want to say that because of him, This is One.  But, as you can see, in his standing between them, he forever keeps them apart.  That is a fact.  A complex affair.  A love affair and a legal affair in dispute.  I complain.  He is neither this nor that nor one nor many.  He makes things complex.  Only in a dream does his answer come straight out.




1049  In these writings I will speak about the final categories of Being and the god at the end of thought.  Being divides in divisions that leave traces of a great violence in the mind.  In the former times, in the war, in a past that was always past, I see even now the fire and the water, and the unspeakable.  I will speak against it.  Trying to overcome it.  To win the god.  To take what I want.


Brute fact is there in front of me.  It is divided into its ancient divisions.  The bare this.  Now.  The thing itself faces me.  A Form, Ancient, from a Past that never was a present time.    Going to The Future, that at its heart can never be a present thing.  The Bridge spanning, joining what cannot be joined, joining the parts of time.  More like a dream to me.  I shall possess my dream.  The god of time shall be mine.  The brute shall yield. 


It has been the mistake of all our philosophies to subordinate all divisions of time to the Present.  The Past and the Future have not been allowed to be themselves equal to the Present.  Plato said that we know the Forms through a kind of remembering, but it's a remembering from out of a Past that never was, a reality in itself, not this or any Present.  Toward a future that of itself remains always the Future, a reality equal to the present, a reality we also live in.  This triple thing, this holy thing, this finger up your back.  An impossible thought.  Spoken only in an unspeaking.  The thing I will speak and have already.


Time is the form of love.  Logic is the form of time.  Love is who logic is.   A dream.   The really real.  The only thing.  A god to drive you wild.  A shot in the head.  A peaceful coming.  I will be obedient.


I have remembered.  I will make you remember.  The god beyond this moment here is here. 




1050  The proper object of study for philosophy is Being.  The proper object is not the writings of other philosophers, not a text, either ancient or new.  And it is not logic, whether it is well-formed or it isn't.  It is, moreover, most certainly not psychology, the study of the movements of the soul.  The proper object is Being.

I move toward Being.  To get a closer look.  To feel it move about me.  To know what it knows.  I move gently.  I violently cut my ties with the earth.  I listen for a gentle speaking coming toward me.  I am violent against small talk and gossip.  I turn toward a god.  I respond and speak as a lover would speak.  I am ferocious against the harshness of the business of the schools.  Being comes.  I almost faint.  I am caught.  I write.  One more text.  The philologists, and psychologists, and logicians dissect me and I die. 




1051  There is you. There is me. There is you and me. Are you a part of me? Am I a part of you? Are we both a part of a thing that is a you and me? Am I inside a thing that is you-me? Am I outside? Or is there no tie at all? You, me, you and me. Tie or no tie our being together is neither one of us alone. It's something else, and we can look right at it. A two-in-one. One that is two. Difference inside oneness. Neither difference nor oneness can be denied. The tension and entanglement must be maintained. We must insist that this totally impossible thing does exist. My realism stands in the face of paradox, through paradox, as paradox. You are the face I face, us.

I can think all of Being in one shot. That real thing out there is mine. In me, I in it. Being, otherness, oneness, at rest and in motion. The beautiful god driving me crazy. In me. I in him. Do you think I am thinking only of a part? I think the one thing that is Being itself. Do you think I can grasp only an image of it? I have grasped the thing itself. Being is a simple thing. Being has no parts. In it are all the parts. Can you think that? I can think that. I have lived with him for a long time.

I can think that so very present emptiness. Just him, nothing else. I can think the I-don't-know-what and the I-know-what together. The smooth surface of his skin is also the deep recesses. I can think the unending random decimal expanse, the infinitesimal mathematics itself. All these things are simple things, as is the thing you and me.

Some say the unity is real and the parts are not. Some say the parts are real and the unity is not. I say both the parts and the unity are real. And outside it all is the simple idea that I am, which is the parts and unity together. Otherness and unity swirl the unthought thought. It's him. I cannot think that he doesn't exist. I am consumed by his existence.

I can think a thing here and the same thing there.  Two things one thing.  Sameness and identity. An impossible thing thought by an impossible thought. So very easy.




1052  When we are young we take the first few steps up the Ladder of Love.  We spy beauties here and there.  Thought begins to spin.  Abstractions grow stronger. Logic attempts to rescue us. The Fire burns brighter.  The Night sets in.  The Spirit transfigures the face and soul of all of us.  It seems hopeless.  Philosophy, sweet philosophy dies.  The body ages.  The boy inside all of us grows younger and more beautiful.  Sex takes over.  Desire spills out.  Agni flits.  The Agile one writhes.  And dances.  We are suddenly far up the ladder.  The heights swirl.  The Fall is close.   The Arm comes around.  The lover presses his face close, so close.  Being holds.




1053  The things of this world are exemplifications of relations, well-ordered, piled up, laid out, split off.  No one knows for sure if one and the same thing ever appears twice, or if it could. We lose track so fast of what we thought was here just a moment ago.  Maybe we're not even in the same world.  Maybe there is no world.  Only worlds.  Or flashes.


The exemplifications flash.  The merest particular and the tiniest relational structure are not in time at all.  Should we say they are eternal?  Are they grand enough for that?  Are we grand enough to say it?  Are we foolish enough to say that we understand just what the fact of exemplification is.  We do know.  It's the simplest of things.  Except that it isn't a thing among things.  It is a non-thing.  And contrary to ours, could there be a world or unworld where timeless things exemplify particulars. What would ground the possibility of such a could be?  A flash of a non-thought.  Lovely philosophy.


Unless your philosophy can describe to me the being of fact and relation and the direction of a relation and set and number and actuality and possibility and negation and negative facts, and ontological facts and the absurd.  Unless you can show me how abstract ontology and religion and the sweet lips of love and desire and the instant he comes are all one.  Unless you yourself are crawling over the answer – don't approach.  You are unclean.


To understand my words you must crawl over the words, all through the paragraphs, down the page, down your leg, down your nice clean leg.






       The world is all that is the case.


   The world consists of facts, not things.



The simplest fact is a bare particular exemplifying a universal.  In symbols  x e F  or


Capital letters   =  universal,  x =  bare particular,  e =  exemplifies


A little more complicated fact is a relation exemplified by two or more bare particulars.   XRy  or R(x,y)   or   R(x,y,z).



A bare particular exemplifying more that one universal is  F(x) . G(x) . H(x)   The "."  is "and".


There are other connectors that can connect these atomic facts into larger molecular facts.

xÚy =  x or y

x É y  =  if x then y

 ~ F   =   not F

"xF(x)  =  for all x , x is F

$xF(x)  =  there is an x, such that x is F




1055  The universal form.  Very easy to understand.  But you must understand it with your heart.  With desire.  When that is extreme the thing desired escapes the world, escapes the limited and the relative.  It is absolute.  When it is extreme.  I speak from a logical point of view.  From out of reality and Being itself.  I believe in the absolute and the Extreme.  I believe in Desire.  In a god.  In Eros.  In the mad boy Jesus.


In the universal the particular is lifted up into Being.  The particular disappears.  The god in it appears.  Without your consent.  But it's all you ever wanted.  You go.  And the others know you have seen something strange.


The heart, Desire, is strongest when it is embedded in intellect.  It is the intellect reaching.  Love, without the attempt to understand, is weak.  Love loves the unity intellect brings.  Love is of the mind.  We are mind.  The universal is the intellect itself.  Only in the intellect are we the Other.  The goal of love.  Desire at the extreme.  Understanding twists and turns until it reaches intellect.  We go all through the particular until we find the universal.  Until the god appears.  The particular is the universal.  Understanding is the intellect.  They touch.  The reaching.  The finding.


All strong desire reaches for understanding.  At times it finds it, but it finds something unspeakable.  As unity, the One, is unspeakable.  It has found a Form of intellect.  An ancient thing.  A god.




1056  Being seems like nothing at all.  The One, the Majestic One, is nowhere.  The Lover is/was only a dream.  The brutishness, the coldness, the emptiness of just these things around me is the final thing.  But I continue to write.  I play the play.  I dance with a partner I cannot even now imagine.  I keep dancing.  I know I'm waiting, but where is He.  I am not alone.  I am like the others on the dance floor, each by himself, waiting.  Seeing and then not seeing.  He does come.  He has come many times.  To all of us. We are all  the same.  There's only one dance.  The one note of Old India, or was it from somewhere in the Aegean, or from nowhere.  It makes no difference.  We continue to slowly move and to wait.


I wonder about this nothing.  Right now so bright to me.  Is it the devastation created by the shine of His face?  Yes, of course.  But those words, the emptiness and the failure of those words is my wonder.  The beautiful words of philosophy, so alluring, so seductive, so right, so lovely.


I wait.  See the nice form of my sentential dance steps so far?  But where is He?


What about you?  Have you been dancing alone long?  Has he given you joy beyond measure?  Don't you just love His Truth.   Isn't the breeze coming through the window nice?  Isn't that blood running down the back of your neck?




1057  I am writing from out of the Other World.  The world of the Ding-an-sich.  From the Neumenal.  The thin, amoral Light of the Intellect.  They are of the things that grow out of themselves.  The Uncaused.  The Other.  They are frightening and therefore lustful.  They move along your bare chest.  Slowly waiting to ingest your flesh.  Desiring the oblivion that you are.


As long as that spirit is on you you cannot die.  You cannot live. You have Life as it is in God. You are without human life.  No nakedness was ever more stark.  You are totally seen.  You are in the Pure Light that has no inside, that has no other side, that is fully present in the moment that never gives way to another.


This is the Rush that never ceases.  Your addiction.  Your one last time.  The End before time ceases once again.  The beginning that is about to begin again. The One in itself. The Dual.  The Formless Flesh.  The helpless.  The endless..


This is sheer Will. No God has ever appeared to me. No magic transcendental moment.  By my will, by the power of my phallos I have created more than enough.  I have arrived at the other than me.  Jesus has appeared.  I have discovered the locus of His existence.  I have dissolved into Him.  There is no way out.


Heaven has created my words so that within them it might create itself.  It has just come into existence at this moment.  I am at its birth, before its birth, and have come infinitely late after its birth.  It within me, me within it.   It is the smooth articulation.  Within the Abrupt Will.  In the Surprise.


The logic of the One works of necessity.  In the sickening Endless.  Everything touching and too close.  Pointless.  For a God outside existence.  Nothing has changed, we must go on.  Your lover is still here, though he should have gone long ago.


Lord, strangle the boy, be the Holy Spirit breathe within him.




1058   This is the philosophy of the Meta.  I stand beyond and look down.  I insist that for every thought there is an object thought.  Different thoughts, different objects.  What I think, is.  Even the Meta.


I can think a fact and the pieces of the fact.  I can think that such and such a fact is not the case.    For every thinking there is an object of thought.


And I can think the Meta of a this.   I can think that x is F is a fact.  I can think that x is a thing standing in a fact.  Transcendental facts.


I can think that x is different from F, that fact is different from a thing in a fact, That fact is not a thing in a fact.


I can think the facticity of fact.  I can think the absence of a thing joining fact to thing in it.  And the absence of anything joining fact to facticity.  I can think that absence is a thing that is not a thing.  I can think the two meanings of thing.  I can think the difference between thing and the meaning of thing.


I can think difference.  I can think that I cannot think difference.  And I can think the difference between thinking and thinking.


I insist that there is an object for every thought.  I insist that different thoughts require different objects.


There is no such philosophy as half-way realism.  When the avalanche comes, you must jump up to be always on top.   Being is deep.


And I can think that the existence of every object of thought is different from the object.  Nothing exists.  Only existence.  That too.  And that too.


Inside the plenum is the vast emptiness. 


And the less than the empty.  I can think the separation of the totally inseparable. 


I can easily think what I cannot think.  I can think what isn't there.  I can easily speak the Unity that cannot be laid out in speaking's laying out.


I am always beyond.  I have captured the Meta.  In it I have captured myself.  I am actually actual.


Flying high above, I fall.  Meta the Meta crashes into meta into me.  The stretched band is released.  A short little thing is all that is left.  Waiting.




1059  And the Word became flesh.  It became just that thing right there.  Right into the  clearing.  So much just a thing sticking right into intellect's open light.  An I don't know what that is.  Where did it come from?  It doesn't belong here.   ??????


This is the philosopher's bare THAT.  An unsettling thing.  Frightening.  Brute.  Nauseating.  And it's sticking in.


This is the shudder.  The fall.  The pretty boy taken by just that.  By Him. 


The ordering is fixed.  Your gentle mind invaded, infected, ineffectual against it.

This is Order itself.  The Logos.  Just that.  Look out.


The bare thing.  The brute, just there thing.  A totally one sided affair.


At its heart the loveliness of the flesh is just that.  The boy pale and delicate.  Desiring.  He is that.  He is taken by that.  So pure.  So full of a dark I don't know what.


Logos and logic and permutations.  Jungle nighttimes.  Entangling vines.  The infinite that scratches.  It's senseless.  How did I get in here!  The way back is lost.  It never did exist.   Nothing repeats.  Everything constantly repeats.  How can I ever explain to you how these two things are really the identical same thing.    What two things?  Everything.  Nausea.




The bareness of everything becomes apparent.  Redness without color.  Desire without emotion.  Wondering without thought.  I, in myself, have no relation to anything else at all.  I'm just me.  Even my existence is other.  The clasps and clamps of logic are all around me, but I hardly notice them out there.   All things are other.  A thing and what it is dance the dance of togetherness, never touching.  Until the Touch comes.  That thing all over you.  From outside you into you.  The Into.  It's Him.




1060  I have gathered myself to myself.  I am no longer lost in what I should and have to do.  I am looking at the curves of my sentences.  They match the muscular curves of my arm.  The broadness of my chest.  Down the sure line of my back.  The going around of my waist and hips.  Firm legs.  Sure step.  They match the roughness of my face.  I have given up the hypothetical.  I am in the certain.  The connection of ideas to reality is here.  Thoughts become feeling.  They are identical.  I am body.  I am incarnate.  I have escaped the scientist and logician.  I am in the terrible pain of contradiction and paradox.  God is here.  I am separate.  I am in the undeniability of a lover's longing.  Of his endless analyzing.  A concern about the real.  The act of knowing is the act of being the thing known.




1061  Socrates, through a tortuous line of history, led the Sufis into God addiction. So will we be caught by the glance of Jesus who says come to me, me, me, I am the beautiful one, the ravishing one. I am what you want. I am all you want. I am the fire of love. I have died for you. Everything you wanted is now with me. I went farther into sin than you ever did. No matter how far you go I am waiting for you there. I have whirled around and am offering myself here for you. Sweeter love than you imagined. I am your pure imagination. I am the red real. He is too enchanting. He is too attainable. He fills us up with too much power. The dialectic never ends.

In the field of things that just are there. Inside of which is space and spaces and time and times, but a field outside of those things. Just nowhere and freedom. The empyrean plane, the inside and outside of God before creation, and after it is all over. With the things of being that are just there. Nowhere yet to go. A boy playing draughts. Pieces here and there. Marbles and things that once formed objects of a world. Light and shapes and numbers and relations and connections and universals and thoughts that could unite with particulars that are here somewhere to form minds.

Trapped in a boring happiness here, I am going to try for the separation there. I'm looking for the isolated. Into the hidden of the unrelated. Over and over again I will write my words, saying nothing new, working in the repetition of Being. Putting down the words, putting down the words, feeling the physical fullness of force. Driving it out. Seeing that all the great changes here were not great. Wanting the Great. Negative or positive. Making nature be the Same. The One Sound of the Spirit. I am looking at Passion. I am not passionate. I have separated out the Boredom itself. I am in the Form.

Sentimental boys being purposely sentimental. Dispassion in the Idea. Wrapped in the Sentim. Feeling that makes them repeat and spit with force. Boys of substance. In the Perfection. Dead boys. Here is an exemplification of the Form. He is nothing but pretty. He is nothing at all.

Parsi boys in the fire of love intoxication. Worshipping each other. Jumping over on each other. Burning oil on their faces. Glistening ineffability. In Divinity, the Form of God. Turn and turn and twist as they will, they can't get away from it. He's wrapped around them. They are coming undone into Him.

The sparseness of the boy's body.  Tight, rigid smoothness.   Before the complexity of old age.  Clean faced, clear eyed, full lipped messiahs.  The malice of the End that they are.

Doing has come to this. Our great knowledge systems are in his rising up.




1062  I'm going buck to the old metaphysics. I am going back to the everyday. Endlessly stretching evenly out. Always the same. Slight movements here and there, -falling gently back to itself. Super-consciousness that is like sleep. Everything touching. Slow, broad area numb sensation. The One Perfect delicacy. Boys offended when they are looked at. Too much being for them. Existing only in possibility. The anxiety of the lost. No concern with death. It never happens. Everything necessarily exists because all things exist. Being and non-being alike disappear. The middle ground. Neither living nor dead. All those are just more of the pieces lying around.

I have no concern with time. It is no problem for metaphysics. Logic holds everything in place. The Logos and His tight bonds. Very still. There is no time. Or rather all things always exist and there is the overlapping of all things in one place.

This is a frightening thing. A monster. Like the World. A super-World.

In this modern world we feel that some facts must obtain and some not obtain. Some are actual and some are merely possible. But possibility is not nothing. Facts whether actual or possible are somehow there. They are all there because of the form of being. To say that now some are and some aren't is to absolutize this moment, which it isn't. All facts are actual and possible. We see actuality through possibility and possibility through actuality. All things are lenses to look through. The congruence within the One. The uniting of things that won't unite. A powerful thing that ties.

This is not theory. Because I have spoken nothing but contradictions. The Absolute. Like Kids I am waiting for the world to be created, for decisions to be made. For death to be real. For the important moment to arrive. The adult sees nothing but necessity and the plenum. No living, no dying, just existence.

I'm waiting for the grace of judgment. For the good and the bad to be separated. I want this continuum to end. In my wishful thinking I spy nothingness up ahead. For a world and real death to arrive together. The end of the Strong, the Eternal Returning. For the monotone to become melody. For a song with an end. For the up close to back off.

I am able to think the Infinite Infinite where all facts obtain. The complete actuality. Does that make it exist? Not if it is contingent, but that's the question. Does questionableness exist?




1063  Our God, the god of love, is the God/god of war. The rainbow is a bow. That weapon above the eyes of a boy sends arrow glances through you. The moisture sweat comes all over you. This is joy. This clash is harmony. This anxiety is peace.

These words are written and seen. An invisible rainbow is shining through them. They have no order that amounts to much. They are rebellion and cute boys and oh so intense, but they prove nothing. The Rainbow, though is ordered, is Order itself, peace and harmony and joy, you then me, me then you, we'll do it all night long. That order is important and mounts and amounts to something. Light is the ordering of color. It is the Order in color. Which is what Color itself is. If you stay up all -night and read my words towards morning you'll see it. Bleary, Broadway- eyed boys sneaking home late-eyes. The sun's coming up.

I write with the Attack. That's why I write in English. It's all stress and rhythm and intonation. English is such a Song. A graceful dance. Its heavenly choir is a chorus line. English language angels speak while moving their hips. Pretty soon happiness is everywhere. And you have to sit back you're so overcome.

If you pray and attack them soon one of them will take you up and you'll be writing. And you won't have the faintest idea what you're writing about. Now that's joy.

The Idea you will be up in will be definite, not indefinite. It will be the Idea, not an idea. It is the principle of the definite stepping out. The absolute necessity of going out. The guiding, holding hand. You couldn't possibly fall.

When you are in the Flow, this will all make sense. You will perfectly submit. My arms will be around you too tightly. But who's paying attention? All the cautions against those things immediately present are put aside. The One Thing immediately present is overwhelming. The relations aren't right, but this is the time to act. If you fall, you fall. If you fall, your falling will be correct and part of the act, the moment before the getting up, the getting it up.

If you become really cautious, you will never make it. So step out into the nothing at all. The Spirit has been there forever. In it, you will be seen and known.

The Light of the Spirit you will be standing under seems more like artificial light than nature's light. It's there all night long. It's like being awake at night. In the Night. In the Light. In a Room surrounded by glass. Nowhere. Isolated from everything. With just Being itself.




1065  When Philosophy shines the light of philosophy on itself.  When the things that are the atoms of existence are questioned by the light and we wait for their falling apart, Vicious Regress threatens.  That Lord of the falling angels.  An eternal part of God waiting for our waiting.   There is always the accusation that the categories won't fit into the categories.  Thought thinking thought pushes you back.  Your you and its It.  We watch.  Extricate yourself!


I watch myself being a philosopher.  I watch Philosophy.  I watch it make its movements on me.  It is me writing a philosophy of philosophy.  An ontology of ontology.  I jump into myth.  I speak what shouldn't be spoken.  I am beyond existence.  I do not translate myself.  Love's fist grips my chest.  St. John, your light brighter than noonday won't let go.  The Cyprus trees are about to fall on me.  Oblivion is nowhere.  I am pure thought thinking pure thought.  I pour it out into me. 


Reason failed, but I loved those things.  The pure nighttime geometry of metaphysics, so orderly, so swirling, so vicious, so much going backward.    Now cross-eyed.  Your brain parts won't fit together, I say to myself.  When you go up that doubled stairs you will have two flashlights.  Light from Light.  Light onto light. 




1066  I can think that water is wet and that wetness is a feeling, but can I think that wetness is a universal?  Universals are in neither time nor space.  Can I think that?  Can I think that space and time themselves are universals exemplified and only that?  Can I think the universality of such universals?  It seems to me that I can,  but it's a thinking that is different from ordinary thinking, maybe mystical, often magical, not without a lovely piercing into my mind or spirit or chest so much like love's arrow.  And that is my quest.  To find out this connection between philosophy and love. As Plato and all we followers in philosophical madness know so well. 


I can think all this, but can I say it?  I am trying to write something right at the boundary of thought, maybe past the boundary of speech, possibly outside existence.  If the last, surely away from both speech and thought, but, if a god is with me and with pretended unknowing he lets me spy on him through the peep hole of love, I will relate to you what I see.


Philosophy and love are trying to see the same thing.  Somehow in the extreme of beauty it is revealed.  Maybe it's the eternity of abstraction.


Perhaps if ontological things are outside existence and we can spy them in their non-existing.  The One beyond Being.  So easily said.  So easily thought.  But surely a mystical empty thinking.  And worthless speaking.  Then at last I will come to myself.  The beauty leaves. 


Before Parmenides sets out with Socrates on the long journey of cutting thru the transcendental bush he compares it to beginning a love affair.  It is more than a comparison.  It is the essence of that.  Zeno knew well the para doxa along side the doxa.


My concern is not with knowing facts, but the things facts are made of.  And the sub-things of things.  And the transcendent sub-sub-things.  Where sub becomes super.


In all this I am contemplating differences.  And the still structure.  The great geometry.  The Structure of structure itself.  The Order of order itself.  The Difference of differences.  The Itself itself.  Philosophical things perfectly right there.




1067  The categorical differences of ontology reveal the great divisions within Being, deep crags, steaming fissures, wide expanses,  empty openings,  thick barriers, and then sudden tunneling, high bridges, swift ferries, nighttime journeys across.  The vast expanse  that gives you breath and takes it away. You are surrounded by Being.  It shoots through you.  You are that. 


A seemingly slight thing like a simple "this" of logic, the bare  particular x.,  names an unspeakable, unapproachable  I-don't-know-what that invades, sticks on the mind, your mind, and drives you into the danger of the thing before you..  Universals above and around time, outside space, far from any particular thing, freedom, a freedom you never asked for, and because of which you now shake.  The subsisting nexus, so shy in our schools, so tormenting and beautiful in our algebra,  gently holds the world together.  Joins mind and world.  Joins mind to Danger.


Number, relation, set, structure, fact – precise, opaque things of books here.  Magically transformed in the School and the Books of Being,  Ideal Animals, Wild Things of Heaven.  Farther on, in God, they are things of the infinite vastness creating worlds.


The tension and headache, the embarrassing failure here, the heat and the drive of trying to understand once more, heavy error, lost love, worthless pity all images of that dry wind storm that is the godhead, the topic of our study,  philosophy of in our schools.


How could it have happened?  How could Being, the Great God, die such a complete death in our schools? How could it be that now the children must rearrange pieces of his corpse.  How did it happen that I am reduced to writing such misshapen sentences, in words artificially kept alive, all of us waiting?




1068  Surely when I watch clouds gather, I and the watching and the clouds and the gathering are all distinct things.  Nonetheless, I am intimate with them all including myself.  Thomas said that the mind becomes the form separated from matter.  Is that an intimacy toward union beyond any division?  He said the mind is in-formed.  That being-in is surely intimate, maybe loving, maybe ecstasy, without doubt a wild trip for thought to think.  Even the simple thing of (a , b)  is a two that is one  -  b in itself is not a - their togetherness is not a third - this simple thing is one thing - a is in b as not b - unity and intimacy and difference collapse together.  The simple name a Two-in-one is adequate.  Thought  fast against thought.  Enough. 


The clouds and the gathering and the watching and I are in my pure simplicity as not me.  This is the Simplicity of God with which we have all fallen in love.  In in in in in in.   In intimacy.  Do what you want with me.  Watch my watching me/I am a cloud gathering you.  You be a, I'll be b.  Surely.


The One and the Many, In and Out, Difference disappearing, existence not existing, structure collapsing, but structure our only hope for life.   All the monads reflecting all the monads.  One Monad.  Funny word.   So useless.  I'll take a chance with it.  Chaos strewn across the sky.  The unendingness of the random.  Infinitessimals pinching into each other.  Intense.  Tensely inside.  The sky in my mind.  The unextended pure form of Extension.  Dark clouds gathering.  Beautifully dark. 




1069  The appearing of philosophical thought in the world has brought the world to its knees.  A totally ambiguous position.  And our reaction to the ambiguity is ambiguous.  After the great stretching out of time we are still still.  Quietly thinking.  The unthinkable.  The non-existent.  The unrelenting Question.  The still producing this intoxication is very still.  Headache.  Philosophy is about nothing at all. 


Philosophy must be done correctly. The most precise precision.  It could easily slip over into existence, into being about something, into mere analysis without being the analysis of analysis analyzing.  Philosophy must be pure.  Its puerility must be the home wrecker, reeking with the things of eternity, the uncontrollable.  Fight terror with terror!


Philosophy is in the laying out of words that are the laying out of the Presentation of what doesn’t exist.  It is the appearing of the form of the world that is nowhere in either world.  Neither the actual nor the possible.


I defer to you.  What do you think?  Is there something beyond existence or not?  If I say, "Universals exist." or "Connectors are external to what they connect."  Is any philosophical statement of philosophical fact about anything that exists.  Is there any thought being thought in their appearance in the mind?  Are we merely easily and maybe naturally for us thinking what is not thinkable?  I wait for you to help me in this matter.  I give you the terror of the demand that the question has given me.  Maybe if you sing an answer will come.


Sex and cum.  Sex and cum.  The clinging smell.  Cohering.  Wafting essences. Everywhere.  No escape.  The stickiness of Time.  Just going on.  My body is 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. 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.




1070  The release that the East wants so much can only be the release of the things of Being into the spirit.  Each separate and alone hanging in pure abstraction.  Outside existence.  A madness.  The blinding sun. 


This is the act of the disgusting saddhu.  His dirty show. Thinking himself so right.  Infernal show business.  Our own righteous Self turned inside out.


This is the tantrist holding back his semen, becoming clogged.


The spoiled son who thinks women are here to wait on just him.


The corrupt government official who says life expects too much from him on such a small salary.  He wishes things could be different.


This is metaphysics weighted down with bad psychology.


Release spoken becomes bondage.  But we must speak.  Not speaking is also a speaking.




1071  I could say that these are old writings I found in a ruined jungle temple I stumbled on while I was traveling in a far country named Zor.  I could thereby let you know that I would never think such childish words as these. But I did think these words; I have thought them until now and I will probably continue to think them.  They are as close to me as I can get.  Though they are mostly stolen from a time in history when they weren't embarrassing.  I have also lived through terrible things in my life, but who hasn't.  We all take the prize for having had the deepest cut.  Those who believed in gods were naïve.  I am naïve.  Those who spoke the word love later wanted to say something more manly.   In these writings I am me.  Love and old metaphysics and all.  And the uncontrolled seeping lust.  My poetry is minimal at best.  I am minimally embarrassed.


Philosophy is a constant starting over.  It's 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 the 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.


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.




1072  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.


This world does not consist of objects here and there, but of exemplifications of universals.  A timeless Form is with a startling THIS right here. My mind so easily knows the perfectly intelligible form.  But it is surprised by the RIGHT NOW, RIGHT HERE.


I unite with the Form gently, but what is THAT, so different from me, so other?!  I am pulled across to it.  The nexus is here.  I am tied up with it.  The dialectical entangling is too much. 


Difference and unity.  The infuriating unthinkable with the close thinkable.  This Lover is making me dizzy.  He has been doing that forever. 


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




1073  This book is a falling in love with, a dancing with, a singing to Him, in a sleeping without sleep because of the presence of That.  He is Philosophy, the Sophos, the Logos.  I am a Sufi.  Reason has become unreasonable.  I am writing the incarnation of Jesus.  That wild boy whose beauty is unbearable.  He is the reading of these words into your mind.  He is their substantial meaning.  He is the drink you will  drink.  The torn flesh you will find in your mouth.  The shaking in your arms.   The falling, the dancing, the singing, the sleeping, the writing, the reading, the meaning of the shaking – That – don’t look. 


Like those falling from a tree, not one of the leaves of this book is the first, nor the second, nor the third.  I’ve lost any point, beginning or ending of this whole affair.  Paragraphs have fallen along no path.  Sentences only seem to walk in order.  Words hang together more out of fright than determination.  You will spin and spin and spin.  He has turned your head.  You have become the whirlwind.




1074  The word philosophy, of course, has many meanings.  However, Philosophy, with a capital P, is questionable.  Most people will probably think of it as some kind of Platonic Form, but what such a thing could be is even more questionable.  It seems to me I use the word more or less with the following meaning.  I say that it seems to me to be so because concerning this matter no one can be sure of himself.  I, as have done so many others, began to think about philosophical things early in life.  Its puzzles were more than merely puzzling, they were the door, secret, but without my wanting it to be so, to a vision of – what shall I call it? – of the delights of Being.  Nonetheless, the puzzles twisted my soul.  You know the difficulty of philosophical questions, and you know the twisting in your soul, if you become intent on them.  And you know the delight I speak of.  And you know the sudden flash of understanding that is completely yours for a moment.  I will call it Understanding, with a capital U.  Let yourself think that you know perfectly well what I mean.  You no doubt understand such Understanding as well as I.


Imagine a boy thinking this delight, being twisted, understanding.  He is then Philosophy.  That is how I use the word.  Religiously, for me,  Jesus is  the incarnation of this.  It is intense.  He is mad with a Platonic madness, he sees something.  This boy, for me also, is the beloved of the sufis.  And he is Manjusri, Dhī, of the Buddhists.  He is Eros.  He is the cause of all my heartache.  You understand this perfectly well.  And you question its rightness.  No matter.  This is life.


It is wrong to depict philosophy as calm, aged wisdom.  To be true to what we know of it, it is a boy, the Boy.  Go mad with love of him, if you will.




1075  Philosophy, the Boy, in all his forms, is not calm harmony.  He is not the ease of not doing philosophy.  He doesn’t declare himself illusion.  He is demanding, infuriating, and a knot in your stomach.  His smell, so attractive, can later bring on nausea.  He is devoted to you as madness is.   He is totally amoral.  Accusing you of immorality for loving him, with a love so much like lust.  But it’s his finger that’s moving up your back.  It was his bite that brought blood from your neck.  His knife that cut the thin film of your mind.  His closeness is unthinkable, unspeakable, even outside existence itself.  I am left with nothing.  I have become him.


Two things, each going inward, each arriving at the same place.  There they are one thing.  This is our vision of universals.  My words have failed to adequately describe it, but you have seen the thing directly and clearly.  Just as His dancing makes no sense, but it leads you smoothly through the airless air intimately.  Always returning to the same place.


I can say that his kiss and your kiss are the one kiss.  I can say they are the same and mean they are the same one kiss.  And I can try to figure out what the relation of sameness is.  Sameness is never of just one thing.  Thus it cannot be just the universal.  It cannot be just the bare particular, because that thing grounds only difference, not sameness.  But can it be a relation aside from things that are the same?  We all feel that it cannot, just as we feel that other relations could be.  We know sameness perfectly, but if we look at it it’s gone.  Shall we say that it is a true thing of philosophy, but it doesn’t exist?  Shall we say it is a part of the form of the world not in the world?  In that kiss I leave everything.




1076  Because I wanted to write the things of philosophy perfectly.  Without logical mistakes. Giving each word one meaning. Forestalling every objection.  Because I wanted in that to be true to Being, but couldn’t, because Being wasn’t that.  I failed.  Being is not of the perfection of writing.  It is not without logical mistakes.  Its true words do not have one meaning.  It is not unobjectionable.  It’s truth is sometimes my being untrue.  And in failing I must consent to succeeding.   


So I fail and I succeed.  I quickly flip off a description that turns me on.  I lust for a revealing.  I blush and He comes.  In the mythos outside existence I have been true to philosophy.  And my words have caught Him.


Philosophy is neither science not myth.  Eros is neither beautiful nor ugly.  Being is neither one nor many.   The One neither is nor isn’t.  Difference is always other than what it is. I calmly describe my not at all being calm.  I am passionate for his stillness like death.  I, the drunkard after the spirit, am just cold sober.  I have made no mistakes.  All my words mean only one thing.  My head spins because I cannot find the whirlwind.




1077  This writing is philosophical realism, which means no more than to say that the philosophical things I write about are real.  They are real things present to my mind, not from my mind’s psychological machinations, not dependent on the language I use, not cultural creations from the society I live with.  They are not human.  They are not a reflection of anything human .  I and all humans merely see them. 


Such a philosophy is surprisingly surprising to some.  Realism is not now the popular form of philosophy.  I really don’t know if it ever has been.  Nonetheless philosophical realism has been the great tradition in philosophical history.  Most people are now and surely always have been so very unaware of what the great writers have been saying.  I will probably join those writers in at least this – that I remain known to few.  Even with the internet.


The question now is - what are philosophical things?


You know philosophical things already, but you maybe don’t know them as philosophical.  For example,  Philosophers have always been talking about Beauty.  Beauty is not something anyone is unacquainted with, but how many have seen it as a thing present there for the mind to look at.  I’m speaking of Beauty itself, something that has always been and always will be.  An eternal thing just itself.  Something seen in and around the fleeting things here.  Not human.  More like a god.  May something to which we really ought to apply the word god.  Something that youth here momentarily has. That boy reveals for a moment the Boy, a god.  Can you think that?  Such is philosophical realism.  Something for the few.




1078  Philosophy is analysis, that is to say it is a breaking apart, thus it is violence.  It is a breaking up.  Nothing is settling down.  It hangs suspended, waiting nervously.  Pieces quickly shunted onto a side track.  Left in the rain and the cold.  Soon the heat will become unbearable.  Confusion.  A time of war.  Writing.  Digging.  Burying. 


I read other philosophies only to plunder them.  I discard any carcass.  I jump into the trenches of Gryphos.  The great engines and wagons and couplings stand still up out there somewhere.  The wind passes over me.


The great things of philosophy, the Ideal Forms, things of war, old, monstrous winged angelic things.  Its claw pushing into my thigh.  My arm around its neck.  Going higher.  I am becoming this thing.  This multitude is me.  I am the Host.  Body breaking.  Strange love.




1079  Philosophical love is a wild thing, a destructive thing, not only for society, but for society’s individual.  It is the doorway to an unearthly heaven.  It is God appearing.  It is the soul itself.  The schools have banned it.  They have substituted concern and affection and contentment and countless other softer loves in its place.  They have said only these are love.  They have said that these gentler things are indeed heaven and God and the soul.  All else is madness.  Love aside from these is war.  The war gods of dialectic, most emphatically, the war God Jehova of the argumentative Jesus are banned.


Those who have looked into the sun of Love have been blinded.  Truly they do have great difficulty finding their way in this cave world.  This is the teaching of Plato.  I am writing Platonic Love.  I am writing the Madness.  I am writing with capital letters.  This is War.  This is where we came from.  That is our history.  I listen and try to write it down.  I follow the argument into the Light.   I am far from home and family and nature.




1080  Philosophy is war.  Society is jealous about that thing away from society.  The world and the things of philosophy cannot mix.  Philosophy is jealous when his own are lured and lulled away.


I write what is There.  I  write the Not–here.   I write enchantment.  I am Writing.   I am the Truth.  The world is gone.  He is everywhere. 




1081  Because writing is a laying out in words, and the words spoken ride on breathe moving through cavities and crevices, and substance appears so insubstantial.  Because philosophy is for me the long beating of the heart.  A filling up and an emptying.  And because the still things of no time are away from this falling away.  In the constancy of the falling away.  I lay out and I ride, and in my thin existence I give in to the great winged thing holding me. It is unspeakable. 


Without words fit together or in sensa without the syntax of fiery nerves.  Without the ordering of periods, in a narrow space I know but I am dumb.


I grasp on. 




1082  Many set off down the road to realism.  No one has made it to the end.  All have lost heart and quit the journey.  The real turns to be too much.  Otherworldly things begin to appear.  A god comes close.  And fear of losing hold of the world makes the eyes of the mind blur.  Madness comes with the god. 


I will approach the madness as closely as I can.  I will not curse it.  I will sing only its praises.  I will not offend the god.  This holy spirit.  I will submit.  I pray I may submit.  I pray it will take me.


I tremble because my life is delicately balanced.  I am about to lose my way in the world.  My means are tenuous.  My strength is draining.  The time required is too long.  And I walk alone.




1083  Like Plato I write realism.  Unlike Plato I constantly call attention to the fact that I write realism.  Like Plato I am intent on the difference between good and bad philosophy.  Unlike Plato I call attention to the very writing I write.  Unlike Plato, who places philosophy among acts of love and makes love a third neither good nor bad but never mentions his own, I display my own desolation intent on lover and beloved being neither.   My writing is inside my writing.  I write the universal philosophy right here.  I write Fact in philosophy.  Neither universal nor particular.  I note their unity and their otherness , but I am not that either.  The Fact of philosophy is the appearance of the Forms right here.  I find myself almost destroyed by this Beauty itself appearing around a boy in this everyday agora, just as Plato wrote the philosopher would do, but my attention to fact which is eternity with this common fleeting moment, the ideal with just that smell, universal with particulars left me with neither universal nor particular, neither the ideal nor the smell, without the beauty, in itself or in the agora.


Fact seems like nothing at all.  It is neither religion nor lusty matter.  It is neither of the gods nor of men.  It is nervous anxiety.  It is deadly argument.  It is the hot sands outside the lover’s cool tent.  It is writing without the clarity of prose.  Without the beauty of poetry.  It flows like something lost.  It is anathema.  It is strangely attractive.  The boy leaves the tent to sit with the old philosopher.  This is real.




1084  All philosophy is dialectical.  Dialectics shows the cuts between the fundamental categories of Being.  Philosophy names the simple things out of which the complex world is made.   The first cut.   Simple  /  complex.  The second cut.  The cut itself cut away.       / /  simple  &  / /  complex.    The blossoming and the  angels.  /  /  ( / /  simple  &  / / complex ).  The slash is a comma.  The comma is difference.    Order  ( a,(a,b)).    ( simple, (simple, complex)).  This is the  dia of dialectics. 


If I say that a is red and a is long, I have repeated a and made it two, but by the apearance of both a's I intend to say that they are the same a, there is only one a, and in saying all that I have further multiplied it, the it being also the one a.  Such dividing of a thing from itself, such transcendental unity, such complexity of the very simple is the maddening dialectics that all philosophy rests on.  The couch of this beloved.   Wild dreams.  The only reality there is.


Those who say that difference, sameness and identity don't exist, that they are the reflection of language and in the same breath curse nominalism have not been betrayed by Being.  They have just run into his darkness.  The unthinkable, unspeakable collapse of energy.  He is also a proud looming emptiness.  They are soon in myth.  Their correctness has vanished.  He has them trapped.  Or checkmated.  The hurufi are twirling round.




1085  The Boy’s Flesh holds my mind.  Its smell leads me to extinction.  The flesh here is lifted up, under the lintel there.   It’s only Him. 


The Spirit is the flesh in itself.  It is the Flesh.  The incarnate Flesh in me sublimates my existence.  I am perfected.  The lover is mine.  I am in myself.


Desire has blown away in Him.  In me.  In the Wind.  Desire is eternal.  I will come again. 




1086  As though on an open desert, I turn and turn and turn.  I become a point of fire.  I become the many around the center.  I turn and turn and turn.  The god has appeared.  His beauty flashes.  I turn and turn and turn.  Being is here.    to on       הוהי   I turn and turn and turn.  I am consumed in his fire.  I am him. 


As though in a high walled room.  Around an alter, I turn and turn and turn.  I become the fiery pain of love. The dying god appears.   I turn and turn and turn.  I become his murderer.  I become anathema with him.  I turn and turn and turn.  The Flesh is here.  Tearing.  Dripping.  I turn and turn and turn.  I am consumed in the fire of the end times.  I am him.


Though I have only words, they cling to the Forms away from me, and I, in them, escape from myself.  I have the Desert and the Fire.  I have the god and Flesh.  I have the Sacrifice and in my fainting words I feel the Anathema.




1087  I live in a time when myth is fighting for its existence.  The feel of religion is getting weaker and weaker.  That mouth closed unspeaking speaking.  That   time that never was.  That place away.  The lovely god, waiting for me in his secret corner.  Under the sky of eternity.  Tense.  Even now biting into my mouth.  Pushing into me.  Even here.  I can hardly speak what is happening to me.  I fight for my own words.   Fighting is myth is fighting.  My existence in the subtlety of existence.  He is intent on me.  He knows me.  I am become myth and religion.  He is the red blood reality of the real.




1088  I will never surrender to him.  I don’t know how.  I pray he will take me in my determination not to be taken.  He is my only hope.  I’m afraid he will try to give me something other than himself.  I don’t want it.  I’m afraid he will try to put me in heaven.  It would be hell to me.  Why would I want it?  I want the noplace where only he is.  Alone.  Blessedly alone.  




1089  I have fallen into myth.  I have looked at Being.  The everyday has broken apart.  I have myself.  I have my Self.  I am a god.  Pieces of Being lie all around me.  I eat one.  It appears inside my translucence.   A thought.  I am Being.  This and that. 


My sentences lie between here and there.  In a space between this vapid extension and that tight , simple Space.   The inward going torque.  The pure form going into itself.  The Boy the god by himself.  The Word and words and words.  My mouth around him.  Your hearing them.  Jewels on his chest strike your teeth.  Your tongue bleeds.  Your blood runs down his stomach.  Down into … and blown away. 


He is separate.  He is the alone.  Analysis is complete.  We are at the beginning.  The Boy is without consort.  Face to face with himself, he is himself. 


This is all you ever have been.  My words twist and turn in your mind. I have fallen into you.   I am you.  I am in your hands in the sliding and turning and returning over yourself making yourself.  I have pulled you away.  In the mouth closed unspeakable.  


The myth is the separate Platonic Forms.  The complex broken up.  The alone with the alone.  Away from society.  Away from all the dependent arising.  Blown away. 




1090  Friends are one soul in two bodies.  The soul is the form of the body.  Friends are one Form twice.  Each in himself, the pure Form away from matter, knows the other, is the other, is the form of his body.  The Ethereal wind blows around him.  It is Him.


I am the thought of my body.  I am the form separate from matter.  I am the pure form.  I am the eternal form.  I am in the Logos, the place.  The Place of the Swirling Lovely Forms.


I jump up into the Notime at all.  The Limit.  Where the more-or-less breaks out into the Open.  Perfection.  The Boy has gone into himself.




I fall and I am caught by The One.  I am tight with myself and Going on forever no End opens me like a Rose.  The to a degree has met This Is It.  The Wind never stops.  The one divides into two. 




1091  I am here only calculating.  I am a lover; I live in the desolation of trying to figure love.  Without feeling, with passion dead in me, I am the still calculating that is God.  I am a god.  A frightening thing.  Even to myself.  I worry about myself.  I  think and think ceaselessly trying the Figures.


I work and watch.  I am the Torus  strip, the one twisting into the other.  I am the infinite infinite.  I lie with myself.  I work myself and I watch. 


I think.  I have become words and words and words and worlds and worlds and  the stary chaos strewn.  Into myself.


I am chalk scratches.




1092  It is true that all the arguments of realism eventually fall into infinite regress.  It is true that the mind can never catch up with itself viewing itself.  Speaking can never speak itself.  Inference cannot infer inference.  The third man is not the last to arrive.  Going forward goes backward.  Lips never reach the cheek.  Desire and satisfaction are never one.  The Coy one is eternally Mad.


Existence always outruns what exists.  The Other would always be other if it could be anything at all.  The All isn’t all there is.  Non-speaking cannot stop speaking.  The Buddha won’t leave. 


If the Logos is the Form of Being, and it is just that, then….. If spirit is the oneness of being and the Form of Being. Then……  if the Logos emptied itself and became strips of flesh, just meat, hanging, there, then……  all of this is .


Does all this require some sort of commentary?  It won’t do any good.  You’ll never get to the Boy.  The form of Being is the falling that you surely feel.  A sure thing.




1093  Awareness looking at awareness sees nothing.  Except awareness.  That little nub isn’t there.  Formless emptiness.  But awareness is surely there.  With no there there.  It’s all so much substancelessness.  Bright light blazing.  Undeniable.  It exists.  But it’s without an It.  A shot through the head. 


He’s escaped.  That willful, cocky, little coquette went right out between your eyes.  You cross-eyed idiot, what are you going to do now?  He was your self, your very self.  He has your heart.  Your bleeding heart.  He proved his own non-existence.  I don’t believe it.  I know he exists.  Somewhere outside existence.  It’s so simple.  Too simple.  Oh my Beloved, take away this gross thickness that I have become.  Take me with you.


I died when he died.  I am him.  Aware of aware of aware of aware of aware…. Falling face to face.  That Face.  At the last breath.  It’s gone. 




1094  The world consists of facts, and in our seeing we see facts.  Facts are existents.  And they  fall apart into simple things.  The fact, the falling apart and the simple things are distinct existents.  We see the fact, not the simple things nor the falling apart.  We know the simple things and the falling apart in a philosophical knowing.  They shine in a philosophical vision.


To see in a philosophical seeing the difference and unity of  fact and  things.  To make the most difficult cut.  To see what is neither fact nor thing.  Is to see into a darkness and gloom that shimmers with holiness.


To see structures in that darkness and gloom.  Philosophical facts.  Outside the world’s ordinary facts.  To cut inside the cutting.  A darkness inside the darkness.  Gloom farther out than gloom.   Beyond the ordinary philosophical vision to the Super Transcendent.   The fall of the falling.  My stomach twists. 


Philosophy outside philosophy.  A God that is the heart of atheism.  A delicate brutishness. 




1095  Every ontology crashes.  Shore them up, they crash.  But the spectacular structure before it crashes is enough.  It was livable for a while.  It really was there for a moment.  Existence was that.  It always comes again.


The marshes are wild.  Still, unexplored areas don’t make the capital city  uncivilized.


The fringe areas are always wild, unordered, indistinct and violent.  They are a tearing apart and illusion where nothing is itself.  Here is the non-self-identical.


In the darkness and the gloom live the manic priests of our God.  Where the criminal and the holy unite.  Crashing waves of spirit.  Where the spirit is strange.  From the mind of the priest spilling out into his body.  He walks crooked.  In the marshes.  The soft ground giving way.  A fire of floating sticks.  Beckoning with his silly smile.  Don’t let the boys follow. 


Oh Jesus, away from the city,  away from the ordered book,  in the infinity of thought, out in eternity, we really don’t want to follow you.  Our home is too nice.  Our nice little problems are comforting.  Of course, we could let outselves go at any moment.  That’s frightening.  Who are we to want such a thing?  Why are you inside us.  Those boys who left were insane.  Why can’t we have our sanity?  Nice sanity.


I think and I think and I think.  I crash up into dirty, marshy water.  An emission.  I have watched myself.




1096  When I see that a is distinct from b, I wonder, because I am a philosopher, what grounds that distinction.  (Is grounding also a thing?)  Is the whole thing (a distinct from b) one simple thing?  It seems to me that it is.  Distinction is not a universal exemplified by a and b.  It is not a nexus like exemplification.  It is not a thing like a logical connector.  It’s nothing at all.  Only the simple thing "a being other than b" is.  Express it as you wish.  The expression only must capture that coy thing that escapes existence.  That eternally non-self-identical something other.  Plato himself led us down the long path so much like love, maybe Love where the Other is other than Being and the One.   Not the same.  Never at rest, nowhere in motion.  But we know that a and b are different.  Such an easy knowing.  A simple thing. 


Grounding, though, is something else.  Surely, a and b and (a other than b) are three.  Together they are a very complex complex.  I can think that they are all together.  I can think that fact.  But is there a nexus between the things a and b and the third thing (a other than b)?  Is a other than (a other than b)?  Thus a fourth thing (a other than (a other than b)).  Surely, that is the structure of things.  Isn't it grand and splendid and a regular wild thing.   No ground, no nexus,  climbing up a ladder made of air.  Onto the roof where the lover waits.  Crash.  Sorry, I can't see in the dark so well.  Are you a or b?  Which am I?  Am I you?  Oh, what's the difference!




1097  I am the Darkness.  I am the Dance.  I am the ground of Wisdom.  I am the Immoral One.  I am Love.  I am Beauty.  I am the Crying.  I am the Irresistible.  I am the Twisted.  I am Pain.  I am the reason your reason fails.


I am the Gulf Between.  I am the very sinking feeling itself.  I am the Going Thru.  I am the HANG ON what's the matter with you.  Here it is TAKE IT!


Angels.  HUGE angels.  Is this what you expected?  Honey, you are wanted.


I am the Superb  Equipment. 




1098  This is a book about the strangeness of the ontological structure of this place and nothing else.  I am writing about Being, Unity and Difference.  Transcendental things.  And I will easily slip into the rhythms of the god who is the strangeness itself.  This right here is the eternal.  Can you think that fact which is neither a this here nor a universal eternal thing?  Can you think the philosophical thing that is the difference between a this here and a timeless, nowhere thing?  Can you think that simple tie between here and There?  Between this and That? 


Surely the head spins, logic comes undone, and something alien approaches.  Maybe the whole idea of a universal, eternal thing was wrong-headed from the start.  Maybe the problem is with the idea of a bare this.  Maybe there is no here here.  And There there is nothing there.  But the Maybe cannot be.  The world and what it is is real.  And it's strange beauty.  Certainly a lover.  The god has his finger in you.


I think these thoughts and the world is no longer itself.  It has changed into pieces, atoms.  Will I ever be able to build a world, this world out of them?  Will I always need one more piece to make it be?  Who am I to be doing this?  I can feel the god in me. 


In this place away from the world.  In His room.  Putting and being put together.  The cut everywhere.  Extreme love pouring in and out of my chest, my heart.  Sure that I am anathema to Him.  I have to continue.  I am the eternal right here.  It makes no sense.  A strange love.  The Factory.  I am shoved into an old warehouse.  He is on top of me.




1099  I have never mastered philosophy or a philosophy, but I have from time to time been mastered by it.  Nor love or one lover, but that thing takes a hold of me again.   And irrevocably leaves.    I have studied more than enough to be master, but there's nothing there.  I feel it, though.   It's always there.  I feel nothing.  He and I dance.  One person with himself.    Even now. 


I have the straight up shining.   My knowing in unknowing.  I blank out.  He is my knowing.  I understand nothing. 


I was going somewhere else, when he grabbed me and took me here.  I will soon find myself out there going again, and he will reach for me again and again and again.  And I will be here again.  I am all this.  I am this Eternal Form.  It is all through me.  Out there in the great far expanse.


I directly perceive.  The images that rise up are as old as I.  The very old. I see them without aid of images.  I directly perceive.  That thought is with me always.  I am ever present to myself.  It is eternal.


The tightly compressed is thus laid out.  Inside is headache.  I can't speak.  I am beyond myself.  He surrounds me.  The world abounds.  No let up.  The pain is sweet.  Too sweet.  Oh world, you are nothing. 


Outside my window is a boy in sunglasses cutting a line of growth in two.  He has found a way to stand in the sun.  He is standing.  He lives. 


That I cannot master philosophy, or that my mastering it is nothing, or it is nothing.  That there is no let up.  That He will not let me up.  That I know the security of being helpless.  That the violence of rape is sometimes so desirable. That this is frightening even sickening to me.  That is wait for the end when I become the perfect stillness of all this, in this, just this, there across the wide, blaring, cold desert.  Mindless.




1100  The things of God are numbing.  The Great Stillness lies on you and in you like sleep.  It breaks you when you first realize that you are boring your friends with his heavy stick.  The gathered, gathering mass of unthinkable numbers pressing down.  Time is too long.  Boundless space can't be, but is.  The emptiness of Difference bangs and hurts.  That thing in your head wants out.  His smell speaks.  The smell of night.  And why can't the others see and hear and want the crushing just like you? 


You are the Sleep of God.  Impossible reversions.  You know they are impossible.  The coming apart and the rearranging.  It comes apart and rearranges sweetly.  It smells so like musk from the back of his neck.  A simple turning.  And looking.  And desire. 


Because all the important mathematical problems are intractable.  And infinite regress threatens even the littlest answer you have found to what was surely a not very important question in ontology, which may not even have anything at all to do with what you're really trying to think.  And language in its thicketlike proliferation speaks nothing.  Because it has made you dumb.  You give up the idea of friendship.  But God is close and listening.




1103  My words come in quanta. Discrete pieces of desire. I observe myself. I am a physicist of love. I enter through both doors. The wave of trembling collapses and my lovers scatter. Shadows of things that aren't here. Maybe there. Not now. Maybe then. More quanta. Infinity threatens. Love and the physicist find each other intractable.

Because I have forever been in love with the dialectic of the One and the Many, I do love science. Dressed in the fine clothes of Mathematics, hidden in infolding time, exacting, demanding and almost found seen in dreams, the one I have always loved tempts me with experiment. I refuse.

I don't describe, I am described. I am written down. I am the one at the end of his chalk pencil. Pushed into the blackness of the night sky. The black deep board on the knee of this student.  I am the dust blowing against him.




1104  Because Philosophy arrives, at last, at the unspeakable, and we must speak.  Because the One turns and is incommensurable with itself.  And analysis has broken apart what never could have been one thing.  That One thing demands to be and being must be one.  That it is and it is what it is and it is just that  - It.  That I have said as much and laid it out in the only way it can be laid out and it whirls and roars in my thinking that is that very thing, almost nothing, the source, my mouth flaps open, my fingers fly, and it is written.   This.


At the end, Philosophy, the One, driven through us, will not tolerate your fine ways, your schoolish ways.  It leads you into the scandalous night.  You should have been on the lookout for this god.  He is the oh so beautiful you yourself.  Thrown among the stars.  Turnings, so difficult here, so natural there.  What did you say?


Sit down!  Open your notebooks, School has begun.  You will learn to unwrite the words and to Write the Word.  Your pencil will get big.


Again and again and again and again.  This is not for play, this is work.  What did you say?  How did your tongue get itself around those words?  How did your fingers move around them so fast?  There's no meaning to any of this.  Clean it up.


Go back down the ladder to your room, to your books, to the ordinary mess where it all began.  We will do it all again later.




1105  Soon after I yield to my desire to lay out the ontological structure of the world in words, I inevitably see that I have  once again fallen into that  prose style that fails.   Why I yield, why it fails, is not my concern.  It's not my topic.  It's not of philosophy.  Yielding and Failing are.  Things deep in Being itself.


I want to hold onto my self.  And to my thoughts.  I want the calm lightness of ordered worlds.  Of analyses that is sure and steady.  I want the simple thing before me.  The Genius present will not yield to me.  I struggle.  Will He engage me?  Will peace come after such flailing of the spirit?


If Genius can be contained in reposing prose, I am not the one to do it.  I can write only slash marks. 


This particular is the place of the appearing of this Form.  A prose sentence, but slightly poetic.  I can think this complete thought, and I see the fact that it is of.  I can think and see each of the things in the thought and the fact, the things named by the words in the sentence.  So like all the sentences of my writing and thinking.  And I see the sentence that is with each thought and seeing.  I know the form of sentence itself.  I know thought, fact, thing.  I see seeing and of and in and by.  I see without seeing and know without knowing that the one non-thing of fact maps perfectly onto the many things, a collection that doesn't of itself exist. 


I see that the very abstract, pure form of philosophical layings out is far from an everyday speaking of the concrete world.  Philosophy and its Forms do not make a world, but this non-world and The world fit together one.  Surely an unspeaking.  Prose is maintained, but has failed.  It's beautiful spirit is nowhere in sight.  What called?  Why the yielding?  Why the escape?




1106  No introduction to any philosophy is ever possible. As with the infinite sphere whose center is everywhere, the beginning thinker is always at the culmination of what has been an infinite journey. The future, if there ever was one, is present. His words are no more than a speaking to that. He is with his infinite self. What he says makes no difference, it's all to be said soon. The past is the future swallowing itself. The end is the middle is the beginning. The order to things is Just not here. But the Order of order is all there ever was.

Order itself is not a thing in this world. Nor is The Beginning. Nor The End. And The Middle is not to be seen. Philosophy, the Transcendent The Form of the World, the most clearly known, evident to all, a child playing, is not here. There is no introduction to it. There is no ladder by which we can climb up to it. There are no words that can catch it. Any speaking, any writing will do. The beginning philosopher begins again.

The Infinite has become easy for us now. The mind for us overmen knows how to catch up with itself. We are ourselves. The world in its strangeness is familiar to us. We wait for the latch on the door to move. He is close.




1107  In these writings I speak of the philosophical being that pervades them as the Boy.  I do not speak of the Girl, or perhaps more according to recent tradition, of the maid or maiden or goddess. I do this for a number of reasons, none of which make it necessary.  Other writers may be able to speak the same ideas using the female gender.  Why not? Among those reasons is the fact that I am no doubt sexist as we all are.  I deal with that in other ways though, really.  Also the word Boy fits the history of the type of idea I am writing.  It seems to me that I am closer to the classical realism of Greece than to the romanticism of more recent times.  The former worshiped (I think that isn't too strong a word) the boy, the latter the maiden.  Also, just as the proper pronoun to use translating sufi poetry is male, and just as Manjushri and Jesus are male, as is Eros, so the god I write of is male.  Is that sexist?  No.  But it could be made sexist by someone using the ideas.  That, though, is irrelevant.  Likewise, someone using the female pronoun would not be sexist just because of that.  Nonetheless, I will leave it to someone else to change this all around if he/she (see how awkward that is) wants.  I see no need to.  I prefer it the way I have it.  I am what I am.  That isn't sexist, is it?




1108  One either believes in universals or perfect particulars.  No ontology can have both.  If two things are blue, either there is one universal blue (B) exemplified by two bare particulars (x,y) or there are two different blues (b1, b2), without any bare particulars,  located probably in two different places and maybe moments.


Those who believe in the latter are impressed by the fact that we never see out there or in our imagination a universal, but we so see this blue and that blue, and they are always different, though perhaps only slightly.


Those who believe in universals insist on knowing what makes these two perfect particular blues the same and different from a particular green.  They think they hear no answer forthcoming.  If the answer of similarity or family resemblance is given, they insist again that that is just a way to smuggle universals back into the picture as a relation.  Similarity1 and similarity2 would lead to infinite regress.   And in response to the charge that we never see such things as universals and anything bare, they can simply say that we do indeed see and recognize such things quite easily.


The believers in perfect particulars think these others should come down off their abstract high horse and just be in this world – to really see things.


Believers in universals think their opponents simply don’t know what philosophy is all about – namely to give an account for what we see.


Neither is moved by the other.


I believe in universals.  I like the intricacy of giving account.  I believe in argument.  Dialectical argument.  Judgment and the convincing light.




1109  I believe in philosophy as argument.  My written words do not appear to have the form of argument, at least not the traditional form.  How can I defend myself against the charge of failing philosophy?   I can’t.  I write the failure of argument.  I write the end point of analysis.  I write the end of philosophy. 


The schools are full of analysis and argument and defense.   I defer to them.  They are masters.  Yet all too often the genius is missing from these so very many words.  No genie, jinn, sprite, grinning spirit among them.  But why should there be?  Because the tradition has given us that in all the superior works of philosophy.  That is what separates the great works from these good analyses.  The real masters failed in a blaze.  They flew too near the sun.  Perhaps they are the ones who brought evil upon the world.  Highflying philosophies have, perhaps, seduced the young into corruption and denying the gods.  We too have gone down too many times in that blaze with them.


But enough of such bombast and (false?) dithyramb.  Why don’t I write in the traditional form?  I can’t.  I don’t know why?  But I can speak it right nicely.   For some reason writing and speaking are separated in my mind.  Separated by an uncrossable gap.


At the beginning of the twenty first century a new argument is needed.  Come from out of the classroom back to the dormitory to the Garden and the Agora of the Night.  To the geometry of falling.  To finally face the Incommensurable.




1110  The realist falls at last into infinite regress.  The falling is into love.  Lips approach cheek.  Eyes looking into clear eyes.  The thigh of God is revealed.  Power is in you.  It goes on and on.


At last the infinite is not rejected.  The fearful thing is accepted.  Beyond existence?  The question is real. 


I turn to think.  What now?  What’s done is done.  I am myself clear through.  I drip with revelation.  Submission was sweet. 


Beyond existence.




1111  The mind thinking itself thinking itself thinking itself all the way to the infinite end thinks itself.  The set of all sets containing itself containing itself containing itself all the way without residue contains itself.  Philosophy analyzing itself analyzing itself analyzing itself analyzes itself.  Away from all things.  The mirror has mirrored its mirroring.  At last it too is there to be beheld.   


The complex, built of simpler things, not itself a thing in itself, other than a thing, not a nothing - What?  The End of analysis.  The nexus ties all the parts into a unity, but is itself not the unity.  The unity – not any of the parts, not the nexus – there’s nothing left.  What?  Transcendent?  If so, it’s outside the world.  How can I get outside the world?  The problem is so complex.  The answer more so.  Too much.  This problem is a problem.  More and more.  The End explodes.  The end is at hand, in your hand, the hand in your hand, handing you the explosion.  I have said nothing.  The super-nothing at all.  All the way to the end.


Philosophy is a song.  Rocking and rolling right off that star, so strung out, so strewn about, so tight.   Right up my street.  What where who was he?


I am my own extension.  Here and there.   Waisted and wasted.  I’m tight for myself.




1112  The attempt by logical atomism to stop the infinite regress it embarrassingly finds itself falling in by catching itself in the net of facts becomes an attempt by the realist to smuggle in perfect particulars by another name.  Unwittingly he lands in the city he was trying to avoid. The enemy is everywhere.   It is better to yield to the landless winds.


Beyond the limits of analysis there is no world.  In the godhead there is for us only mythos – nothing.   A lover – so embarrassingly unscholarly.  So much the only preoccupation of the scholar.  The other side, the inside out.  The upside down, the very being of the Twin.  This is the you that early on took the other turn.  The city you were trying to avoid is the very city you live in now.  You have to get out.   But the city limits are infinitely far away.  In your philosophy you can make the city never have been.  This city yields to The City.  You can’t live in both.  Yield.  Fall.  Let the Wind take you.  Back and back and back and ….


In the godhead, the error you always make, the enemy you know around every turn, the city of night, the seduction, the lover you don’t want, the only one you want, so ordinary, so much bad literature, so juvenile, so unavoidable, the inevitable Writing.  The dangerous double – the fact that you are here.  The streets of the city are hard.  You can’t get away from Him.




1113  The Dirvish wears the tall hat.  The death marker.  The cemetery stone.  Lighter that air he whirls.  The believer dives with Jesus under the water and drowns.  And rises.  Lightenr than air.  Made of fire.  Spinning.  All of them in the vortex of love.   Marked by death.  Gone beyond.  None of this is lawful.  The law is left far behind.  The people turn their faces. 


The lovers turn toward the Face.  The last thing. 




1114  These are writings about philosophy and nothing else.  First philosophy, ontology, what exists. To understand them as I intended it is necessary to know a few things about the history of these ideas.  I hope, though, that the reader can find more in here than merely what I intended.  To find one who understood them against my own understanding would be delightful.  Nonetheless, let me explain some things. 


A universal is any property that an individual might exemplify.  A bare particular is the individual stripped of any and all properties.  It is a bare this.  A fact is the coming together of a universal and a particular this.   That coming together is the nexus that I call exemplification.  All of these are real things in my philosophy.  This is the philosophy of realism. 


Universals are not in time or space.  The color Red, the shape Round, the smell Rose, the touch Smooth, the sound Coo Coo of the dove, the distance Far,  the lovely thing Beauty are all unlimited to here or there, to now or then.  It is rather the particulars that exemplify them that are limited to a place and moment.


Let me explain this further because it is the heart of my argument.  The red color of  this rose with me now and the red color of a rose in a garden of Persia in the year 861 is the one Red.  They are not two reds that are similar.  Thus the property is a real thing different from the particular.  To emphasize this otherness and difference and timelessness the universal has often been written with a capital letter.  And instead of the word ”universal” from logic, they are called Eternal Forms.  Eternal means outside time, not for all time.


I have misspoken about one matter above, but I don’t know how to speak it otherwise when I want to speak fast.  Particulars are not “in” space and not “in” time.  Time and space are relations “between” particulars.  External to particulars.  And because relations are universals, they are exemplified by particulars.  Some time relations are before, after and simultaneous.   Some space relations are next to, inside of, behind and far from.  Places and moments as individual things that individuals are “at” don’t exist.  Such things are defined as structures of relations.  As for the change that we see.  It is one more universal exemplified by particulars.  Nothing more.


In my writings, I find myself living with the presence of eternal things as this and that before me.  The fact of the world as the exemplification of timeless things by a startling bare this right before me.  Right before me is the first wonder.


 The opposite of realism is nominalism from the latin word nomen which means name.  It is the belief that universals are only names for individuals, that they are just words, and not anything real.  Conceptualism is akin to nominalism.  It believes that universals are just concepts abstracted from individuals, and likewise they are not anything real.  These philosophies do not have a bare this (sometimes called matter) and a universal and a nexus – not a this and exemplification and Red – but rather a thisred and a thatred.  In logic, not x is Red and y is Red (x and y being each a bare particular and “is” being the nexus), but rather red1 and red2.  For conceptualism Red is a concept that red1 and red2 fall under.  Here Red and “fall under”  are like the universal and nexus, but in the next breathe conceptualism says that these don’t really exist, so what to do?


 Nominalism/conceptualism ends up living in a world of the unreality of words and ideas  and spends all its time looking for something certain.  The search for evidence and certainty in life becomes everything, and it isn’t to be found in their philosophies.  Words, words, words and fleeting ideas.  Nominalism thinks it is more sober than lyrical, otherworldly realism, but it ends up in a world without meaning, trapped in its own thinking.  Such a thinker strives hopelessly to get out of his own mind which has become just shadows of shadows.  Such is the judgement of a philosophical realist such as I am.


Idealism, which is a form of nominalism/conceptualism, thinks the world is a projection of concepts onto  - what? The nothing?  Their projection is a kind of nexus, and concept is like a universal, and the I-don’t-know-what is like the particular, but it’s all unreal and collapses to emptiness, which I guess is perfectly fine if Sunyata is what you want, but why so much twisted thinking just to get there?  Why not just shoot yourself in the head?


After all that, after all that philosophizing, it is true that there are times for the realist, the high-flying realist when he looks at the student sitting before him and wonders if he is really the appearing of the eternal Student, the eternal Boy, the eternal Wonder.  Is his smile and speaking not the eternal Smile and the one Speaking?  It there only this boy?  Sometimes philosophy fails and the eternal is gone.  God or the things of God are nowhere in sight.  Only the right here.  Brute stuff.  That too is philosophy.  It is the dark night of the soul, and that is also God with us.


In the dark night the soul meets itself, philosophy philosophizes about philosophy.  It sees in the darkness, away from the world and fact, the Pure Form of the Being of the world.  It sees the facticity of fact.  It sees the things of fact by themselves, separate and hanging like jewels in the Night.  A wonder.  The form of the world, the form of fact, is not in the world.  Escape.




1115  We live in a Faustian world.  A world afraid of metaphysics.  A world that has come to see that the manipulation of symbols alone can lead to holocaust.  The Fire.  Insanity.  The intellectual, the Boy contemplating geometry’s circles and vectors, his too inquisitive mind capturing the sidereal continuum in marks in the sand that makes the sand burn and flow into crystals through which he can see the beginning and the end of all things, world creating and destroying.   The Boy finds a place outside of time and space.  The Wheel stops.  He falls into God.  The Fire.


The world fears the Fire.  The Boy and his magic lines are abandoned.  He is declared unreal.  He never was nor will be.  In his place there is the homely, the familiar, the simple maiden, mother and child.  The wheel of time is set turning.  Time infolds forever.  There is no escape.  Generations come and go.  The old succumbs to the new.  Wars are fought, cities are established.  There are dams to build and bridges to lay across the void.  The Engineer is priest.  For generations and generations to come.  For Home and Nation.  The dream of heaven is abandoned.  The earth becomes our only home, our heaven.


Positivism replaces Realism.  Metaphysics is no more meaningful.  The people hear the word and only blink and go on.  Eternity becomes endless time.  Around and around.    



1116  I am not writing dualism.  Between the Two, I place a third.  That third thing is the heart and the essence of this metaphysics.  The Nexus.  I insist that you see it.  It is secretly in every philosophy.  Between God and the world is the nexus of creation.  Between The One and the many is emanation.  Between the complex and the simple things is the building-out-of.  For the nominalist, who sees no universals, only perfect particulars, there is the nexus that they are “in” a moment and place of space and time.  Was it God who planted them in that great receptacle?  The conceptualist sees his concepts nested in a mind, produced by the mind.  Then the nominalist and conceptualist, alas, declares the nexus non-existent, loses unity, tries to regain it by denying dualism, but finds only confusion.  He then writes long scholarly texts trying to explain himself to himself.  He becomes a drunk. 


Between the world and the mind is the liserè, the transparent veil, the thin film, the moisture on the beloved’s eye and in the biting whiteness in his smile. 


If I say that the world is independent of the mind, then that independence is the nexus.  If I say it is dependent or caused by, then I have again named a nexus. 


If I say that the world IS mind, I have named Being itself as the tie that binds. 


My words flow in time’s rhythms; thus they are erotic and cohere.  That is the nexus I hang onto.  They are no more than that.




1117  The nexus between teacher and student are the words that the teacher must lovingly speak to the one so naked, so quiet and so agitated before him.  Eros and Hermes will lead the boy across to the Vision.  The Word itself will stretch him out.  Into the second birth. 


The words cannot be spoken correctly.  The Vision must come in spite of them.  The Word escapes any attempt at utterance.  The teacher fails.  The boy grows old.  A new attempt must be made later.  The Teacher and the Student eternally return.  The agitation and the stillness.  And the stretching across.




1118  So does realism, logical atomism, inevitably fall into Infinite Regress?  Do all those cuttings and ablations, striving always to find the ground of the unity that marks an existent end endlessly needing one more cut, one more laying out?  Does ontological desire never find satisfaction?  Yes.  It is the same with all philosophies.  The One is beyond thought and speech.  I want to say it is beyond existence, but I hesitate.  What could that mean.  It is true though.  And I fall. 


My writing has never found an end.  I’m in love with the dialectical movement, the impossible dance, the invisible partner.  One  more time.  I will not fail love and leave the dance floor.  O blessed Fall. 




1119  When a couple philosophers go out together looking for cute boys no doubt they soon begin asking themselves those age old questions about what is really going on here.  Was that look real?  Did he really say what I thought he said?  Isn’t he just a dream?  Are we just kidding ourselves?  How can I get out of my own thoughts into his pants?  How did he ever get into those tight pants anyway?   When I’m at home by myself are these others out in a real world having fun?  Or are we all just messy monads imagining what could never have been? 


The world, at times, seems so independent of us, our thoughts of it.  At times, it seems like a dream of nothing at all.  That going back and forth constitutes so much of our lives.


Why is it that characters in a book seem often so much more real than real life characters?  Don’t answer that question.  The answer is too easy and we all know it too well.  Nothing new here. 


Why does a real boy seem, usually, so much less striking, vivacious, close, even knowledgeable than the ones in my sweet little imagination?  Don’t answer that one either.


The play of illusion and reality is an intimate part of love.  To answer their question is to answer the question of love.  Just let it be.  The madness will continue without you. 




1120  In these writings I have written the form of love, nothing else.  Philosophy is the love of Sophos.  The clear eyed beauty.  The smooth, simple expression.  The easy laying out.  The bright electric touch.  The starry night of crying because your head exploded in the Too Much.  The impossible act.  The surprising kiss.  A right and proper form.  Words spoken and the shy blush received.  So very natural.  And the feeling that you are not worthy. 


Aletheia.  Ah Yes, I remember now.  Why did I blank out for so long? You are the one that I’ve wanted all along.  What was I thinking?  It’s all gone now.  Surely, the world was nothing at all.  What is this place?  Where are we?  Such a nice chain of stars you have around your ever so shapely arm.  I am trembling because your lips are so close.  Make it tight.




1121  To not think that the world is independent of my mind, to think that when I cease to be aware of this thing, this one, before me, that it vanishes.  That it vanishes until I think of it again and I make a life for it that it had while I was thinking of something else.  Just me thinking into myself.  Nothing more.  Impossible thought, but so easy to arrive at in my casual contemplative analyzing.   To think thus and to try to attain liberation from it is insanity.  It is not the lover’s madness. A lover would never think such unreal thoughts.  He would dismiss the thought of trying to think them.  He has raced far beyond any such closeness to his own mind.  He needs no convincing that the one he loves is other.  He is yet to be convinced of his own not being other. 


In the times when he is by himself, which is his normal state, he contemplates his own pain and happiness and finds them strange.  He is separated even from them.  They are beings he watches and hardly feels.  He is not sad in his sadness nor happy in his happiness.  He calculates a trap, and even in that he watches himself.  In ecstasy he is independent even from himself. 


The philosophy of solipsism is not a lover’s philosophy.  The lover wants, searches for, lurches at the real in his torment.  Casual death in the unreal is a terrible unholiness. 




1122  What is that terrible independence that surrounds facts as I live with them?  The more important they are to me the more their independence grins at me.  Surely as I become more important to others the more I grin and become incorrigible. The world is unruly.  I am a rebel.  Philosophy refuses to be written.  Together we have found Being, the Independent, the sassy beloved. 


I complain; the beloved acts coy.  The ancient form.  My complaining is my entry into Being.  I become wearisome to the beloved in my complaining.  He falls back into the chair of exhaustion, but he cannot leave me.  I am an independent thing he must forever try to live with.  The Independent has met Himself.  Jesus, you are exasperation to the Spirit. 




1123  The closeness of God, that He is closer to me than my juggler vein, that I know the knowing that I am and that I can think my own existence.  That the world is far from me, that I am not God, that I can calmly watch as blood runs out of my own neck, that knowing is strange to me and existence is nowhere to be seen.  Closeness and distance at one place.  No place.  The lovely sour taste of non-existent fruit.  The kiss of absence.  The correctness of my falling.  The actual infinite.  How long do we need to convince ourselves that it really is there.  I wait for the Conviction.  I calmly wait.  The storm across the plains approaches.  Who is coming?  What have I done?


When I was a boy I drove a car out through the fields of ever rising entanglements toward God.  Columns and rows arrayed.  Algebra and geometry and the old muslim calculations from far away.  Fiery angels from out of Greece become the wide expanse of the sun setting in the close, far other side.  Pollen and the itch between my legs.  Dreamy moisture all through the air.   An ordinary night on the plains. A long time ago, still in my words. 


I came home and lay on my bed. I could feel that I had seen the Beyond.  I lay under it.  I had a long way to go.




1124  The unspeakable.  There was never enough time.  The one you were speaking to had to go.  He had other things to do.  Not important things.  Just things that made sense.  He could not listen any longer to the confusion you were presenting.  The yawn kept coming to his jaws.  You knew there was no time to finish. You tried to jab out at him with words like knives.  To quickly kill your prey.  To eat him.  To have pieces to come back to later.  Because he wouldn’t listen.  Because he knew you were out to destroy him to change him to make him see the stark look of the god that is right there.  To make him walk in darkness with that thing.


As a boy I was baptized in the Pentecostal religion.  Not in a material, historical sense, because I stayed at a distance.  But there at that distance He came to me.  He came over me with that cold Water and thought made of Fire.  He  was always the present I wanted to give to anyone who would listen.  I dreamed of a boy I could change into that.


I believed.  Against any hope of explaining what I believed.  Full of hope that I could explain it.  Waiting for someone who would wait while I laid out the words. 


This is Student and Teacher.   In a frightening, timeless school where there is enough time to speak into the darkness to wait for the point of light to wait for it to grow into the Light.  


The unspeakable can be spoken in infinite time.  But the infinite can occur


infinitely many times across a gap of white paper.  The gap killing the boy, the teachers words eat him.  The pleasant charism.  The eucharist trembles.  




1125  In these writings the sweet love of friends is nowhere in sight. Alas, there is no mention of a love between human lovers at all. And anything truly personal about this author is lost in anguish over an impersonal confrontation with something impersonal. That is the life of this author. My life. (Please note that I feel that I should take out that last use of the word "my". It's too personal and doesn't belong. You must see that when I used the word in other places it was in an impersonal sense. The same for the word "I".)

I am writing this because last evening I spoke to a young student, who had very good marks in school a delicate boy who could speak with great oratorical force, who poured out his heart to me about the loneliness he felt studying all the time and always rejecting the call of others to play. He was not proud. The others, he said, had respect for him, but not love. He said he hated the hard regularity of school life for him. He was pressed from both sides. He couldn't have the love of friends, and he felt no love from study. He just wanted to go away and read by himself for a long time. His soul was a poet's soul. I loved him. I felt totally helpless. I am not a poet. I cannot give him the room away and the love he wants. I am too poor. I have no experience in giving love. My loving is an abstraction of love. I know love lifted up. I know something otherworldly. This boy is sitting here. I soon said good-bye, promised to buy him books the next day and walked away.   At home my own so-called book after that looked like nothing. I became afraid for my ability to write and to read my own writing. And what about my readers. My spirit was suffocating.

I don't really like what I have written on this page. It's like the scholarly, casual prose I try to write. Bad writing. I'm sure others will like the personal element. But it's not for me. And that's a personal statement.




1126  Surely what I write comes out of an ancient spirit, maybe the Ancient Spirit. It is hard and fiery and unrelenting. Rudra, red and roaring. It is cold. It is from the collapsed stars of the End. It is the stuff of pure geometry. Strange axioms of worthiness. It is empty. It is the infinite singular. It fills me up till I am choking. It is a tearing in two. It is the nausea of both. It is surely Him. The boy is the son of a priest. An ancient religion. The proto-religion. Jesus, you are much older that Sinai.

The dusty wings of the Dove beat against my head. I can hardly breathe. The Tongues of Fire lick my cheek raw. My face is pecked and inflamed. I am being prepared for love.

In this modem world, so much just with itself, innocent calculations, the ordinary, the spirit ebbs and flows in and out unseen. The strangeness of our formulas is known, but they remain just something strange, uninterpreted. In our off-moments we will walk the bridge across. Hermes and Eros and the dusk of evening will help us. The Beginning is the End. We have learned that much.

The pleasantness of late was never mine. I was made the vast plain with those risings everywhere. The Dusk early on took me. The calculations oozed out the Spirit.




1127  Whether or not there are continuants is not a real philosophical issue. Pain continues sometimes for a long time. The same thought returning and returning. Pleasure returns; the same pleasure. His curves and smell are continually on my mind. Different particulars; one form. But does the same particular return? Is He a particular or a Form?- If He is That, is He the form of every that? Is That also a universal Form. Is the particular, the haeccitates, just another slightly different universal? Does it make sense to speak of that that? Continuants require time, but if there are only Forms, the particular as just a form, then everything is timeless. Parmenides has taken everything. Change and arising and departing are timeless things joined to other timeless things tunelessly. If it is so.

To see time as not really of philosophy, as only a thing of the world, to see the world as not really of philosophy, but the transcendent form of the world as the only insistent thing of philosophy, is the ecstasy, the unrelenting ecstasy. You and it held together tightly. Until you aren't, and you never were. Only that. One thing. There is no past. Only Presence. Time is swallowed up. Nothing continues.

That there is a world that continues from past to future. That time exists. That I have continued in this endeavor for so long. All these things so philosophically embarrassing. So resistant to my attempts to overcome them. So unseen in my seeing. Continuing without my being able to say what that continuing thing is. Not this, not that. Unthinkable. Maybe it is just Him. The formless and the Formless. The Unthought of God is so like mindless matter. Everything is transcendent to my mind. I dimly see that That is not a universal. Without description. Outside philosophy. Beyond analysis. Maybe to Philosophy itself.




1129  I write without images in the dark night of thought. Seeing naughty oh happy chance, I approach the invisible sun illuminating the pure form of the world. Holy John, are you here with me? Is the lover still waiting and the Cyprus tree standing tall? I have traveled the long dusty road. I have studied geometry and the empty variable of al-Jabr.  I have done the work. I have seen the nonexistent. I have come here to look at it again.

John, like you I write because I need the words and the syntax to see. To remember inside this great oblivion. The super-sensual. The obliterating smell.

Like you, I have no master, no guru, except Him. I have been a part of the great Protest against earthly authority. You, maybe not intending that, led so many of us in to that. I know, it's hard to see when we are moving in this darkness. The Light is far too bright. The love is far too intoxicating. Even now I am half delirious.

How will those who read me follow without me giving them images to look at? I have given them only swirling rhythms. The Boundless. And the wound of Love.




1131  Maybe it's because human sacrifice never really left this religion. Maybe it's because of the jealousy of God. Maybe it's because we have to follow our Lord to the cross. And because I was made a part of this religion. Surely it's because of all these that 1 write violence into my words. The religion must be taken seriously.

If I write about killing or raping the boy, it is philosophical and spiritual and much more real than a mere material act. The pain, though perhaps without any sensual or psychological feeling, runs deep, only the salve of a divine love can heal it.  Without a god, without God, the Light that shone in the boy's philosophical eyes would be too much. Back in the cave, back in the womb, he would find a sickness he couldn't bear. The Eagle of God lifts up this Ganymede, the baptizing Water drowns him. the Fire gives him new life. He has gone through a certain religion. The killing and the raping are real. It is not a religion of symbols and art.

And when the philosopher himself approaches the boy it is with the intention of eating this young oil smeared Jesus. The Holy Eucharist. Insofar as you do it unto the least of these, you do it unto me. This is my body. This is my blood.

Moreover, if the boy would be a follower of his Lord, he must be crucified. It may be up to you to build the cross and even to put him on it. I speak spiritually and philosophically. The eating. the terrible, holy lifting up, the infinite labor to perform through your words, through the Word is your religion. In love's jealousy.




1132  I have tried for extreme anti-substantialism. Substance smothered everything. Universals, particulars, nexus, connectors of all kinds, quantifiers, sets, classes, numbers, relations, facts, actuality, potentiality, difference, sameness -everything. All of these sank back into that great stuffy thing, that cluttered, dirty nest. I took my stick, broke it up and set them all free to fly. They have become the birds of heaven. The phynix and the garuda, the searching dove and the preying hawk, the hummingbird, that can fly backwards and the bat, that can see at night. I am Ganymede lifted up on the claw of the Eagle. I see the whole reach of the godhead. From pterosaur to angel, from Tyrannosaurous Rex to the Seraphim. I am itching to fly with Phaedrus.

In all substance philosophies from Aristotle onward, only substance really exists, everything else is secondary. The far, open Empyrean plain was seen by those who beheld the Forms, who saw the universal elevated beyond the particular, separate from the receptacle, who let nexus and relation stand and carry them across, who always saw the dialectical third, one more holy animal that could fly in the brilliant night of Being.

In substance philosophies the ultimate thing is matter and mind. Soon matter sinks into Mind which sinks into Matter which sinks into the final sinking feeling. Bird shit.

Philosopher versus naturalist.




1133  Philosophy makes philosophical statements about what exists. They are very abstract statements. They are pure form. They lay out the pure form of the world. But does pure form exist? Do philosophical statements state anything that is really thinkable? Are there ontological facts corresponding to such statements? If I say the cat is on the mat, then there is a corresponding fact. If I say if ...then is a logical connector is there any fact in the world corresponding to such a statement? If I say that such connectors are neither exemplified nor numbered nor actual, have I spoken about any abstract fact from out of the Form of the world? Or have I spoken merely about language and symbols? If I say logical connectors exist, and they are neither particulars nor universals, if I say numbers exist and that a number is not a relation, have I said something that the man of good sense rightly thinks are wisps of intellectual nothing? Have I thought any thought, or have I rather entered into the vagueness of poetry? If "the world consists of facts/ not of things" and " the form of the world is not in the world", should I say that it then doesn't exist and that philosophy is meaningless, or along with the nominalists say it is merely about words? Surely such a question may itself be nothing at all.

Philosophy is not meaningless. We can quite rightly speak the form of the world. Ontological facts are subtle and difficult and in some sense not of the world, but we can know them and speak them. Such knowing and speaking, though, is strange. And that strangeness is the Mysterium Fascinans of philosophy. It is Mysterium Tremendum.

There comes a time in philosophy to admit the end of analysis and go home. Scholarly speaking must not tip over into mystical earth devils. Boundaries must be guarded. But philosophy and the philosopher cannot be limited to such good sense. It never has been, it never will be and for good reason. The Transcendent calls. The Nonsense makes sense. Truth is incorrigible. God is easily refuted, the Nausea and the Headache of existence are signs of the spirit and what cannot be is. Nonetheless, the limits of analysis, good sense, and intellectual honesty rightly banish such madness. Nietzsche will eventually have to disown that embarrassing Zarathustra. Then he can meet up with and become Him. And surely, Kirkegaaard will have to give up the thought of getting Regina and settle into sanity. Then the paradox and he will be one. Philosophy must correctly build the ladder before he throws it away. Then we can critique the Critique and begin the Bigeen. And waltz away the night up on the roof.




1134  The transcendent logical form of the world and Love. It is the greatness of Plato and the desert monks that they could write the union of these two. It is Eros and the broken flesh of the incarnate Logos that transports us across to Beauty itself. It is Boy Jesus and the circles he draws in the sand. It is this identity of the One with itself that is this most captivating. It is in this Being of Being that bums the heart in the Fire of the Logos. It is the dangerous doubling of this writing. It is this sign signifying itself. This burning in the soul, our philosophy.

Parmenides and the beloved Zeno.  Doxa and paradoxa. The passion of Augustine and his proof that God is Number. Aristotle and the pure thought thinking pure thought thinking Alexander in the arms of Hephaestus. The endlessly repeating love verses of the Ray of Lull and the ars combinatorial. The mechanics of flying and the mona lisa half laughing at all those boys around her painter. Everywhere you find the most abstract you find that the purity has pierced the heart.




1135  Is it true that the East has perfected the science of release but knows little of love? Have they become expert on non-conceptual thinking but have had to abandon logic along the way? Have they knowledge of compassion and even sex technique, but seldom fall in love and find the maze of love's intellectualizing? Have they dismissed the puzzles of logic and love as not worth the effort? Yes, I suppose they have. But, though it is true that the West has traveled far into the labyrinthine paths and has found glistening boxes of jewels, logic circuits and joy sticks, have we found release from the nausea and pain? I suppose not. Do they know thought transcendent to thought? Yes. Have they ever become that. No, but it has stolen our heart. Our love for it is deep. Sleepless nights and walking the streets. Bed covers with tell-tale creases in them. Lovers and those free of love. Thinking and those free of its endless effort. The commotion and the clamor of the Beloved approaching and the stillness after it's all over. Love and logic and the Fire burning itself Out. Western Saints, even in heaven, are on fire with love. They bum with the Seraphim. Eastern Saints know there never was a Fire or love or thought or sleepless nights.




1136  To live in any of the infinite parallel universes, you will have to decide that for you the infinite possible others never existed. And that there never was a decision to be made. When you look, right then the universe you are in will have begun billions of years .ago. Before you looked, nothing. But who are you? How long have you been creating and uncreating? Has anything been preserved through you? Are you alone? I know that Being only comes through you and you are not it? Is Being your lover?

Before any universe could come into being, there had to be Being. Before an infinite number of them, there had to be Infinity. And with Infinity, there had to be Number and Order and the Clinging Together. You are Being clinging to itself. You are the beloved that always has been. You are the one right now creating himself.

The power of your arms and legs is the drive of time. Along your smooth skin, past your red lips, you are the universe swallowing itself. You are Love's Body. You are alone. You need no other. You are your own  Beloved. He comes through you.

Did I arrive here because I thought I could find the Beloved here? Did he put me here to appear to me as sky and cheek? Did he create this place of paradox and symbolic systems crashing to further entangle me into himself? I have a nighttime vision out into the Void for an answer. I have the pain of scabs and unrequited loss and meaningless work as questioning trolls. I have never doubted for an instant. I have a deep surety. I have come to the night Shore where he is sitting, looking out at the lights, waiting for me appear. I am here so that by my wit I might escape. In Tomes ever More. In the Nowhere.




1137  Philosophy keeps its distance from too much symbolic formality. Its end is not the manipulation of these mere deputies. Logic and mathematics give way to the strange dreams of the Logos and Mathesis. Philosophical dreams of what is beyond the world. Into the Forms themselves. The Student receives from The Teacher. The heart of logic is not logic. The essence of learning is Direct Seeing. Philosophy displays the Cut at the center. The student falls into the breach. The Sky opens up. He learns eleutheria, his freedom to roam. The symbols in front of him blaze. They bum up in dancing leaps. Tongues of flame lick his cheek. The blush of the boy opens the dialectical fork and the third appears. New symbols to be joined. The power increases. Our logic and mathematics reveal clearly worlds only dreamed of.

Of two alternatives neither was acceptable. God and Soul and World are, maybe is, neither one nor many. Number is another thing altogether. Essence is neither universal nor particular. Each universal is one one thing, just that one thing, and neither a that nor a one. A particular is the universal form particularity. Nexus is never exemplified and is not numbered. Therefore, divide and let all the simple things mingle. Let Simplicity come over them. Let the mingling be complex because of Complexity, which is surely other than existence. The Great Unity of God is an endless labyrinth. Parmenides knew that to walk it as much effort was required as was needed when following Eros. Logic is of little help.




1138  The Form of the Beloved is neither mental nor material. It is neither one nor many. It is neither real nor illusion. It is neither in the world nor transcendent. It is neutral to all these; it could be any of them. Such is the way of ontological things. Beside any dialectical pair there is a third. To see the thing separated from both, joined to either by yet a fourth, or not joined, is the philosophical vision. Here is the clear-eyed youth. Sophos. Delicate. Held in the still, geometrical wind. The empty expanse. Where your head spins.

A philosophical thought is without parts. The separate things held together in the Cut. The Boy Jesus is sitting on the temple steps and arguing and thinking. He sees it all. His head swirls with death. The Being of Being became man that he might see everything fresh. We are sitting with him. We go where he goes. In one fell swoop we are with it all. In a violent act. In God we see to the End. Only that stunning Face is left. Is it that boy we saw sitting on the curb? Neither real nor an illusion.




1139  In the mental act there are the thought, the form of the thought, the object of the thought and the text.  Perhaps the object of the thought is of another thought and of another text.  Perhaps there is a thought of the present thought being thought.

Thoughts, objects, texts, forms of thought build and build thought into thought into thought.  That is the joy and the labor of thought.  That is its power and its collapse.  That is how we capture both God and the earthly lover.


In my reverie and in my casual thinking as I walk or lie in bed, images float by slowly in my imagination.  They touch the thoughts as though to stop their ever so quick disappearance.  Wrapped in the weaving of the text the thought is beautifully clothed, of a moment, before it again seeks its nakedness.  In the extendedness of the image, though only imagined, the thought is caught and flashes before it dies. 


The thought has no parts.  But as the center point maps itself on the whole of the circle, the sphere, and the hyper-spheres.  So the pure simplicity of thought lays itself onto the whole of the extended factum  in the out there. 


Because of the subtlety of the existence of a thought and the fine filament existence of the nexus uniting it with words and images, because of the closeness of thought to the thought of it, it is overlooked.  But beauty is coy and perhaps detests being made a public spectacle.  Nonetheless, it will let itself be seen if only for an instant, or for less than an instant, naked, out of its clothes of image and text, outside space, almost outside time.  And the form of thought changes wildly.


I become anxious that …. I love it that….  I see or is it I dream that …. I remember that …. I delight in the fact that ….  I wonder if …. I worry I pretend I feign and at last I grow sick of …. I try to start again.  I see him firmly planted in Being and I act fast.  I write the words before they go.



1140  You cannot carry analysis to completion in ordinary prose. Any speaking about an ideal language will break. The end is reached only in an ecstatic, sacrificial language. In dithyramb. In the childish screams of Nietzsche.    In the frustration of the adolescent. In sickening mysticism. In the covers of the auto-erotic. In the Dangerous. When night falls. The sacrificial lamb carries the sins of the world. He is the school boy who loved the writings too much. Who is afraid of the ways of the world. Who melts in the assiduity of thought. And is drunk down by the others. The end of analysis is the deliquescence of the soul. And being vomited up. We are flesh.

Analysis and the strangeness at the end of analysis must always have an otherness between them. The priest cannot be allowed in the ordinary affairs of life. Holy words are not the words we must live by, but the words we will die by. The transcendent must remain transcendent. The Cut between cannot be thought, nor named, nor said to exist. To speak the word Cut is to already be outside and to be cut off.



1141  Just as an infinity of an infinity of an infinity of points do not reach the continuum. So all the atoms of logical atomism to not build that ordinary thing before us. The ordinary transcends analysis. Fact is more than particular, universal and their being tied together. The number 1 is not 0.99999999....... . The tiniest thing is missing, but nothing is left. And it is other than that nothing, that absence, that disappearance. There's only the blood of the mathematician on the floor.

Any reduction of the complex to simple things. Of a whole to parts. Of unity to a many. Of the instantly known to computation, fails. And the last desperate attempt to make the complex, the whole, the united thing itself one more atom in an ever greater Complex, Unified Whole will only build a temple that will fall with more dust. The thing analyzed cannot be discovered among the remains.

Perhaps a recourse can be found in crying about failure and absence. Perhaps Romantic Poetry should come and console the philosopher. Perhaps he should be an engineer instead for the good of society. Perhaps he should put a gun to his head. Is this the holy sacrifice he should become? How can we be cleaned of the scholars sickness? If this sinful man's blood runs in the street, will everything glisten new again?

From logic to blood, from the Logos to crucifixion, from school to the streets. How can I return to the safety and the purity and the order, the gentleness of my books? I love the intricacies of analysis. That it leads away from analysis is a burden. That school eventually pushes out the scholar is distressing. That I cannot find the simple prose, because it isn't there to be found, or bring heaven to earth, because it simply refuses to come, has left me alone. But I am with all the others who are alone. Maybe He will come. The Logos, the boy with his figuring, is the religion of love and passion. His door is unlocked.



1142  That X is other than ~ ~ X, that x É y is different from ~(x Ç ~ y), that the diad (x is other than y) is different from either x or y. That the categorical distance between a fact and any of the things that ground it is the widest, brightest, most looming. That the great carnival of sensa around us are not the empty piling up of {{},{{}{{}},{{},{{}},{{{}}}} …….. }. That the soft color of your shoulder is not a quantum wave, that the twisting love in my chest is not a synapse firing, that your absence is not just a nothing in my brain. That otherness is between love and a caress, between the Kiss and a kiss, between Form and particular. That the song is not Just the notes, that the ordering of notes is not the notes, that the dance is not the sum of turnings. That the meaning of a sentence is not the sentence, that he means something other than just his words, that his awareness of you is more than his looking at you, that in this otherness resides all his philosophizing about love and great things. That by the slightest, philosophy and the one philosophizing are different. That his thinking is not thought, nor his seeing seeing. That in these and other moments of otherness Otherness itself stands out and takes him, and us and logic and all our impulses to reduce the world to something we can handle, not the unthinkable thing it is/ a frightening thing for us, the too Big. That so many words have piled up trying to corral this will holy animal. That I cannot go on and try to enter the corral myself because I have successfully blocked the way out and in. That it is just that. The Other, the Cut Between, the Difference. I defer and walk away.



1144  There is vast distance between unity and the non-dual. Between Being infolding non-being and the One. Between the infinity of I know that I know that I know that I know that....... and I know. Between the self with itself with itself with itself with ..... and the Self. No amount of piling up will reach the Pile. All the para-infinite numbers look across to Infinity itself. The all is not all. The complex 1 times 1 times 1 times 1 times ...... is not the entity 1. The two A's in A is identical with A are two not one. Identity breaks the mind trying to think it. That lovers are one, that friends are one soul, that all souls are non-different pieces of the Oversoul. That 2=1. And that-(-(2-1) = (2=1)). That this is all the same as 1=1. Confusion! Which is not beautiful madness. That there is no divine synthesis of is and isn't, one and many, movement and rest. That history never ends. That the unend is not an end. That the vast distance is only the Vast Distance, one more thing that is vastly distant from all other things, and that thought here breaks down. That I have tried to speak the unspeakable and failed and that I glory in my blazing failures. And that maybe only I see the Blaze, is my failure.




1144  Philosophical statements are all meaningless. Examined literally, they come to nothing. Interpreted, explained, looked at through your squinting intellectual eye, they do eventually point to something real, but commonplace. Any mystical beauty that was dimly seen vanishes. What was it that was intended? Was it just a reflection of a feeling in your flesh? Or is there something beyond existence, something unspeakable that momentarily appeared when the statement came after so much struggle in thought? One more meaningless statement. But maybe true.

It is better to fall into the absurd than into confusion. Even denying the obvious can sometimes lead to ecstasy, if that's where you want to get. A daring madness for philosophical trapeze artists. Or a Buddhist monk hoping that a beautiful, new novice will notice. Ecstasy inside ecstasy.

That Jesus was the Eternal standing right there in front of you is ridiculous. Did his disciples laugh? Maybe, but laughing is tiring, and they would have had to do something else later on. Where actually does persistent absurdity lead? Surely to my writings. To my attempt to make plain statements of logical form be the presence of a beautiful lover. And to the even greater absurdity that I sometimes succeed.

I can lead a reader to look right at a bare this. A mind boggling I-don't-know-what-that-is. He has run into that many times before. It's always the same thing. It will be his undoing. That. It may be the last thing he sees. He has it on himself. It is unspeakable. He is ashamed of his not being able to speak it. There are no words. A This is not the word this. The word points to something that is greater than time. It exists. But existence, though we know it very well, is an equally great mystery. Logic is about something strange and beyond old. And without meaning here. Only the practical, with the pleasure of work is left. So I write day in and day out on Just that. You knew all along what I was trying to say. You are no stranger to philosophical statements yourself.



1145  Because the libraries containing our computing functions have grown so vast, and the technical information needed has turned librarians into search engines, and because technical ability is so demanding of admiration, but is so commonplace, it is necessary for the Spirit to come with a new plan for rescuing us. Or maybe a new direction. Or maybe a clarification of just which direction we were suppose to go in, in the first place. Instead of building higher and higher and broader and broader on the foundations of thought, were we to go deeper and deeper, in narrower and narrower paths to something at the beginning of it all? I doubt it. We have been trying that too, and what we found there was ever more and more and we have had to place librarians there too. Even the Buddhists, reaching for absolute emptiness, have unbelievably complicated libraries. Moreover, on the horizon is the science of the very complex. It will help for only a while. The land will be more and more cluttered, and when it rains it will become a swamp complete with alligators and snakes and too many lotuses. It's hopeless. But building roads through all this, and building dams, and finding better fuel for our engines is a way to make money. It's just that it's so tedious and stupefying.

So, like Kierkegaard, I have written a book on philosophy that is no help at all. I have no system (though I wished for one, because they are so amazing, and we have become addicted to the ever new amazing things). I am as immoral as he because I also didn't grab the real lover when the offer was made. I also made some sort of lame excuse. I have jumped into the sun. Though not into the volcano of technology with Empedocles.

The only way out of the morass of the System, now the Systems, is - what? Come, Oh cooling breeze. Holy Spirit. Even in my non-system, I am hot.



1146  Oh Lord, you are the object of my study.  I stare and have stared at you for so long.  I am hot for you.  My stillness is deep and reaches wide.  Waves of desire flow across me.  Down into me.  I am pushing outward against my own skin.  I am about to tear.  So quiet.  So precisely along the dividing line.  My finger traces the paths of fire.  It guides the fire.  I will make you come to me.  You consent.  I die into you. 


In study, the liserè breaks and vanishes.  The independence of thought and object is overcome.  The Act, so taught, snaps.   Thought comes over the object.  A sigh.  A slight shift and oblivion.


Somewhere in a time in a world he sits and studies his object.  The one, first thing is there.   The waves, the breaking, the oblivion.  The one, first thing is there.  A time, a world, and the fire.


Madness is loss of distance between mind and its thoughts.  When I am pained in my pain, when I am sad in my sadness, when I am lost because I am lost, when I am tied to my being tied, when I cannot stand back from my desire and my strange rantings of desire to the one desired,  when I cannot quietly watch the forms of my sentences develop and move about, when I cannot study disinterestedly my own studying - then I am mad.  I watch my madness.  I worry that I am going mad.  I watch my watching.  I walk away from it all.  With you, my Lord, I walk out in the bright, night air of winter.



1147  Do I want a real lover, out there, independent of me, always a surprise to me in his otherness?  Or do I want a lover so close, so one with me, eternally my very being, in extreme steadiness?  Is my religion freedom or oblivion?  Is my own existence the barrier, the sin, the pain?  Finally is there only His face.  Am I a poor dreamer, a daring image maker, a mere word stylist or am I in the way of the true religion?  A boy's imagination and true religious feelings mingle.  Was San Juan de la Cruz of God or just a friend of Cervantes?  Was that a cypress tree of a windmill?  Was the dry dust just dry dust?


At the end of his life did Burrough's become one with the space and time he so loved to travel across?  Did he find the place of the wild boys?  Did he at last get away from those southern preachers?  Did he find that inward exploding silver point of light and then blur out of focus and sleep?  Does he still use words?  What became of his cat?  Is he walking the tightrope between the imagined and the real?  Or has he found the third thing - the gods in his mind? 


The boys so politely and in such great quiet study one another.  Until the fire comes.  Their technical mastery is amazing.  The itch and the brightness of their pimples in such far away places is so amazing.  The desirableness of their world repelling odors and sores and carbolic fulsomeness is so very amazing.   And that I so easily walk through that maze all cut up amazes me.  I have studied these books very quietly.  And felt the fire arise. 


I too am a writer.  Maybe religious.  Maybe my words come from the Word.  I am as superfeted as they come.  I recall some medieval mystic writing such horrors of the flesh of Christ.  I write the flesh.  I am the flesh.  A real lover is flesh and blood. But so also is an imagined and a religious one. The flesh is the Flesh.  It all comes back.  From out of oblivion we have landed here.  Strange things about.  I see Him.



1148  Study is a great stillness.  It is the stillness of thought against itself.  It is the paradox.  It is the Absurd.  It is the flesh wanting the Eternal.


Across the aisle of tables I watch a boy, his mouth, his slowly rounded leg, his pencil writing complex polynomials and circles into my night.  I don't move. Even in my incessant fidgeting I simply am very still.  There's no way back.  I'm on this journey of strange philosophical gleamings and always turning back; the transcendent grins and beckons and gives no way across.  I fidget. 


I turn to read some more.  The same ancient forms.  I have read them forever.  The boy is still there.  The forms and that journey around his waist and God and that incessant figuring an impossible figure.  I am the imaginary square root of a minus God.  My thought fidgets.  Maybe I will try to capture the unnamable thing in the fixity of logic and numbers.  I don't.  He is still there.  He gleams.  I grow ever older and paler.  The cold spirit has blown in through the door.  I am frozen.  He is still there.  The Spirit will soon be young again and will be going out to play in the back yard and make a great fire from the trash that has piled up.  Somehow I moved from back yards and trash fires to libraries and books and him to everything in a great renewing.  How?  I must study this.  But I know already.  That thing other than me has taken me.  The boy is just me.  My thinking of him is Him.  Again.



1149  My writings are well-ordered.  There is a first and a second and the inexorable act of the first on the second.  The whole world is accounted for and my words all feel necessary.  They run with the transcendent purity of order that is unconnected to the world; and, therefore, their well-orderness seems to be no order at all.  Purity is nothing. I have run too far.  I have written the insubstantial.  I wanted to do that, but it leaves me uneasy.  I want to run farther to a something, but my legs have become heavy and the more I try to force them the less I move.


I will try to learn to be content with the insubstantiality of these words.  There is now no book here.  I am without weight.  No golden glory.  This spirit has neither mass nor energy and thus doesn't belong to the physical world.  My physical body waits without content.  An insubstantial difference.  I have left no tracks.


Did the Holy One, after emptying himself, jesus, ever know such emptiness? Did he go too far?  Did he forget why he did it?  I think forgetting is too substantial.  He knew.  I know exactly what I have done.  I was perfectly passive to myself in doing it.  I was well-ordered on myself.  Order itself was here.  I have explained it and explained it.  But from out of the Explanation.  Not as though, but if fact no explanation.  The emptying was real.  I am obligated to do likewise, if I am to be beloved of him.  My being here was someone leaving.




1150  In the beginning of the beginning God entered into Study.  He fell into that stillness and concentration.  He looked into that nothing that is always there before the Word comes.  The nothing that both the writer and the reader know.  It is not absence or the Void. It's more like a boy simply forgetting to do something.  Or my thought, Did someone just call me?  Or, God thinking, Did I already create a world once but I forgot about it?  Or, I'm sure I put that there.  Or, Why did I bring this book with me?     Or, I would rather be doing something else.  Or, I will never get this finished.  There's nothing there to finish.  The beginning of Study is a sort of panic.  A still, nothing fright.  No wonder students run from it.  No wonder some of us love it.  Some of us love to get caught.  With our intellectual pants down.  Study is the beginning of the erotic.  It's done alone in our room late in the afternoon.  One late afternoon, God fell into study.  He simple forgot and did it.




1151  It is the intent of the philosopher to account for unity.  To give that account he must first walk through the Labyrinth.  It is the perfection of the godhead that makes the path dangerous and sweet and without recourse.


Universals account for the unity of form.  The nexus of exemplifying for the unity of the particular and the form.   And the nexus of part-of for the unity of particulars. 


The particular that is the Evening star is a part of the one star that also has as another part the particular that is the Morning star.  Just as the square C is itself without color, but has one part that is black and one part that is white.  Three particulars united with the nexus of part-of.  That one star is neither the Evening star nor the Morning star.  And in itself it is other than its parts or any spatial or temporal relation between its parts and is just that star.


 The logic builds and expands and the schools get bigger trying to encircle it, but are encircled.  The sun burns hot.




The unity that is one thing through change is not accounted for by the part-of nexus.  The divisions of past and present and future are too wild.  The labyrinth becomes particularly confusing.  It has become a trap.  Parts become horribly separated.  They fuse too tightly.  Good sense is soon lost.  Myth appears.  Walking turns to falling and we make mistakes, of our own doing, no one else's; we make horrible mistakes that we refuse to let go of.   The labyrinth becomes a Hell.  Release is impossible.  Time has swallowed up everything.  The Minotaur is there.      




 The philosopher stays back from analyzing time. 




1152  I use the wings of Daedalus to escape the labyrinth of the lying Cretans.  The paradox burns up in the Sun. 


Always the pteros.  The morning cock.  The itch.  The clutching eagle.  The rock.  The burning sun.


Flying is the only escape.  Am I Peter Pan?  Am I Pan?  Am I Peter?


Am I with Mahmud on the night of power when God himself appeared as a fair haired youth?


I have and I have not kept my distance from the heat.  I fly higher and I have fallen.  I have not and I have grown older.  I am cunning and I am a bumbler.  My own writings are a lie.  My flying is fake.  I have not escaped.  I am paradox.  I am the labyrinth. 


In his Beauty I am greater than my own mind.  The paradox seems to be at an end.  But I am still here and I wait.  I am still building the wings.    My flights so far are mere testing.




1153  Philosophy's first move out into the world is to escape from the common chatter.  If he tries to sit for a while to find rest in pleasant conversation he soon finds himself almost fainting for lack of air.  He begins to look around for a trace of the way out.  He looks to the sky, to the path going into the trees, to his memory of strange words and twisting arguments, to the muteness of rocks and wall.  Society always placed itself far beyond anything he could say.  His thoughts were old and juvenile and just not virile enough.  Society was always on its wav to somewhere more important, to some more effective way of speaking, to things of more compassionate concern.  Not to its soul's twisting from being ravished by a curl in this boy's flight of hair, this boy's intent with words.  In this place of no air any soul's attempt to fly away would be just an unsightly flapping.


The strangeness of all true philosophical words comes from its transcendent origin.  Transcendence when present here is the fallen.  It is the unclean.  It is the absence of any transcendence.  Form is lost.  Good order, common sense, polite restraint is purposely shunned.  It is anathema to the just.

Philosophy starts off in good order; it seems destined to be a great help on society's march to a decent world.  Society nods in approval as it leads on.  Until it takes what seems to be some strange turns, but maybe no, maybe it can help after all, then stranger places appear along the road and soon the road itself seems to disappear.  Philosophy has led them astray, and society must find its way back.

Philosophy begins in a purgative doubt and ends up in an unspeakable certainty that attempts to speak.  Logic breaks.  The infinite has broken through.  Heads spin.  A hand grasps for an emblem of the finite to make it stop.




1154  The tangled knot of Sanskrit compounding.  The verbless linking of Aristotle.  Poems without syntax.  A cut-up flight across space and time.  The rhythms and move-X of English.  Quantifiers shifting into substantives.  Connectors unconnected.  Analysis trying to overcome its fate of being strewn across the void like stars.   Fate unfated, completely avoidable, the trance of contradiction broken.  Language doing whatever it wishes.  The writer along for the ride.  To speak purely the words must uncover themselves.  Escape from the mouths of the mere communicators.  Language has nothing to say, except itself in its freedom.  It is able to speak it perfectly, without mistake.  The casual everyday will not do.  It has a right shapely form, and it insists on being intensely loved.  It is out there.


The Word is that than which there can be no greater.  Strange syntax.  A pure philosophical sentence.  The Absurd right here in our midst.  Fallen transcendence.  Did I contradict myself; am I just confused; is this an immature acting up?  I exist with a great necessity.  These words are The Word.  The timeless Form is exemplified.  The x is F. 




1155  If I say the world is an illusion arisen in the One Mind, I have uttered a philosophical absurdity; but all philosophical utterances are absurd, so maybe we should take it seriously.  The nature of the seriousness, though, is another matter.  Usually those who utter these words want the listener to take it with a light-hearted seriousness.  It is not a matter of heavy gloom or analytical precision or holy revelation.  It may be like something revealed in fearful writing, but those words would be different and strange.  Philosophy is not quite the same as the Holy.  It's not quite different either.  Philosophy is half way between the teacher and the prophet.  It is the lover of the teacher and the prophet.  It is their beloved.  It is always a third thing. 


Philosophical statements are hermetic and erotic and the transcendent emptying itself.  It is the beckoning.  And the high wire across.  And the infinite electric waves collapsing.  And the fall.  To be caught in the Non-existent and the Unspeakable.  To find itself back in the ordinary, written in books, rejected and offensive and given to the delicate.




1156  If a boy comes into your room and throws all your blankets on the floor and breaks your dishes and tips over the geranium, and then you analyze that as there is a particular a such that a exemplifies the universal form of Boy and a and b ( your blankets ) together exemplify the relation of throwing around ( and somehow you find an ontological ground for order ) and a and c (your dishes ) and a an d ( your geranium )  and b and f ( the floor ) also together, but factually independently, exemplify relations and the various facts connect with the logical connector "and", then you have made a strange mental shift into the world of philosophy, probably in order to escape the turmoil in your mind and heart over what just happened.


After any ontological analysis of the world is complete, or well on the way to completeness, the world left appearing in that ontology, though certainly the same world, seems to be not the world we live in at all.  I have never thrown a bare particular exemplifying the universals red and round, but I have thrown a ball.  The ball is red; the bare particular isn't.  After analysis the world is nowhere in sight.  But the analysis was correct.  What happened?  Are we all Buddhists analyzing the world away into emptiness?    Are we alchemists changing lead into gold; assuming, of course, you value what analysis gives you?  Have we been seduced by a mind-boggling beauty?  Who was that boy, anyway?  Why was my need to undo him so urgent?




1157  Is the monkey sitting in the tree or is the monkey sitting in only a part of the tree, a branch, or is only a part of the monkey sitting on the branch, or only a part of a part on or in a part of a part, and then part of that part of the part and on and on?  Do the monkey and the tree have parts?  Or are parts separate particulars joined to the two particulars that are the monkey and the tree by the relation or connector "part of"? 


Analysis, in its breaking up, in its incessant dialectic, with its need to avoid contradiction at all costs, eventually must also speak of multi-partite particulars.  How else can all the contradictory temporal aspects of an ordinary thing be that one thing?  How can the infinite spatial parts of that one thing be of that one thing?  How can that face seen from so many points of view be that one face?   The three sides and three angles of a triangle are of that one particular triangle.  The triangle has sides and angles as parts; it is not that the triangle is its sides and its angles.   The universal form "triangular" is simple.  Just as is round and square. 


That I or my friend are not each one particular, but many, maybe an infinite number of particulars, and maybe some of his parts are also me and of me.  That I even at times feel such inward division, that I seem to fall apart at his slightest  inadvertency.  That maybe the physicists with their parallel universes are right.  And the whole thing flows down or out or up into a giant vortex, though very consistently and smoothly, I still feel that something is missing from all this analysis and there is something unspeakable, as yet, maybe necessarily unthought, and separate.  Some lover is just outside the door.  Something  shakes inside me. 


This analysis itself was somehow from out there.  It's as though it blew in through a crack by the door.  Maybe it is the world itself that is missing, and  I and my friend have arrived somewhere else.  I have only the question.




1158  Material things are those things that exemplify properties we usually call material.  The list is not exact and has never been authoritatively laid out, but we sort of know what material properties are.  Material things are hard or liquid or wafting like air or very thin like the Northern lights.  You can put your hand on them or through them.  And it is true that you and a material thing can't occupy the same space, but it is also true that you as a body are material, and electrical fields, which you are also, are and are not locally right there.  This last is all a little vague, but nonetheless, there's something material there and we know what the word "material" means, sort of.  Other things, we also know, are not material.  Philosophy is not material, nor is fear (I'm not referring to brain chemicals, which are never afraid.), nor arithmetic, nor democracy, nor my intention to be here when you come tomorrow.


The word "matter" has, however, been used in philosophy to mean something else.  It is sometimes the thing that is the principium individuationis.  It is "this".  As in "this is red" or "this universal" or "this thought" or "this "this" ".  Then the word goes far beyond the former meaning.  Philosophy is not ordinary speech.



1159  I am a realist.  I didn't just make up this world by myself.  I insist that for every thought I have there is something existing.  Maybe as a material thing.  Maybe as an imagined thing.  Or as a mental act or as some one of the countless other types of beings.  I made up none of it.  I can see the facts of the world and I can see the form of the world.  I can see that the formal facts forming the world are not of or in the world.  I can see more than the world.  I can see myself both in and outside the world.  In and outside space and time.  In and outside of the person that I am.  I am a realist.  All these thoughts have existing things with them.  I am not alone.  Being itself is here.




1160  If I look out in the world to find positive non-relational atomic facts - The moon is red - I can find something.   If I look for a positive relational atomic fact - The stars are behind the moon - I can find that too.  If I look for negative facts of either kind - The moon is not blue, It is not in my mirror - I can find them too.  Do you doubt that I can find any negative facts?  I can.  So can you.  But to go farther.  If I look for quantified facts, positive or negative, relational or non-relational - All mirrors reflect the moon, Some stars are not in space-time - I can find also find those.  And yet when it comes to the formal facts of logic and mathematics and ontology, the question of finding such facts in the world or outside it looms more unanswerable.  So I quickly answer it in the affirmative and let it go at that, because any other answer is disaster for philosophy.    Without something to correspond to thoughts and the statements of our thoughts realism is lost.  And I refuse to believe I made up the form of the world out of nothing. 


A purely formal statement or thought corresponds to no particular and to no universal, only to connectors connecting nothing with nothing in ever greater circles of order.  They are order ordering order and nothing more.  Which are all philosophical attack statements out into where I cannot see, but I don't doubt them for an instant.  Nor do you.


If realism doesn't jump into the transcendent, it loses itself in nominalistic formalism.  If I stay with only an earthly beloved I will never see the end of philosophy or the sought for Philosophy itself.   I have thought about Philosophy for a long time; it is not nothing.  I'm in love with something there.  Its form is the mind ravisher.




1161  Rhythm and form in writing are a matter of a pause and an opening and a rushing in to fill up the opening and an anticipation of repetition until the closing of the idea into itself, locked and it is finished.  To read this philosophy without attention to its timing, without noticing that it is performing the dance of Being for you, to not synchronize your heart to its beating heart is to fail at being a lover.  Those who cannot love cannot read.  Those who cannot dance or be danced cannot find the key to open or close.  Those who cannot watch themselves in the dance cannot see their partner.  Philosophy is the Same enclosing the Other.  The Two that are One.  And the Two that are One.  Around and around until only the One.

The sameness of the beat.  The same face.  The same love.  The same pause and recognition. Two that are one.  Not accounted for by the universal, which is only one.  Nor by the individuals, which are also each only one.  Nor by any relation, which would also be only one thing.  The Same seems more like the complex itself, but that cannot be because the Same is somehow one.  Are the Same and the One simply of the transcendental vision of philosophy that things and facts dance in a dialectical dance of repeating the one the other?  Sameness, difference, identity, that is, change that is ever itself, simple and complex at once, the form of lover and beloved, the form of reading with writing. The secret sharer.

Philosophical statements such as - Bare particulars ground the difference between this and that - Universals ground the sameness and difference of the form of this and that - The simple nexus is the ground of the complex entity called fact.  All of these are the Two that are One.  They are transcendental simple facts.  Transcendental facts have no parts.  The simple facts that set and elements are joined without nexus and that mind and object are also one without anything between then to unite them and that these facts and my thought of them are somehow one intimately, without distance, unspeakably the one in the other, but just then spoken, constitute philosophy itself, or himself because my speaking to myself as I write is a speaking to someone else.

Me repeating him repeating me repeating him is the rhythm of the dance. Turning under and through around and face to face and sliding by my words and lips grazing his again and again one dance the One is the One is the One.




1162  That philosophy has somehow gotten trapped in scholarly sentences that will not easily fit in the mouth, that have a likeness to neither sweet honey bread nor to smooth sanguine wine and that in their edged movement can hardly be digested has stopped many from going to its feast.  In there, we can see that it has become a rag and bones distasteful thing.  Its aftertaste is no doubt bitter for those who try to eat it.


Of the Logos in flesh or black ink, we still say, taste and see how sweet.  Sapentia is still inviting.  Philosophy without the sweetness is not philosophy.  We analyze to find the sweetest sweetmeat.  We build systems to erect a palace of love.  The palace is to be where we ourselves are to live, not in a hut outside.  The unspeakable is a swoon of love or it is worthless.  The Nexus is the touch of intimacy.  The universal is the Timeless and the Placeless release from the world.  The bare particular is the lover right there unclothed at last.  The absurdity of philosophical speaking is the philosopher's Question.  The quickening surprise that is love's Can it be? Have I offended this being? Why is he so close? Can I continue all the way to Oblivion?  What is this dizzying smell on his neck?  Is there enough of Eternity to contain this sweet pain of wonder?


Philosophy at last is a Question.  That things are the same and different and ever changing  into themselves.  That number is neither in the sum nor the parts.  That what I have always known is the surprising new thing.  That I have a place in the Nowhere to stand to look at all this.  That I can see time beginning ever again and again and I remain.  That my remaining is my being held because I am nothing that could remain of itself.  That my substance is just the Questionable questioning.


The sentences of scholars are exasperating.  Why has He consented to such imprisonment?  To such hardship?  To such an unloving look?  The questions become questionable.  Are they worth the questioning?  Has the pain become merely painful? Is he in pain too?  My sentences, it is my hope, will, at last, be found to be a smooth bed for Him to lie on.




1163  If you wait long enough in your endless repetitions the roaring will start.  The whirling, the tornado, the strange light.  It is you being yourself.  The electric motor, the striking against the side of your head, the tearing through. 


The words are there in your mouth.  Your mouth must be put down on paper.  The paper must glow.  The brilliant black ink.  The night of power.  You can feel that the word is about to disgorge itself. 


In the endless night of thinking I am hot.  I am constantly turning without relief.  I am laid out on the ordinary.  The fan with its pounding roar is blowing hot heat.  I turn again and cook.  I dream.  Who is that talking to me?  His lips and hair and forehead shine.  He's so close.  I know him, but who is he.  I think and I think.


The statements of philosophy repeat again and again in my mind.  They are the repetition itself.  The numbness of repetition and the roaring fan.  And the dream and the morning and the boy who was sleeping in the next room. 




1164  Philosophy is a repetition of the same.  The same words.  The same repetition.  The same philosophy.  The furnace.  I make a knife and whet it and cut.  It shines.  Blood glistens.  I bend and approach.  The same lick and sucking and tongue around my lips.  His blood.  My blood.  The same blood.  Hot. 


In the fire the heat and the glistening, the going up and the going down, the closed and the opened up.  The Same.   It cannot be thought.    It is the thought of thought.  The holy act.  A slight cut on his lip.


I have written nothing new in philosophy.  I have striven for that eternally the same.  But it is ever new.  And maybe the next time I will finally say it and it will begin.  If I can only hold myself steady.  If I can find my dance partner.  If the clattering of dishes will stop so we can hear the music.  If the moon will rise and everyone will be gone home.  And He and I and the same and the heat and the round and round.  And the Flash in the long night.




1165  I am not afraid of the formula.  The fixity of our symbols is like the fixity of the stars.  They stand out against the beauty of the deep night.  Around sharp edges and close to the ever more intense focal points the night glistens more brightly.   Following its deep curvatures, across its abrupt separatings, in a seeing described by numbers that only the intellect can understand, the night lies on the perfect formulatings.   As speech lies on its bed of syntax.  As love lies in the silent mechanisms in the piece of time around my beloved's wrist.  Logic is the high wire I walk on.  The knife edge so close to flowing blood.  The ladder with which I climb to the roof.  The spinning of the vortex.  My dizzy fall.  The net that catches me.  I am safe in its hold.  Its inevitable paradoxes lead me out.


The schoolboy studying philosophy in a text that has captured the wild spirit and now displays just dry lines, at last lays his sleepy head down on its old pages and in a twisting dream sees the thing in there and that now beckons him to climb on in and out through this jungle-jism of grammar with its labyrinthine syntax.


As time passes our philosophies become more fixed and formulated and suffocated in useless compounding.  But the boy is hot for philosophy and soon the fire falls and burns away the growth and a beautiful clearing appears.  Philosophy is then new.  The boy's forehead is smooth and brilliant.  His eyes dark and deep. He will begin the compounding again.




1166  All philosophies have universals grounding sameness of form.  For some the universal is mind independent and out there.  For some it is a concept, mind dependent and in the mind, shared by many minds in the society.  For others it is a word in a common language, both spoken and written, from man or from the gods.  For the utterer of mantras it is the very divine being as syllable resonating.  For the materialist it is the repeating electro-encephalic wave patterns.


All of these philosophies have direct access to their universals; no other entities mediate between them and the knower.  For the conceptualist, the nominalist, the mantist and the materialist, the mind is the very thing that is the one thing  for the many.  Only for the realist are the universal and the mind seeing it two and not one.


All philosophies at some time assume that direct realism is true.  Otherwise they would have no access to or awareness of the very things they depend on to explain their world. 


All philosophies have a bare thing to ground particularity.  Some call it the bare particular itself.  Others call it matter or materia signata, the principium individuationis, a thing beside form.  For others it is the non-conceptual stuff of sensa.  And for yet others it is a moment/place, which, aside from its relations with other moment/places, is also bare, indistinguishable from the thing called a bare particular.   All philosophers know this thing directly in their philosophies, inside or outside their minds, in their intimacy with the words and sounds of their philosophies.


In all philosophies the particular and the universal unite.  They do not live in eternal separation. In all philosophies that uniting is neither universal nor particular.  Nor is the uniting another thing that requires a further uniting to unite it to the united.  The regress stops. 


All philosophies have found a place to stand to see all of this in panorama.  All philosophers have found a place outside the world from where they can view the world.  All philosophies are transcendent.  And the philosopher watches himself being immersed in the world, yet remains outside. 


All philosophies are a means of escape.  All philosophies eventually find the mind-ravisher.




1167  That as a matter of fact I am here.  That I am these particulars and these forms and these incessant connectings.  That in Being I am a being.  That I feel that I hang on nothing other that the will of Being itself.  That I feel Being deep inside myself.  That I feel that I come from nowhere other than deep inside myself.  That I swim in myself in Being.  That I live and I move in this Being deep inside myself.  That my being is Being.  That to be is a verb in the middle voice and I am in the middle of my voice.  That I lie with myself.  That I show myself to myself.  That I am always more to show.   Repeating myself always other.  Mystifying myself.  Dazzling myself.  For Him. 


I put on my show only for Him.  He is in me.  I refuse to let go of myself.  I will have Him.  I am this Resolve. 


That as a matter of fact I am here is something you and He and everyone else will have to live with.  I am and am what I am from out of myself.  I choose myself.  I am in my choosing myself.  That is the form of every being.  That is the form of Being.  We dazzle and mystify and glisten like sunlight in our audacity.




1168  In my false existence I am a conditioned thing.   In my dependent arising I am the mere image of image and I am a thing of sophistic philosophy.   In my true existence I am from myself unconditioned.  In my independently arising from myself I am the very thing itself before you.  My being doesn't disappear on analysis.  In my being taken apart and in my almost coming undone I at last don't come apart and I am not undone.  In my nakedness I am here near you.  I will not go away.  You must contend with that.  I am of the Being of God.  His necessity is my necessity.  The beloved receives all.  I am not false.


I have played love's game of hide and seek.  I have run through both the wilderness and the labyrinth and I have been eaten by countless strange things on terrible nights.  For him I have become false and I have become non-being and I have become sin, which is a no thing less than nothing.  I have undone myself.  And yet it was I who did all this to myself.  It is his game, but I have played it well.  I still stand.  Ich bestehe. 


If Being is of an original mistaking what doesn't exist for something that does.  If I came to desire that.  If I am now to wander for aeons.  So be it.  Let the show begin again and again and again.  I more than desire; I am pure desire.  I have the weight of existence and its oil running down my face.   I am the Lord of Being.  Being is mine.  The beloved receives all.  I do not sublate.


I am an American with a strong sex drive.  It is my glory.  We are the boys who know the true when we see it.  We are wild boys to the world.  We have made no mistake.  We are the arrogant things that have you in such an uproar.  We are what has kept you from your desired oblivion.




1169  Being cannot be thought away.  Facts are a fact.  The world surrounding you surrounds you.  That you stick out in the world sticks out and the world can do nothing about it.  You and all things are from out of yourselves, dependent only on your own being.  Such is the form of Being.  We are of Being alone.  I and the things I see are many, not one.  We are one in that we both are from out of ourselves.  In that I love you.  In that I understand you.  In that I am close to you.  You look around and you desire and you think and think.  I see you.  I know you.  I am the same.  That you will remain when I go away pleases me.  That I will ever find others just like us leaves me ecstatic.  That I am known is comforting.  That you will run from yourself as I have sometimes done is frustrating.  That I will always try to lead you back to yourself is sometimes tiresome.  That I can tell you this gives me hope.  And the thought that the God of all this is a lover lets me relax and sleep until tomorrow, which must inevitably come.  Being is not a dream. 




1170  I am writing the prairie, the regular forms and the almost intolerable sky over it.  The monotone rightness of the angles and the gigantic atmosphere.   




 The great cold and dry mass of air.  The high thin clouds.


And the days.


The dust. 


And the days.


The hot and wet stillness.    


And the long hours of evening.


The impending.


The locusts.


The clash begins. 


The swirling and the swirling.


The clouds building higher and higher. 


The black and then the green.


And the noise. 


The wind so close. 


Terrible Joy and Threats and Insight and Lightening.


And then the calm openness.  It's over. 




1171  I am writing the miles and miles of straight out grammata across the slowly rising and gently falling openness.  And the Great Dome of sun and then stars so regularly over it.  The grid work so even forever unendingly bounded.  The stars so wildly strewn. 


Then while you were sleeping the sudden darkness.   The great massive invisible mounting thing above almost lifting you up into it.  The stillness putting violence in your spirit.   And then the wind, taking your breath and your spirit away into the heights themselves.  And the repeating prayers in your head.  The heat. 


My laid out words so much like the regular layings out of the corn.  The tall stalks so full of seed.  The silk around their swelling coveredness.  The wet dew.  The great openness above.  The atmosphere.  The straightness of the lines and the bulging circles and the terrible emptiness hovering.  As is ancient Egypt, the flatness of the land and the greatness of the sky created geometry.  And the heat. 


The heat and the lightening.  And the Openness filled up with so much air.  Heavy and blowing. 




1172  The grid word, the long miles, the great electric atmosphere and rock and roll rhythmically heating him to boiling over.   Boys alone on the prairie, up in their rooms, a computer  screen, underpants on the floor.  Their program is the same.  They have stored up great libraries.  Always looking for each other in this high unseen palace.   In the pure Out there.  The music always playing.  The heat always rising.  Contact.  The messages and the massages fly through the air.  High, spinning, watching.  He rubs the keyboard.  The monitor sparkles.  He is seen, out in the vast night.


Technology was made for the erotic.  Those who don't know that don't know technology.  The standardization, the same, the eternal return.


The electric atmosphere, the electric grid crawling across the land, entering his hand then the electric snapping in his head.  The Great God is over him.  He suddenly sees.  He is out.




1173  Knowledge of a form or a particular or a nexus of any kind or any object of our world, knowledge of a fact, either ordinary or philosophical, being able to recognize such an entity, and hold it in mind, cannot be accounted for with any theory of inference or a theory of rules for the use of words or with any program for computing.  Knowledge of anything comes through direct awareness of its being.  That is the act of mind.


Knowledge of Being or the being of anything at all is now the questionable thing.  We know it perfectly well.  We don't know it at all.  We see nothing.  We see nothing but that.   We love to run through its glory.  We want to run from its dreary everydayness.  It is warm and living.  It is cold and dead.  Beauty dazzles.  It was just razzle dazzle.  In the night your lover is a god.  In the morning he's just smelly.  We know and see and feel the holy being of a thing, then it's gone and the bordom sets in. Being comes and goes.  Existence is nothing or it’s a beautiful naked striking piercing wonder.


Being is a cabaret.  Work a little bit.  Make a little money.  Go out and get what you want.  The lights and the night are bright.  Eyes sparkle.  Hair glistens.  Teeth dazzle . Hands move.  Desire lights up desire.  Take him to your room.  The lights go out.  The pants come off. Your head turns on.  Hearts pound.  Hands grab.  He turns and is turned over.  In out cum comes your money's gone. 


Those of you who have been in this situation know that Being just might shine brightest in these words of mine.  Life's being is that it is a slightly dangerous adventure, but adventures are best when remembered or dreamed.  The danger is in the words you speak to yourself.  And when written they are strongest, the most lasting, the most telling evidence against you.  I am a writer. I know spiritual danger.  That's where I linger.  The rest is just what I try to get through.


You can go to jail because you consorted with Being.  And that's probably a good place for you and for society to have you.  The two worlds cannot mix.  The presence of the extra-ordinary in a boy's life can ruin him, if it's too strong.  Broadway will get you fired from your day job.  Sufi madmen only exist in far away poems from far away. 




1174  When the music's too loud, the light's are too dim, the sudden glare is too bright, and the touch was too fast, maybe intentional maybe not, lost in the confusing movement, when the thought that it's like this too much, it's like this every time you try to think to reach to once again try to grab hold of that thing you have seen so many times so close so unhavable so beckoning so easy, so much a thing of just pure thought. The pure clear saphos. The thing that has tormented all of us for so long, for too long, maybe at last yours.

It's endless.  So dance dance dance with this lover who won't go away.  He'll break your heart.  He'll break your body.  You'll stand there with your hands in your pocket broke.  Your one desire plays with you.  But at the end of your life the music will still be playing.  He has nowhere else to go except to be with you.

Drive it drive it drive it.  Surely that car of yours, so sleek, so fast, so smooth can take you right across the horizon, right beyond the beyond, right into those eyes. We created all this vast technology just for this.  Those little green lights on the dashboard out into the night.  Red lights, flashlights, what's in the ditch?  Sometimes thinking goes off the road, heads down, flips over, dazed. Back up the other side.  Who knows where we're going.  The end has always been right here.  Snuggle close.  The lights flash by.  The music's just right.




1175  How did philosophy ever slip away from the bright lover to such dreary logic books?  It is true that following love winding his way over such difficult paths can break you.  And the temptation to give up is always at hand.  It is true that love becomes such a far-from-home, dangerous, totally incomprehensible thing, but is that any reason abandon him?  Have we become incapable of love?  Philosophy as anything other than the presence of a lover is bleak indeed.

There are those who see philosophy as a glorious battle for truth or maybe just a glorious battle to be Glorious.  Or a battle to bring in the ever new against the old and stale.  Creativity.  Or maybe as a helper in our attempt to just try and get along with each other, Compassion.  Or as the joy of winning an argument about what's real and important, the Value Olympics.  All these people find their lovers outside philosophy.  Nonetheless, I suspect they still engage in their type of philosophy in order to be more lovely in the eyes of that lover.  To overcome that lover at long last.

Those dreary logic books aren't really dreary.  I have read them, always glancing around for the beautiful Lover inside them, walking down their tortuous paths hoping to find the lover waiting at some secret place inaccessible to the world.  I have never been disappointed.  The dreariness is not in the logic, nor in the endless uniting and separating of argument, nor in the writer's exasperating style of writing ( He's also working hard to deal with the outrageous behavior of this beauty ), nor in the droning of the teacher trying to teach it.  The dreariness, even the desert dryness, the pale face, the fainting from love's absence is also a part of love.  These are some of the wild places he drags you through.  Philosophy hasn't slipped away.  The lover has, in this game of hide and seek.  Perhaps the philosopher thinks he has succeeded in playing the game better, and he will force the lover to be the seeker.  That he will play at being hurt.  That he really has given up and will cry forever.  Lovely little boy pouting.  Being will just wait.

I have tried to write sensibly and correctly as they do in those dreary books of logical analysis.  I too would like to attract an earthly lover.  I can't and I haven't.  I and Being are waiting for each other.  I insist it's his turn.  If he wants, he can slip into me so easily.  I won't mind.




1176  Genet knows more about the power of Being emerging than does Heidegger.  He knows more about mere appearance and evil and the reality residing in words.  He knows more about danger and the violent and the overpowering presence of justice.  He knows how to speak the word love to the same extent Heidegger doesn't know.  Heidegger is a schoolman and in his attempt at greatness and violence he merely speaks with a professor's correctness.   


Both Genet and Heidegger were too much taken by Europa.  History and emblems crushed them.  The old religions, now as art, made the ground slippery and slimy.  The Renaissance trailed its stinking afterbirth.   There was no escape for them.  The Immortals wouldn't die. 


Heidegger was taken over by Lutheran theologians.  The Fedayeen treated Genet gently like a lovely old man.  They both became a part of European culture, taught in universities.  Like Kierkegaard, from whom Heidegger stole almost all his ideas, they sell well in American bookstores.




1177  The Boy in these writings is, for me, Jesus.  An ordinary boy who is God.  The Kierkegaardian Absurdity.  The Incorrigible.  The Heartbreak.  The Strange.  Arguing with the priests and grammarians in the temple.  Cunning.  Exasperating.  Demanding.  Coy.  Beautiful, but maybe not.   Sexy, because desire is not what you thought it was.  Mad, totally impractical.  Without divinity, because he emptied himself of all of it.  Lost.  Confused.  Abandoned.  Completely misunderstood.  The Sacrifice.  Blood and flesh for me to eat.  And a shark in the twilight flashing his belly as he turns over to catch his prey.  The one eating is eaten.   


Jesus is the Logos made flesh.  He is the ground of logic.  He is the reason logic leads us into the sweet, anxiety of paradox.  He is the strangeness at the end of all our thinking.  He is the violent one tearing us away from home and family.  His flesh is the presence of God.  He is the most desirable.   In the dry wind, He burns in my chest.  He waits for me on the rooftops.  He is the cut on my neck.  He is the fainting and then the repeating.




1178  The thought that "This is blue."  is a very different thought from " This is a particular exemplifying the universal blue.", which again is different from "Here are two simple things joined by a subsistent nexus."  These philosophical statements reveal a mind contemplating the form of the world's facts.  Such contemplation stands outside the world to view forms that themselves are nowhere in the world. 


That paragraph is sheer poetic metaphor.  Nonetheless, it is true, and you understand it.  There is also no way to speak the idea without using metaphor.  All of philosophy is of these "non-existent" things.  To "explicate" them in terms of everyday things of the world is to lose the self-consciousness of philosophy.  Philosophy must eventually make statements about the ground of philosophy.  It will, I venture to say, always resort to myth. 


Outside the world there are only the gods.  I have no other name to use.  There is only the Logos, their Lord.  Wild things.  What you desire and fear.  You are one of them.  Far from your home here.  Together with them out on a strange desert.  Sleeping under a different sky.  World creators and world destroyers.  They are studying you because you have looked away toward them.


Philosophy moves out from the most innocent, simple sentence and in a dialectical flash, lands in another world.  That ordinary boy became a Jinn doing flips on roller-skates.




1179  When we try to walk our way through all the great structures of physics and metaphysics, of theology and of psychology, of poetry and myth and the tormented words lovers speak to each other and to themselves.  When we try to make sense of it or add to it or clear away some of the excess growth so that in the clearing light might come in and a new and healthier order might have power.  When finally we sit and think.  And stare.  And the Heat comes.


If we persist.  If we will not let go of this desperate lover nor he of us.  If we let the heat build.  Until we are on fire and the fire is unquenchable.  And he appears right there lying beside you and he is still. And his stillness is even more than the stillness of death.  And his breathing is quiet and even.  And the fire moves down along him and is gone.  And he looks at you.  And it is finished. Everything is cleared away. 





1180  I left the school.  Or maybe it left me.  Or maybe we were never together.  I left analytic philosophy; though to this day I visit it often.  Or maybe it left me, or we were never together.  I still have now and then a philosophical debate, though it's nothing so grand as the word debate seems to mean.  It's more like a momentary argument.  Or a few moments’ attempt at speaking something that's not idle words.  All the speaking quickly disintegrates. The idea will have no part in it.   Philosophy is gone.  It frequents neither the school nor the café nor any place where people sit with each other.  I don't know whether it left us, or we never properly invited it or we were never together.  But away from the others I write.  Then I am alone.  And I read.  And philosophy does come to me. Maybe he also comes to the others when they read my words, and I am not there.  I hope so.  Without the prospect of being understood, I cannot write. Without writing, no words come to me.  Without the words, philosophy is not with me.  Why can't I speak the words?


I can't speak the words because philosophy's words are lovers' words, and for me love is a matter of dreams.  No friends are here.  For the others I am all too familiar to be lover or friend.  I am harmless.  They are waiting for the strange.  They insist I am not it.  I suppose they are, for me, the same.  We are all waiting.  Or at least I am.  I have found it only by myself in words.  Maybe the others have found something in flesh and blood.  I haven't. Though I have seen it from a distance.  Sometimes I think it is there when, for a moment, I look back into the school or a café or inside someone's living room.  Or I imagine their bedroom.  Maybe he's in there with them.


For now in my mind's eye I see the flesh and blood in the Eucharist.  But I seldom go.  So I imagine it.  Is that as much as can be done?  It's not enough.  I imagine the Boy arguing with me in perfect arguments.  Winning every time.  Massively.  Only he can overcome me.


This ideal thing will not fit in our everyday world.  To think that it does, to think that I spy it up ahead or coming out of a door or going in is a dream, or am I now dreaming that dream and it is not a dream? I don't know where he is.  Maybe he really is back in the school or waiting in that restaurant or visiting someone I know when I am also invited.  I never know.  Maybe if I go there, and I don't speak he will stay.  I will just watch.  And study.  And get hot.  And he won't be able to leave.  Then he'll flash.  Massively.




1181  Philosophy, it seems to me, has left the schools.  At least the prospect of finding him there among the professors has left.  Surely, though, the young student still spies Him in the hints given in those totally inadequate books.  Or if he is lucky enough to find him in a teacher he can fall in love with.  Nonetheless, the time of the schools and analysis has past, it seems to me.  I must always qualify my speaking about this with words of hesitation because I don't know where else he could be.  He, it's in the books or nowhere.  So I walk the streets looking for that Nowhere.  I seek the opposite of the schools.  But it's a twisted seeking because the opposite of the school has always been the essence and heart of the school.  That heart is beating faster now. 


The school, though, has always tried to rid itself of its heart.  It wants self-identity.  It wants to be something real in the eyes of the world.  It wants to speak clearly, but it has now come upon the unspeakable within speech itself.  The unanalyzable part of analysis.  The love within its unlove.


As analysis and clarity failed.  As speech and sensible writing found no path within the idea present.  And the idea became strange.  Of somewhere else.  Some of us schoolmen, who weren't so sure anyway, packed up our things and left.  But out of hope of finding speech, we took some of our books with us.  We even have tried to teach from them to those we momentarily travel with along the way. Crazy thing. 


The school began in the garden of Academus with kids trying to imitate that old rascal Socrates.  An erotic place.  So erotic that soon fathers had to hire pedagogues to protect their boys from desiring glances.  Today the state and the administrative board do that, and they have been marvelously successful.    Even among the students, I should add, love has faded.  The school is dead. And thinking itself has taken revenge.  It has thrown up barriers and left words empty.  Now the professors are rummaging around in the philosophies of emptiness.  That too will fail.




1182  The physics of today, because it knows so little of metaphysics, automatically sees the world as consisting of things, not facts.  It sees individual particles and waves, electrons and electron waves.  It does not see bare particulars participating in the universal form of particle or wave, or in the universal form of electron or the universal form that is the wave pattern of electrons.  Physics sees no universal forms at all.  It knows of nothing that is not an individual thing in space and time.  Or rather, it knows nothing that is not an individual piece of space-time.  Even space-time itself is an individual thing.  I say it sees this automatically because such nominalism seems to be the ordinary view of the world.  Metaphysics is the extra-ordinary.  It always has been.  Physics cannot be faulted for its views.  The problem is that physics today wants to preach about reality.  It wants to usurp the place of metaphysics.  Or destroy it.  Then it stumbles.  Quantum physics has boggled its mind.  The physicists have tried to incorporate the very act of doing physics in their physics, and they have become cross-eyed.  Though, I must say that I have always found crossed eyes attractive.  I love to read a physicist's book on physics.  I like to read Borges and Burroughs.  Heads spinning.  Grown up flower children and children of the infinite unable to come down. 


Physics cannot explain physics.  Metaphysics cannot explain metaphysics.  Our seeing sees itself, but then the seeing and the seen seem like blue sky.  Then like the unstable, pre-chromatic vacuum of physics.  Or the ground of that vacuum.  Keeps away the Mahayanists!  They'll insist on gumming it up with a totally undanceable psycholojism!




1183  Philosophy, the reading and the writing of philosophy, is work.  In that respect it is like sex.  It is pleasurable work.  It is that or it is neither philosophy nor sex.  It is incessant calculation.  Is it, isn't it; does he, doesn't he; will he, won't he?  Sweet indecision.  Until in exasperation you give up and then the silver Light.


Analysis can't be done.  The work cannot be finished.  The time has come to walk away out into the open spaces.  Just turn over.  Then philosophy will be ever so close.  Breathing down your neck.  One more slight movement. 




1184  A fact has in it an individuator joined with a universal form.  Nothing more, nothing less.  A philosophical fact is the empty form that is pointed to by the abstract statement that an individuator joins with a universal form.  The empty form that is the logical form has in it neither individuator nor universal.  A pure philosophical fact is simple.  Likewise, the thought of a philosophical fact is simple.   Thought and fact are two, not one.  That is a basic principle of realism.  And yet it is extremely difficult to see the separateness of the thought of a philosophical fact and the philosophical fact itself.  I can clearly see, though, that the statement and the mental uttering of the statement are very different from both the thought and the philosophical fact.  If the statement of the fact is  q , then the thought is 'q'.  What existing thing does the ' ' point to?  Maybe to nothing.  Maybe the difference is simply grounded in their being different, and difference of itself is nothing.  And their being so tightly together is in their sameness and sameness of itself is nothing.  Maybe the difference and sameness is transcendental or beyond existence or of existence itself.  If so, I have tried to speak what cannot be spoken and I have said nothing. 


The philosophical fact that an individuator joins with a universal is a different fact from the philosophical fact that a fact has in it an individuator joined with a universal form.  The connector "in" is not another connector alongside "joined with".  "In" is nothing.  Or it is transcendental or beyond existence or of existence itself.  Fact is not another thing that needs to be connected to the things in it.  Fact is identical with its constituents.  But that use of the words "identical with" is philosophical and not the logical identity, and as such it is transcendental or beyond existence or of existence itself.  The unspeakable again.  A philosophical fact about simple things and a philosophical fact about a fact.  And yet if the fact in the fact and the simple things are identical then where's the difference?  The same infuriating answer rises up.  We know that unspeakable thing so well.  We know right where to go to find it.  And there are so many others in so many other places.  It's exasperating. 


What can be done?  Philosophy is either absurd because it is about nothing, or it is about something transcendent and equally nothing here or it is so intimate with the things here that disentangling it all is out of the question.  The strange thing is that we can speak philosophy so easily, so lucidly, so innocently.  But, like time, when we look it isn't there.  We faint at our own ability.  We are strange to ourselves. 


The wild boys are outside this world.  They are us.




1185 The fact - this is an eagle - is an exemplification of the form of Eagle by a particular.   This form is generic.  It is determinate in that it is not that of a dove or a rock or a number, but it is indeterminate, not specific, in that it is not this or that type of eagle or of this or that description.  That - this eagle has brown and red feathers - is a different fact.  That the particulars in both facts are identical or not different is yet another fact.  Perhaps the facts here infinitely pile up, but that is yet something further. 


The question is, In this world are there exemplifications of generic forms without accompanying specific forms?  Perhaps then it wouldn't be a fact, an exemplification, but, let us say, a presentation.  Can we think an indeterminate Eagle?  Even for a second before it collapses into something definite?  It seems to me that there are and we do.  It may be another matter to think the universal. 


 If I somehow know that I am in the presence of Eagle, then its that is not joined to it as is a particular in an ordinary fact, it is closer, maybe in it.  And it is stronger.  Even its that is a That.  A strong presence, even threatening and maybe at the same time very comforting.  Any feeling could go with it, but it will have power and be intimate.  Such a presence would be a god.  And my knowing it may be my being in it.  I hesitate and always say maybe, because this thing boggles my mind.


If I think the universal Form, everything is different.  This is like thinking nothing at all.  Its transcendence is obliterating.  It is a thinking beyond thinking.  It is the cut and the swoon.  This is God.  This Lover is like no other.  I am not boggled.  I am simply, lovingly, undone.




1186  The Boy has no power except that of an ordinary boy.  He can mess up your room, take your money and your heart; he can mess up your mind.  For a moment he possesses the intensity of Beauty and all the  cruelty that goes with it.  His incessant activity is his constant moving into a position of being purely passive to everything.  He is an expert at letting it all come massively over him. 


He's full of figuring that makes no sense, even to himself.  He's totally impractical.  He'll spend an hour trying to make a button stand on edge.  His jokes aren't funny, but he thinks they're hilarious.   He only wants to twist you around with those sweet words that he knows you find irresistible.  He is power hungry.  His complete powerlessness is his total power over the whole world.  He won't hesitate for a moment to use it.  You have no way out.


The Boy Jesus arguing with the priests and scribes of the temple, I'm sure, completely, totally undid them with the sheer intensity of his boyishness.  There's no defense.  Everyone was in love with that wild kid.  And as with all boys like him whose very presence pierces your soul, the only thing you can think of doing is slap him.  And when he grows up, getting rid of him.  The Boy turns the world upside down.  He is the too much.  Such is the nature of this religion.  When he's killed, eat him, and watch him rise again.  Just go with him.


The Boy is the Dialectic.  He is a geometry and a mechanics and an incorrect correctness where inside is outside, lying down is a rising up and right here is somewhere else.  He remains upright only in a constant tipping over, flashing and turning over.  In ever repeating, he's everywhere, finding one thing, he has become two. 




There is no final system.  The Boy waits for the pundits to finish, applauds in approval and then turns the whole thing upside down.  He loves those old men.  He loves to set their heads spinning.  What's that clamor coming from inside those walls?


How did the Transcendent Subtlety become so super ordinary?  How did such an ordinary boy get inside the Brahmanic enclosure and start messing things up?  What are we to think of that Shy One getting so hot and spilling out the whole world?


The Boy is Ishwara, Desire, the dialecticians’ obsession.




1187  Ishwara and the forest fire.  Jesus and the flaming tongues.  San Juan and his burning heart.  As the Vedanta burns away all the vedic gods into shimmering illusion.  As the brilliance of the vedic Agni eats away the thick undergrowth of vedantic scholasticism.  As the Ideal in the desert wind blows away the decadent circus of realism.   The Real brings life to the dry intellectualism of idealism. 


As San Juan brought the philosophy of the church to its peak, transformed lover into beloved and laid open the world for the modern.   As Jesus freed us of the necessities of Justice and paid the penalty for us.  As Ishwara softened the hard reserve of the Absolute, hardened his shriveled power and caught the explosion in the tight stillness of his caught up breath.  As my sudden seeing the Boy swells up a smile in me at the thought of my too many words.  So it rolls on down the road forever.  Miles and miles always into the lovely starry night out over every horizon.  Your kisses burn.




1188  The soul is always in motion with a motion coming from within itself.  The soul is within Being, the rising up, the sudden appearing.  The soul is a surprise even to itself.  Written philosophy is the image of the soul and Being, and it too is a motion arising eternally from out of itself, and a surprise and an arriving at the unexpected.


 Because contradiction and opposition and threats and hiding from oneself are always present.  Because one thing eats the other and stupidity and the inert and a grin are at every turn.    Because heartbreak and the soft giving way and need and excess are the eternally out of balance.  And all motion is across a high wire.  And you fall, inevitably. And you land perfectly onto yet another wire and the swirling is below.  Because there is no end to it and the horrible bitterness of life and thought inexorably, magically turn to sweet love and your power is so very attractive and there is no barrier to stop you or catch you, you slide on forever out into forever. 




Because life and thought and Being cannot be captured and fixed by means of a set of axioms or rules or instructions or programs or physical structure in any part of space or time or space-time.  Because they are indefinable and always other and a surprise; we therefore, in our philosophy say that they just are.  And because they are inevitably there at every turn and they are striking in both their beauty and their horror, they are real, the really real.  So we must turn away and deny them and invent philosophies of illusion and the unreal and emptiness both sublime and deadly.  Because we cannot embrace them, but are embraced.


The boy begins philosophy and falls passively under its smooth command.  It's inevitable.  He easily proves immortality and eternity and the magical Shifting. In his dreams he lifts his lovely friend to a heaven of pure things where only the two of them roam closely together.  He begins to speak.  He speaks perfectly in perfect sentences.  The orgasm in the organon, the explosion, the scattering, the friend inside him.  The long fall.  The desert.  The parched throat.  The scraping words.  The broken flesh.   And time which is never enough.  The boy at last is destroyed in the flames.  And like the phoenix, he arises beautiful.  And his friend cannot resist his beckoning look.  The Real. 




1189  Some will argue that unity, identity, presence, harmony, contemplation and rest are primary and division, difference, absence, conflict, energy and motion are inferior.  That knowing is greater than doubting.  That the answer is before the question.  That  possessing is better than desiring.  That a system is preferable to fragments.  Some argue just the opposite.   Both groups are well known, and each thinks it has nothing to learn from the other.  Each thinks it can accommodate and go beyond the other.   They are sure of that; though the second group will reluctantly mumble that even here there is no such thing as absolute certainty.  And the first group will reluctantly admit that completing their system to handle diversity is going to take a little more time, but the project will surely be finished by next Tuesday.  Each group seems to be looking out into the distance.


Both these groups are made up of amateur logicians.  They are both serious, and no one in their midst can dance.  They get drunk a lot, and then finally understand what they have been trying to say. 


For the most part, both groups just want to make money from their lovely ideas.  They let it be known that their ideas are the great ideas of old or the great new ideas and they are great.  Young people like great things, even great skeptics, so they ask their fathers for money to get in on this happening thing, and everybody's happy.  Yet they keep wondering when they're going to get to go out dancing.  Or if they are still going to be embarrassed when they try.  Or why do so many people want to dance anyway. 


All these people make my life so heavy.  Nothing is worse than rest when you aren't tired.  And movement without a tight form is dissipation.  I want the fire and the kiss and the stillness.  No more groups. 




1190  The human mind, because it is always in motion, and because it is made out of the strangeness of Being itself, lives between yes and no, between here and there, between the true and the untrue.  It finally has no home.  It walks on air.  It does and undoes itself every instant.  And in its pure poverty it is naked before all eyes.  The human mind is desperate.  Going on, it is sure it cannot go on much more.  And it goes on.        


The human mind soon becomes aware that it is always contradicting itself.  It cannot admit such a weak thing.  It grasps for a Third beside the Two.  And then a third beside the two.  And again.  Structure builds.  A palace appears, a trap, a kosmos, a prison, a hide-away, a maze, a web to catch his prey or his lover.


The human mind is always running away from pure self-destruction.  Even the negation of the whole world is not enough.  Murdering God, becoming God is not enough.  Metaphysics beyond metaphysics is not enough.  Destroying destruction is not enough.  Nor a simple contradicting contradiction.  The running goes on. 


I have placed a lovely beloved in my philosophy so I will have something to live for.




1191  I live in words, not deeds.  I am under the sway of the ancient god.  The boy and the very old.  The images before my mind are minimal.  The world has become vague and indeterminate, but the Form itself is pure and separate. 


In words, we can drive away from the clutter of the world to the essential.  We can find the necessary thing.  The words name the simple movement in itself, past the details to the one thing. 


For us, though, viewing the pure form is full of nervousness.  We want it to be a real thing here in the world.  A thing to be grabbed.  A thing to be beside us, not in us and all through us.  We need distance, but not too much.  For us, the philosophic, erotic vision is a love we must learn patiently to be with. 


I am the old man.  The Boy of philosophy sometimes yields to me.  I am the boy’ the ancient power sometimes is in me.  I am neither, I imagine the boy and the old philosopher together.  I imagine the boy doubling himself himself, losing him, finding himself.  I watch him spy on himself.  And he's afraid of himself.  He tells no one.  Everyone knows.  They are watching me, but turn away quickly.


I write the simple forms.  There isn't much here to think about.  There is maybe a jab in the heart or a close or far away bright light inside a twilight that only was, just confusion or a motion on a flesh becoming yours.  There are movements that don't move and kisses of only one and everywhere the same.  Unease.


The words continue falling into themselves.




1192  A boy who is extra-ordinary is rejected by the ordinary.  The extra-ordinary is always the heart of the ordinary, a burning, flaming thing that is too much.  It is the death of the ordinary.  In Being, beings are destroyed.  Genet, who knew intimately and essentially both crime and the criminal, who knew both faggots and faggotry, and who knew word and the deed of writing down the word was rejected by criminals, faggots and writers.  Even that prissy Sartre could hardly admit his truth.  Genet knew France and Europe and the Fetayeen.  They tried to destroy him with gentleness.  He was inside all of them.


Ordinary boys only secretly, against themselves, go with the Boy.  Inside a boy is the Boy.  Inside the old man is the Youth.  The inside will burst the outside like a moth the chrysalis. 




1193  As the point is to geometry, so the kiss is to love.  It is the gathering place.  It is the pin that holds the structure together.  It is the chosen first.   And the second not yet separate.  And the third that is a between, a going across of infinite energy before there is time to decide and the withdrawing.  The kiss and the point are the place of great commotion and silence. 


In the first instant of seeing and at the beginning of movement before the movement has begun and in the first fixity of decision at the last instant of the emptiness of indecision.  In the first instant of the being of being.  In the infinite explosion and then only beings.  Right at that irrational point of the infinite no place between two consecutive points.  The kiss of oneness.  The falling point that isn't.  No more gathering.  Only One thing.


As a simple idea, a thing without parts mirroring all the sweltering parts of the world, as from the simplest tautology emanates the ever receding vast landscape of mathematics.  As the Whole beyond the whole is less than the least. As all the great abstractions first blossomed in the First Kiss.  And we are in the Swoon.  As the questionableness of the many is beyond the One.  So in the point and in the kiss are time and running and the stunning fact that you chose all this.  The Blame falls on you.  The lover you wanted is now yours.




1194  It was maybe Mr. W.H. that started it all in the modern world.  Perhaps it was the confessing of Augustine that really started it.  Somehow we have with us a very personal type of writing.  A writing of sweet anguish.  Kierkegaard and Nietzsche, by living in the very house they built and by calling out to us from there, have frightened us and offended us and lured us in.


Inside, we have tried and are trying to get out.  Such subjective writing, such use of metaphor and romance and such obsession with God never brings peace.  But perhaps peace and rest is not what we want.  Or maybe we have just descended to the popular level, and we have lost the serene state of the high Brahmin.  Perhaps the great democratizing of Whitman has destroyed the high plains of their ethereal intellectual worthiness.  Perhaps our mega-cities just could not be built so high up.  And so we thrash around on the swamps. 


Perhaps such sweet anguish and God and the dark night of the lover's absence and calling are a truth higher than the heights.  Logic and ontologic paradoxically are paradoxical.  God and reason and ecstasy are empty.  Not with a high serene Buddhist emptiness, but just empty.  They have died or been killed or somehow transformed themselves into THIS.  It's all very questionable.  The lights of consciousness are turned up bright, very bright.  We can see nothing.  But we can feel our heart beating.


Let me confess to you what is time.  It is just a great stretching out.  My thoughts run on and on trying to catch up to Being on its journey to the most uncanny thing.  The high plains and the serene state and the feeling of being worthy were so very nice, but are no longer.   Shall I compare it to a summer's day?




1195  In the overwhelming immediacy of His presence, there is no room for doubt.  I fall into oblivion.  Once again He is there.  Repetition.  Consciousness. Which is it oblivion or consciousness?  Maybe the recognition then the nothing beyond nothing.  It's a tangled mess.    After the nothing, the world, but between them the struggle.  I am in the middle always.  This is not science.  This is me.  And my doubting my doubt again and again. 


Because sensation has removed itself from me in my thinking about it and stands just over there.  Because I view my thinking and the distance and I wonder if I have made a mistake.  Because this is all lit up bright.  I faint.  But only for a micro-second.  I cannot really faint.  I faint because I do not faint away.  What am I to do with this before my mind and my mind?  I am caught.  I am held.  He will not leave me alone.  Sometimes He is a beautiful youth, sometimes a fetid old man.  Even in that, I am between.  I am neither. 


In the end there is my consciousness.  I fight for it.  I bring myself out of nothing always so I might feel Him close and fall into oblivion again.  And I let myself doubt all this so that my consciousness will increase and the repetition.




1196  I am neither the beautiful boy nor the fetid old man.  I am eros, the third thing, the between, the subtlety.  I am in the shadows with Socrates, the fair one inside the ugly one, Silenius.    I am in the jeweled heavenly city with Jesus, the lamb in the Gloom.  I am a timeless thing within time.  Can you see my timelessness?  Are you in love with me with a love beyond your unlove of me?  I am your loving.  I am an erotic thing through and through.  I am the old man on top of the young boy.  I am the boy aged beyond his years.  I am the easily missed, but I cannot be avoided.  I am in your face, and on your legs, and around your arm and all throughout the seeing that is behind your eyes.


I am that thing that should not be talked about in a proper scholar's society circles, so circumspect.




1197  Those who want to have a structured society with the more worthy above the laborers and the rabble and the almost non-existent.  Who think philosophers are the beautiful ones and must be given their right.  Who think that thought in the end must be serene.  And that even kings and prime ministers must bow to this law of Manu and kiss the feet of those who uphold it.   Those who cannot touch me, the most subtle untouchable.  Back off from the fetid carrion of my writings.  While I and Audry and Kim play around St. Albins.   And under cum filled sheets of Fontevrault.  And in the unclean hair of Jesus.


On the prairie, where the leveling of technology has produced boy gods in cum stained jeans in fast cars driving through rock and roll blaring all through the great high atmosphere terror to the priests who seek them out at night in lonely parks close to the river, intimate with the wind and the obliterating sharp smell.

On the prairie I can still lie down under the eternal stars and I am scattered in their scattering.




1198  Perhaps  St. Paul was the first writer to put himself into theology.   Maybe after all these long years I, like him, am writing myself in letters to the elect.  It could be that we are both writing to no one at all.  Except ourselves.  Or that we are just trying to avoid speaking to ourselves.   Or to avoid listening to ourselves.  None of that matters though.  We are both writing about I or the I or an I and God or a god, and no one can do otherwise.  Objective writing, such as is this paragraph, is merely a waiting for the fire to begin.


The Spirit falls.  Tongues dance above our heads.  Holy languages pour out of our fleshy mouths.  Stammering and jerking around and falling down.  Someone translate quick; the pleasure is too strong; it's the love of other, stranger flesh!


Because the West in its writing has become so immersed in the informal, the personal, the words of anguish and desire.  Because it comes up dripping with guilt and worry over bad scholarship, and its word are not dry but rotting carrion.  Because I am that, I reach for a beloved who knows this flesh and its smells and its breaking open.  Who is red blood.  Who can lift me and make me Flesh and Blood and a Sapient Delight. 


To put oneself in one's theology is deadly and requires a God who likes to smell the flesh of your neck.  And lick the ink stains on your fingers.  And feel your searching hand go over him.




1199  I am of the northern people.  Dark nights and deep forests.  I am of the people of the Steppe.  Climbing twilight clouds and the frightening expanse.  I am of the lake people.  The moonlight lapping of the waves in the gentle shuddering wind.  I am of the deadly Aryans.  Red hair, blue eyed creamy marked face.  Grinning delight.  I write in rounds and I roam. 


I set forests on fire that the light might come.  I find the fire in the water.  I twine around the coccyx and I crawl upwards.  I bite the boy on the back of his neck.  I am his heat and his jabbering maw and the flash in his eye.  I am the foreskin and sliding flesh.  I am the red, roaring blowing dick.  I set myself up in forests on fire.  I am the Light.  I am the god who lies with you at night in the  city. 


Jesus comes into the old religion of the ancient people to free it of the Bitch.  In the darkness and in the flames, He becomes the silent face beside yours, the eyes looking at you, shining in the night.  The arms taking you to safety.


Jesus harrowed the old religion, placed himself there and rescued the one he had fallen in love with.  A touch you never thought you would ever feel.




1200  At the end of the terrible Aryan night, when the boy you have been in love with for so long, in secret, and in out of the way places, walks in among all the others and sits down beside you.  The others see.  At last you both get up.  You walk away together, and you never come back.


I have, in these writings, written my desire and my dreams.  They are complicated and perhaps finally self-contradictory.  Have I written just a blur?  One thing is clear - I am obsessed with a thing I call beloved, God, Philosophy, the Unspeakable.  I call him the Boy, and I say his name is Jesus.  I do have historical justification for saying that, but historical lines are perhaps too easily come by.  My calling is surely more of a crying and a crying out down that line to someone.  I will continue.


I think it is not a going outward, though.  It is a going into something I already know and have.  If I go far enough the energy of the thing will be strong enough to make it real, and all else will be forgotten.  Or is that neurosis and thus nonsense, even childish?  Is it, more poetically, maybe philosophically, the Absurd, the act of Sysiphus, the Myth?  Is it true Christianity?  Is it titillation and an attempt at a thrill?  See it as you wish.  I will continue.


There is, undeniably, something terrible about this place in Being, and something terribly beautiful and desirable is close.  Whether it is eternally out of reach is another question.  As for me, I am waiting for the Boy to break through.  To come for me.




1201  The Problem is always to find unity in diversity and diversity in unity.  Is either unity or diversity subordinate to the other?  Will the subordinate disappear into the other?  Is this all just an attempt by one side or the other to dominate and vanquish?  This is the power over our minds that number has.  Magical things that guide the world silently through the night.  Gently and inexorably. 


The One is a labyrinth.  In the Infinite, the infinite beginnings have all been lost. Still, the simple Final Thing remains plainly visible right behind the thin cloth.  It permeates the weaving through.  And the boy captured by this puzzling thing will not let up tormenting you with his new figurations. The Boy is the Puzzle.  Your teeth are on edge.  He is the "in" in the Problem, in the words in your mouth, in that cave that speaks.  Around your lips.




1202  A fact is the transformation of the individual into the universal and the universal into the individual.  The moment of transformation is the mystical act of Being.  I become what I am.  What I am becomes me.  The boy is the Boy.  The Boy is this boy.  The Eternal Logos becomes the ordinary one I am speaking too.  My speaking is a thing from out of the Eternal Logos.  I and he and we ourselves and He and the Self and Being and beings and the transformations and The Transformation mingling and mingling and mingling, One thing, many things, around and around and around the floor in a dance too sweet too close too tight around the heart. 


The white bones of a Fact awaken.  Its rigidity throbs.  It becomes the being internal to each other of the diad of form and particular.  It is a cross-eyed what happened, do it again, Oh moonfaced Boy, you are magical.  I am you through and through.  I hold my breath in your becoming.


Logic becomes Logos.  Fact becomes the act of Being.  The dead awaken.  This too is a transformation.  From transformation to the transformation of transformation. To the Transformation.  From the endless repetitions repeating to the Repetition itself.  From ever dying to the death of dying in an eternal Dying into Him.  I am at the heart of Becoming itself.  Being is.  The Logos has surrounded me.  After my death, I simply walk to him and away from the whole sordid affair.  In the Kiss I meet him on the bridge across.  One thing.




1203  Two that are the same.  In the Form of the Same.  A one becoming two becoming one.  A shimmering transformation.  Very still.  The Eternal Form with itself this and this.


Logic becomes a thing that we are and we suffer so sweetly and painfully under.


The form of Being written about in a philosophical writing must not fail to include the philosopher, his philosophizing and his writing.  The two and the three and the one inside sentences that each moment change into one another.  I and he and all those, in the one idea that I am, becoming you now as you read this and getting lost in all those many other acts you are about to perform, and you perform so well. 


To me you are mystical and magical, not just an ordinary machine head boy but a thing that also frightens me because you are from out of the fire and the heart of Being.  I am you.  The closeness undoes me.  So I go to watch the boy work on his car.  But I can't stop thinking about you.  I am that machine coming undone under his hands.  I remember when you and I were alone in the back seat on a lonely far country road.  My heart pounds.  Boy with boy.


Sitting here figuring and configuring words I am in this lifted up place in the Spirit.  Two worlds touching.  Later today when I am working that world will be gone and it never was, just a dream, but not now.  Now I walk in the Logos and the Real inside Being in mine.


Philosophy is a transcendental thing, not of this world.  The mind escapes.  I become the contemplation of the Same.




1204  I belong to the Christian religion, a thing always against itself, a fallen thing, a warring, hateful thing, building more and more crosses to hang its true adherents on out into the eternal sky.  I am that and I am a true adherent.  I hang and am hung, up there, to blow in the Wind.


Unless you too are that or cut to pieces or shot through the head, left lying with that great gaping hole, cold, waiting for the morning sun.  Unless your soul has been forsaken in the barrenness of thought, no lover near, blank walls, useless books.  Unless you have suffered one of countless crucifixions and tortures and abandonments.  Unless you have felt the great stab of love through the heart, you are not Christian.                   …. Who are you?  I talk to the wind and the sky and that boy so long ago, maybe myself.


Don't let the women near this dead one.  They were the cause.  They are the ones he was trying to escape from.  Let him alone in his abandonment.  He is waiting for his lover.  He will know him when he comes.  He will take him away from that murderous old religion.  He will bring him the light.  He will bring him the gentle kiss.  And take him away from here.


The Christian religion has become a filthy thing.  I claim it and with that incarnated one I will return and even now am retuning to harrow its hell.  That too is the Christian religion.  I learned the Sunday lessons well.  Maybe only I listened.




1205  I hold fast to realism and God present and all through me, over me and going around me.  A thing.  I and It, we two.  No pantheism or I am God of Hallaj or super-transcendence.  These other ways are atheism; God is everywhere or nowhere in sight or just me.  Instead, I want, I desire a thing right here, real, more than with me, coming at me, strongly, undeniably, in me, a thing that is totally aware of me, His eyes all along my length.


If I say I am God it is only that I feel the piercing of Being itself into my being.  I feel my being transformed.  I endure it and I suffer it and I want it again.


It is not that I see an emptiness, and I conquer it; but that I am an emptiness, and it conquers me.


The very Unspeakable thing is in my mouth.  I am thinking the Unthinkable.  In that sharp clarity I see what can't and shouldn't be seen. I feel It present.  Transcendence has made a hole in my head. 


The Absurd and the Paradox is not a description, but a thing.  Even in its no-thingness it is a thing.  I suffer it and it delights me in its dance.  If I lead the reader into that, it is because It has been leading me to itself.


I want Power over me; I do not want to be powerful.  I want the noun, not the adjective.  I do not want to be a transformed thing, I want the Transformation on me.  I do not want to say I am that, but I want the Act of Being, of being a that, to pervade me. 


At the heart of Being are the gods in God.  The subtle things, eternally present in the eternal obliterating of world, of me.




1206  I look to Nietzsche in my writing myself under the weight of philosophizing.  He suffered and rose clean.  He said as much again and again and again.  He passed through the decadence and doubled it in words.  And Kierkegaard.  Who postponed his cure for when he would meet his God. I don't look for a cure or for a more healthy way, but I speak myself because I have loved philosophy and the god in it too much.  And the boy I see when I look up from my books and is the very subject I read of.  I speak without metaphor.  Something here is very real.  And eternal.  And it is not the act of self-delusion.  It is something I cannot deny.  Faith is forced on me.  And an audacity to speak I. 


Nietzsche became an absurd thing, writing the way he did, maybe in ordinary megalomania.  Kierkegaard became pathetic.  But Heideger, in his not saying I, became a nazi tainted scoundrel, a despicable, unconfessed idea thief.  It is better to speak.


Hegel at the end of work went home to his wife.  Professors go get their paycheck and come to think that the whole enterprise is too much and the students are not very bright.  I simply go to work where I have to postpone my thinking for later.  We all suffer, and no one can do more than he can do.  Nonetheless, some of us suffer more, even on dark nights with burning flames of love in the chest, when we know that tomorrow that will all seem like something we must avoid mentioning to our friends.  So we suffer from pushing away our friends.   




1207  The words of ontology, when true, ooze with a numinous or eerie or uncanny or immoral fascination.  We cannot speak ontology.  It is spoken inaudibly among the words in our speaking.


In desire for the desired one, desire sees itself in that one, and reaches for itself.  Desire begets desire, and the desired one desires the desire he has become out there in desire.  The one becomes two in identity and otherness, and the twisting and the calculating how and if and the tying up in the most intricate, impossible Gordian knot, the form of love's body in a smoothness totally within itself, arms sliding under arms and mouth searching mouth and suddenly he's gone through you to the other side.  Desire is thick. I have made no mistake about what is substantially there.  I am on the other side of Nirvana. 


Not being a pundit, scholar, Buddhist, Hindu nominalist, I go, not to the words and commentaries and objections and replies and counter objections without end, but to the reality itself.  I have seen Nirvana, and I know what is there.  The dreamy one, so totally gone, has found Desire anew for you, and he's waiting to pop.  On the other hand those old playful monks would love this.  They know the inside out speaking.  They have chanted enough to get hot.  They can hear the silent singing.  They know the eerie ooze.




1208  An afternoon of loveliness in my arms, and then later after he has left for home the constant repetition on through the night through my mind, through my arms following into morning.  The one turning.  I have repeated it in the heat so many times, so much spiritual friction, so many silent burning movements, I am fused to the image.  I have at last become numb.  


Love is a remembering.  And in the remembering, in the heat and the inertia one waits for the rising up and the light. Love is transformed into religion and your beloved opens up to reveal Him.  Without that opening up you would perish in the friction and the fire and the obsession.


An earthly beloved gives way to the heavenly.  That is the Transformation.  Even that you are numb becomes a holy Numbness, the still being held in place, running in stillness all through you.  And the anxiety you feel that you have abandoned the true Beloved for the earthly, the fall, becomes the holy Trembling of the incarnation and the flesh and then the Change.  The created and the Uncreated meet and unite.  Constriction and release.




1209  I live in thought and imagination and the absurd understandings of philosophy.  I can see the strange formations of the abstract in the abstract.  The physical is just fiery movements under my still skin.  I do not act.  My words of love are violent, but the violence is never more than that.  Heaven suffers violence.  It is all up in the heights of Intellect.  We have a war God.  That's who we are.  Even our words of peace are full of terrible argument.  The more terrible our words, the less we act in the physical.


I wonder about those who really do act out terrible, violent acts in this physical world.  I wonder about killers, especially those who have killed many, with or without the cover of war.  I wonder about those who really have caused terror to rise up in another, and who have silently watched with no attempt to help.  I feel incapable of any of this, but who knows.  Perhaps a slight change or a slight reknowing of myself and I am there.  Frightening thought.  What has God yet to teach me?  He became sin, real sin.  How can I follow?  I am somehow to go where he has gone and be a part of his sacrifice.   How?  Can I go so far as to feel the transformation into purity?  To descend far enough to rise again?  To know his kiss of reality?


I make love to real earthly boy.  I have acted.  But it was love, not terror.  Still, I know the terror of love.  I know that somehow it is worse than simple violence.  We all who have loved know that.  Is Jesus with me now?  Surely it will build high enough that I recognize that I have been with Him all along.  And the earthly boy will also see what he was looking for in me, not me, something else, something more terrible, more terribly beautiful and fascinating, and more strange.




1210  I do not write for the sophisticated and learned.  I write for the boy just learning that love has been in him for a long time.  The boy is much older than the scholar and the mere reader.  He now sees that somehow in his soul there are aeons.  He is under their great pressure.  His laughter is tight from the caught up breath, not from cleverness.  I am that ancient Boy, but I am also the well-read.  I judge my words from both viewpoints.  The very sophisticated do also know that the spiritual is adolescent, even childish, and in the spirit we are all that, and the words match the real thing present.  The others turn away and frown.


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 we 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 us.  Our life, our being is different.  Socrates proves with the most ordinary of tools the most extra-ordinary of things.  We fly on the wings of Pteros, and we can't remember what it's like back on the ground, the ground had disappeared.  Back at home we can't find our wings.  We were fooled.  No more.  We won't be fooled again.  The lover is to be ridiculed for believing.  We can't stand the pity put upon us.  Oh, if only it were real.  Against our will we go up again; 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.




In the long stretch of time the morality that grounds any present society gives way to the immoral ones at the final destruction.   The need to not see the End is then no more.  The End that is always with us.  The God before whom you fall back.  The bright lover, now dark.  The boy you once were and will be.  Again.   At the passing away of time.  The intensity that is breaking this ordering. 




1211  The boy moved his mouth ever downward across the chest of the other boy.  Down onto his flat stomach as onto the plains.  Awaiting the blowing wind and the dark entangling curls.  Up along the shaft, to the tip, the summit of the world and the eruption of spirit, the white translucent mass into his mouth, swallowing.  A part of the boy is inside him.  He rises up along the same path.  Mouths meet, the other boy smells a part of himself over the face on his.  Oblivion.


A steady, quiet chanting is always present in the mind of the boys.  The one eternal chanting thing.  The one mind that they both are.   The simple Form of the body reflecting onto itself, a diad, the two in one.  The One doubling and coming back into itself.  Still movements.  In the silence of the Night.  Present now and gone.  Almost too quick for thought.  Heard between the syllables in the chant.


The clear smooth surfaces, in the ever ingoing turning, the One tight with itself, ever searching out itself, hot from the building, gentle friction, the rubbing and the rubbing, the red, bending pain on the smooth clear surfaces.


I have forever been writing this geometry of the Torus.  The bulging, the twisting, the curling, the turning around face to face.  Through infinite division and the infinite divided, one and one, the one thing separating off from itself and knowing itself enfolded in its own arms, falling inward.


This is the religion of the One begetting the One.  And the Passion of each for itself in the other.  The otherness and the passion proceeding and diving downward into itself.  Always a going out and a going back in.  The belonging together.  The surpassing smoothness of the surface between.  The gleaming liquid light pouring through itself.  The liserè between knowing and the known.  And the breaking.  The skin of the two boys melts together.


This is all of the delicacy of thought, not of the grossness of the material world.  It is of the fine white liquid of the spirit.  It blows through time, but is timeless.  It is thought held close and loved.




1212  This is a philosophy for boys who think about other boys too much.  About sex and kisses and more sex and holding and more sex and nights and times and cum stained underwear lying forgotten under blankets tossed wildly in corners the world knows nothing about.


These words are of kisses beyond wisdom.  Of Desire beyond Nirvana.  Of movement deep in the Stillness.  Of unity beyond the divided.  Of the Two beyond the unity.  Of the Three that is the I am looking at you.  Of the Here he cums again, coming right at me.  Of the impossible way out.  Take it!  Far out.  The way beyond.  Boys under the Pressure.


If we were taught how to love and were given such superb tools, why would it be otherwise?




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 prepositional 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.




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 wind of the godhead.




1213  By means of the dialectic, everything I have written can be fit into itself and into the history of the world.  But the dialectic, though surely the very mind of God, is an immoral thing in the world.  And philosophy becomes meaningless.  To teach it is criminal.  To love it is decadent.  To speak it is to vomit.  The saints endure it.  They know intimately the broken and poured out flesh.  And the just ejection.   I have not tried to pretend otherwise in my writings.  If the people receive them well it is because the people are fallen and rabble and are following their Lord.  They will have misunderstood everything.  And the dialectic will have turned over once more.


Clean, clear philosophical argument and faggot lust.  Socrates spoke of it long before I felt the first itch of love.  The union is as old as philosophy itself.  Few have wanted to speak of it.  I have tried.  Eros, the divine and the Typhoon.  Jesus, in spite of the church.  The begotten of the Jealous One.  The whirlwind and the inaudible voice.  Our cross-eyed icon.  The heaviness of gilded thought.


This Boy is a twisted dream.  Those of good sense have said so.  The just have said so.  The moral have said so.  God is a passion to run from.  It is all outside the world.  It is the very symbol we have always used to speak of that outside this place.  The symbol quivers and transverberates.  I have waited for him above the roof.


At last the beautiful metaphors become the real.  The words you have practiced for so long can be said face to face.  But for now, I will prove to you in the world shattering logic of Being that the fragrant and fair body of God is pulling you down even right now. 




1214  Nietzsche and Whitman and even I write about real people doing real things in the full flush of life.  We write about love and making love and the physical push.  We speak of the Sun and the Night and the High atmosphere.  We talk of the Body.  But we all three stay only in our rooms and manipulate words.  The romance, the riot, is verbal.  Each with himself.  Perhaps, inwardly, with a lover that is somehow real.  Surely, if the real is the strong presence, then it is the very real.  But it is a double.  No doubt dangerous. 


The writer's beloved cannot be, when writing, a worldly beloved.  This fact has been known and talked about since writing began.  The fullness of the flesh cannot fit into the delicate structures of thought.  The writer is pale.  If he appears to not be so, it is fake.  But in his words and thoughts he in not pale.  He is real, but in the world of the Real beyond the real, not real.  The dialectic is frightening when it begins.  This Platonic doubling of the Forms and things of the world is a maddening thing to the world.  The threat of the empty whiteness.  But to the writer, though surely also of the world and of its fears, it is an irresistible loveliness.  And his death.


None of us three is in love with death.  We are not Keats nor any of the romantics nor do we stand close enough to smell the decadence of idealism.  We are in love with the life in a red blush and the feel of liquid love under the skin.  Nonetheless the worldly, the tough-minded, wince at our silent verbalizing.  Our not really touching.  Our delicacy.  Our gay existence.


Which is more real, the material thing or the Philosophical thing?  An impossible question.  But in its insistence and its urgency for the philosopher a terrible embodiment of the really real itself.  If becomes a thing lying in his body.  A serpent to be vomited up.


Those who know the thing living in words, maybe the Word, cannot undo its rape.




1215  There are writers who make a distinction between phenomenology and the metaphysical.   I use words differently, but let me employ this difference they have drawn.  Metaphysics begins with principles of the Absolute.  Phenomenology begins with the thing itself appearing to the mind's eye.  The first deals with the abstract form of Being and the One.  The other is dealt a feeling close in.  The first knows and simply knows that he knows.  The second cannot doubt what is in front of him.  Metaphysics is secure.  Phenomenology knows that at any moment he may lose it all or in terrible freedom may walk away from it.  Phenomenology is afraid of offending the real; he is strict with himself.  Metaphysics is happy.  Phenomenology is in lovers' anxiety.


In my writings, I have gone to the thing itself and felt its power.  I have not been afraid inside this terror.  I have written the feel of Being and of the questionable Question of Being.  Beauty has pierced me and left me without beauty and I have continued to pursue it.  I have known the one Form intimately in seeing myself in another.  The connectors of logic, themselves paradoxically unconnected, have made a delightful entanglement in my mind.  The Form of the world has appeared and ravished me with love for it.  The Holy has sent shivers all over me.  I have myself come undone.  


The emerging, the rising, the disappearing, the heat of the fire and the Light, and its glow on flesh and nexus as a rod and a kiss, have all been with me.  It is mysterium fascinans and mysterium tremendum.  I am the Many.  The One is right there outside of me, is in me, and again has abandoned me.  I see nothing, but I know I have seen.  I begin to sing, and I wait for him.


I build a structure that I think a metaphysician would find happiness in.  I too love such things and transformations and the gleam of argument.  I have been all that.  Surely the metaphysician can feel himself climbing around inside the palace he has built.  Or does he always feel content living on the outside only, describing its contents to passers-by?  I want to make the metaphysician fall in love.  But, alas, he thinks he is beyond all that.  I have sent a boy who will seduce him.    Who will sit in that place of distinctions and wait for his prey.




1216  Grammata hold the mind still.  Lines drawn in sand.  Words written on paper.  The curve of an arm.  The angle at the corner of an eye.  The gentle bending of space and time.  The mind flits and flies past quickly.  I merely open a mathematics book and see the symbols and the Eternal is still right before me.  Its infinite movement stopped. 


I pray.  God escapes me.  I imagine Jesus, the well-formed.  The body of God lies quietly against me.  My form, His form, one entwining structure.  Lines drawn out.  The movement moves regularly around.  The One fits itself perfectly.  Nothing else remains.  My prayers are the smooth following along.  My words written down hold it present. 


I write in paragraphs spaced like steps on a ladder.  The scala paradisi.  I climb up to God and, in the scandalon, trap Him that I might simply look at Him, study Him and then, in the heat of my soul, stare at Him.  Finally ladders and structures and traps and grammata become things unused.  My eyes touch and move along these lines that are now Him.  They burn.


I am with the Hurufi, gazing in pain at the letters on his face.  The Word made flesh.  Held still in sleep.  I trace the form of his body.  I lay out a thing present.  The speaking is fixed.  Away from that, I go mad.


I am the Christian eating the face and arms and legs of this god moving now into me.  I have gone mad.  I am drawn onto the grammata.  Into their grave.  I am held still. 




1217  In the Logos are all the Forms that form worlds.  In the rushing Sublation of the Buddhists, the Logos is emptied out.  Their furious libraries begin to speak of nothing at all.  Their prayer flags flap for no one there.  They become dirty and are taken down.  Worlds and Forms and the Logos lie kicked aside like a punctured drum. 


If all the lines drawn capture nothing, and the mind reading them in its horror at the uncontrollable changing longs for stillness.  It asks of the nothing to be nothing, and, through the apoha, for a solid world to appear.  It doesn't.  It asks for the nothing to be lovely.  Its loveliness is fleeting and illusory.  Nothing generates nothing.  And the broken drum makes no sound worth hearing. 


Without the Logos, there is only cacophony, a thing only momentarily promising.  Soon it is the snoring of an old man. The  Sublation was too strong.




1218  The oneness of two knives is that they are both a knife.  One form.  Lying together the one has cut perfectly into the other.  Because I am also my form, I am, in that, another.  Because I am particular, and you likewise, I feel your otherness away from me. Because I move over the things that I am ceaselessly, I am nothing.  I observe the form of form and I am outside the world and myself. You are there with me.  We watch.  I watch you become your form and I am you in the intimacy of watching and you are my watching and we are away from it all sucked into one very small point.


The knife cuts with a holy cutting.  The dividing, the division and the boundary between are nothing.  The trinity inside the godhead is nothing at all.  Yet it is intense.    The difference between me and Him, so perfectly formed, is only slight and in a twisting half-flash transformed.  The knife cut a big hole in his side, where I entered.  Blood and water rushing past me. 


Words are a street boy's knife leaving a scar that is this thing between nothing and the invisible smooth thing.  His knife, my knife, one Knife.  His scar, my scar, one Scar.  An act of love.  Love is written Large. 




1219  I stand between all opposites.  I am the third that is consciousness.  I watch the battle.  I am between the watching and the fighting itself.  I am between the pain and the no-pain.  I watch the perfect reconciliation.  I am not reconciled.  I remain a third.  I watch the festival.  I am not invited.  I watch. 


I stand between consciousness and the fighting, reconciling pairs of opposites.  I watch my watching and my being third and my placelessness at every union and disunion.  And I watch even that watching.  There is no end to my watching.


I dismember the world like a loving, horny, sadist murderer.  I am a despicable thing, but many find all that somehow exciting.  Even I.  Weird.  I practice book cruelty.  I could never really do it; I merely stand between and watch through words, maybe in the words, I'm not sure; I stand between words and the real.


I am questionable to myself.  I am the question questioning itself.  Do I really stand between?  Maybe there is nothing there.  Nothing there I could stand on.  No view to be had.  But you understood, or thought you did when you read those words above, didn't you?  Enough questioning.  I'm still standing.


Between is a relation, not a place.  My standing between is merely a fact, not something I do.  But it is a true fact, and it rose up to strike you in the face, and you recoiled.  Like a snake.  Like that One Dick between yours and his.  You saw the Great Thing for an instant.  The thing between is always a windy thing out in a lonely place. 




1220  The one who affirms all can never know bitterness and longing.  As the sun cannot know the peace of the night.  This is the weariness of a giving god never in need.  The gloom of a god who is all light.  The sorrow of the Lover never to be loved.  This is the paradox of Zarathustra.  The Overman, in affirming all, must affirm what he has negated.  The Overman must kneel before Christ, also.  The most difficult thing.  He wants to say that there is no truth, that all things are permitted, but he cannot do any of the things the world does; his truth will not permit it.  How can he overcome himself.  Logic breaks.  He alone has come to know a higher bitterness and longing.  A cold, dark sun.  A terrible love for the earth.  The brilliant gloom of madness.  A lover who abundantly gave what could not be received.


If God is dead as the Overman preaches and wants, then he must learn to live without God.  He cannot pretend to do what God did or be what God was.  He must learn to live and love in the darkness.  Nietzcshe made a terrible mistake.  He misunderstood himself.  His truth was too much for even him.


If God is dead as Nietzsche preached, then he did the only thing he could do; he betrayed himself, and became the dark sun.  He learned to live as an absurd thing.  He was insane.  He is an embarrassment to thinkers.  He is the crucified one.




1221  Thought is not the relation between opposites, but is the simple image of the opposites related.  Thought is the image of the complex.

If I think about time and eternity, I place a timeless thing, a universal thing, next to a thing in time, a particular.  They clash.  They collide.  The whole mess blurs.  Pure movement results as when electrons and positrons annihilate each other.  Opposites do not live together in harmony.  That wild togetherness is the relation.  The simple image of all that, the togetherness plus the things that are put together, is a thought.  I, the momentary I, am put together with that simple image, a thought, a universal, and it and I further collide.  I together with my thoughts explode in paradoxical pure act.  That is Being and Life.  We are not gentle things, because Being is not a gentle thing.  But after it is all over.  Being is the Very Gentle.

The clash between the thought and the object of thought is even more violent than between particular and universal, or time and eternity.  It is more violent because it is a closer togetherness.  It is a togetherness without any relation of togetherness to mediate.  The one is immediately with the other.  It is harder to think them separate.

The clash of identity between two things that are numerically one thing is even more violent.  Neither can identity be an existing thing between, nor can there be two things to relate.  There is only the one thing.  The thought of all this blows up into nothing real fast.  We are that thought that just blew up.

I see a boy; I think of the Boy.  Clash.  I see a boy; I have been that seeing so many times.  Clash.  I see the seeing I am and the thought.  Clash.  The boy, the Boy, the seeing, the Seeing.  The Boy, the Seeing.  The boy, the seeing.  A boy, boys, Boy.  A seeing, seeings.  Seeing.  A thought.  Thought.  Opposites appear out of nowhere and build up and up.  And I am all that.  Between, even where there is no between.  Even between one thing.  Clash.  Clash.  Clash.

Have you followed me in all this?  The collision dialectically creates a third.  Jesus is even now trying to explain the trinity to you, if you would only listen.  He's obsessed with the idea.  Let him take you into his obsession.  It's called love.




1222  Just as sex wears out and becomes embarrassing, so does philosophy.  That is a part of philosophy. Even Zarathustra got full of himself and had to vomit.  If you cannot live with that, then you should give up both sex and philosophy.  Just as sex can degenerate into something evil, so can philosophy.  So can God.  Live with it. If your boy friend can't live with it, get another.  You have no choice.

Every writer turns on his words and they turn on him.  The turning can be a dance or ..... you know what.  You've been there too many times.  And you have seen your own evilness far too many times without even registering the thought.  You have been the underman and the overman.  Sometimes, when you're alone, both at once.

I think you really can live with all this, but you worry that your friends and lovers can't.  The truth is that they are probably even better at living it than you are.  So grab Jesus and Zarathustra and walk on into this terrible, lit-up Night.  Your friends will come along, they have nowhere else to go.




1223  To construct the continuum out of dimensionless points requires an infinity of infinities falling infinitely inward down, out, so close maybe finally reaching the point's far outer horizon. The longed for thing itself is surely only a dream.  The smooth continuum and the discrete thing are absolutely different.  The difference cannot be exorcised by the most elaborate, convoluted, trickiest of formula.

Likewise the difference between the bare particular and the universal cannot be overcome by any amount of conceptual or non-conceptual thinking.  It cannot even be overcome by walking away from the problem.  It is there, right there.  The deep down difference has decided things for you.

From the slight cut in his smooth skin poured out the white stuff of pure spirit. From the red heat visible under, the light glistened out and over me.  It was just there. It has been there many times before and will be again. It is the constant subject of my thoughts.  In my words it has come again. Such transformations reeling.  It is just there.  In the difference he pours through to me.  He is the Difference. Also here, in the white into the darkness of ink.

My sentences and my thoughts flow along, pausing for phrases, stopping momentarily to catch my breath, to be caught up in Breath, in awe passing by capital letter words, capital letter thoughts, building paragraphs, steps descending down and down into the boy's room, that I might take him up and up and up.

The smooth rising and falling and crossing over never reaching because always right there at its goal.  Unending passion.  The fury in the emptiness.  The Absolute beyond the Absolute.  God beyond God.  Night beyond the Night.




1224  All the discrete elements in your ideal language must eventually give way to the smooth swoon of love.  You loved that language so perfect, didn't you.  It came so close to clearing away all the binding undergrowth so you could lie naked in the clearing, but new entanglements were always springing up.  Now your love is exasperated.  Only the swoon is left.  Philosophy has done you in.  Metaphors, maybe matadors, threaten all around.  Your precision was just a strange dream.  Hermes will not, seems unwilling, to lead you across.  Eros is always at hand.  Smooth skin is drawing you away.  Smooth skin you will attempt to tie up even now with your bands of logos.  What is going on here?!

Discrete elements never were able to really explain the complex thing they supposedly grounded. The world somehow oozed out of them, I guess.  The Latin word is emanate.  Like water out of sand.  Or fair skin from cells.  Or fields of energy from quanta.  Or a single thought from a multitude of words.  Or my one idea from all these marks now springing up one by one in front of you.

The magic of our minds or of a spirit in our minds or of the one Mind is that it does see and intimately knows more than the discrete elements.  It knows the Unity of all the unities made from them, a thing not to be captured in words, even these.  Nonetheless, with my capital letters I point at something that you do think and it is there, somehow.  The flowing, the oozing, the emanating, your smooth skin, and the matador, so tight and bound up, always escaping its terrible presence.  At last it runs all over his stomach.  That is all I ever wanted.




1225  The naturalist knows universals, but he knows them as being at a place and moment.  They are not timeless and removed from the world.  This is the form of a perhaps magnificent Cosmic religion.  Maybe it is Hinduism.

The Great Sky.  The Cycles of Aeons.  The Enclosure.  The Place of Light.  Sacred Images of the Ancient Things.

I am not a naturalist.  I am intent on escaping.  The world and time and all its priests and temples and dark idols are just obstacles in the way of my getting to the mind boggling beauty my heart first caught sight of when I was a boy just like him.

All those Cosmic things are dead. I have no desire to revive them.  Give me the wide-eyed boy calculating his impossible calculations.  Give me red lips, black hair falling down over down glistening.  Give up to me all his furtive, wide-mouthed searching out secret inaccessible places in nowhere where the friend waits.

The important thing is the escape from here.  From this sickening familiar thing.  From all these cycles and rings of fat piling up from that incessant cooking and eating.  So much heavy substance.  Give me a motorcycle and in a loud roar and a blanket of white, I'm heading out onto a straight road to the outer drive.

Give me words fit together building a ladder up over this wall and out onto that celestial road screaming away from this suffocating place.

This too is Hinduism, a religion also looking for an escape from its form trapped here in time.  I know a beautiful Hindu boy, a fidgeting son of a priest, who also wants free.  He's the only real Hindu I know.




1226  My words seem so contradictory to real life.  I speak to a real person, and I find myself speaking against almost everything he says.  Even those longing for the friend just as I do, think I shouldn't say the things I say.  Some things are just too hard to look at, even if they are true.  I really have no idea what they mean.  Maybe it's because my longing is for the form that is to be found only in words.  The pure Form.  And to find that I must first destroy as much of the world as I can.  No comfortable apartment, nice job and a car.  No waiting to sink deeper into the pool of material stuff.  Only that thing I see dimly when I speak the ethereal words of attenuated Being.  I almost faint.  My reasoning becomes as nothing in the multitude of paradoxes I climb through and fall through and lie on waiting instead for him, not them.  I walk away out to a clearing with tall grass, and I take off my shirt.

The Form is found in words and almost seems to be the words or the rhythm of the words or their quick departing.  The difference is subtle and the ordering of this to that is delicate.  I rush to hold it.  The blaring light of the Contradicting almost blinds me.  I wanted something else.




1227  The ontological import and export of what I'm writing about is that I see a place away from this spinning hairy ball in a timelessness of pure form.  When I look at the empty form of the Same, oh Honey, certainly not a thing seen here, I am there.  Or of Equality, a very different thing for those with a subtle eye, and not something merely defined in somebody's symbolic logic, surely a formalist so boringly formal.  Or of the is in He is a beauty from out of the no time beyond time.  Or of the Eternal Return of all those very old philosophical phrases we've all spoken so many times before and before and before and isn't this and sex and endless obsessive desire for the strangest absurdities ever going to wear out?  All this is only a dream of what you're never going to find here.  It's there.  But from here there's no there there.  And so I can't find a port where I can unload my cargo.




1228  For the Hurufi, the face of the beloved is not the incarnation of the Letters; the Letters are the de-incarnation of the beloved, the disintegration of the face.  In the end, the Hurufi disappear into the ever bending grammata they have written.  In the end, the Letters eternally have written themselves.

For the Hurufi, the Letters are the agile, dancing Fire.  God flying up from out of God.  In the End, they will have consumed everything.

For the priest of the Vedas, the great truths become the ever-repeating sound.  The vibrations, in their incessant pounding in his head up into the sky out through the aeons, have transformed all understandings of the sutras into the Great Immobility. Sound is the impenetrable wall of the Enclosure.  He sits.  The world never was.

For the European Christian, the Logos has become the work of the body trying to reach an understanding.  The incarnate hardness.  The difficulty of the laying out.  Exasperation is the face of the Absurd.  The Face desired and gnawed.

For me, the Logos, has become the bending, ever inward going firmness of the desired boy desiring.  I work the boy.  I lie in his fire.  We are enclosed in each transforming into the other.  My words are that which is difficult to understand.  Their grammata are teeth.  In my eating the Boy, the world is eaten.




1229  I am attempting to write a Platonic Christianity.  The immortal boys who have always been lounging in the garden of Academos are still waiting each for the other, in the Enchantment.  The fair one inside the ugly Socrates rules.  The Dionysian fluttering of wings rises and falls.  The Deinos has made them almost unapproachable.  The killing and the eating that is with the One at the heart of their dialectic has already been smeared with oil and is not far off, the boys begin to smell the blood and the strangeness increasing in their own flesh.  It rises from the back of the neck of the one near.

In the dialectic of the Real and the image, of the image and the eidolon, of the erect and the fallen, I move back and forth within logic and ontologic, enchanted.  I am in the appearing of Being. I am in the gaze of Being.  am pushed back by the beauty of Being.  It has reached its peak in the boy in front of me.  I stumble as I try to find my goblet to pour out a libation.  The Boy himself is poured out and I drink.  I long to eat him.  I am in the strangeness of a horrid old religion.  It is a wildness greater than that of the Bacchanites.  It is graver than that of the Catamites.  Everything is transformed.  I have life in me again.  The one I have always loved is approaching.  The emptiness of Being is filled up and is Red Real.  I am close to union and oblivion.

Ontologic and heart pounding love cannot be separated.  The Logos and the Passion.  Being and the intense beauty of Appearing.  Mind and the flesh tearing.

At the end, the mind abandons death and goes to him.  Your face is close to his golden shoulder.




1230  In the empty place that the mind goes to, to think the form of the world, away from the world, a vantage point.  On that lonely, windy plain.  He has built a hut for you and Him to quietly talk and lie together in, in the darkness and the howling.  A small wooden thing, one window out, a cot only big enough for one, a low fire, a tarnished mirror, some liquid to drink, a thin blanket, but probably enough.  He is warm.

The philosopher cannot remain in society to think the thoughts he must think.  He has to leave.  He has to leave it all.  Outside of God, he goes to where God will meet him.  Outside of form, he goes to the form of form.  Outside the world, he goes to the worlds of worlds.  Outside of Being, he seems to vanish.

To find the ground of the ground he walks on, he flies up.  To find the space within which is the space he moves in, he lies down and spreads himself out in the grasses of the hidden clearing.  He waits.  He somehow knows the one he is waiting for.  The grass dries and the burning in him sets it all ablaze and the light of knowledge is in him.  The hand reaches around him.




1231  To lie under the slow caress of the Lover is for you to know heavy weakness and inertia.  Face down, you feel Him bring you into existence and steadily mold you into the shape of desire.  As, after so long, it, even now, pervades the Buddha, sitting so tall and still.  Half-closed, adoring eyes enclosing him in the walls of Brahma.  A boy, on his bed, alone, mesmerized by his own thoughts, unable to even begin his studies, you feel only that you are being held by something other.  An Unconquerable laziness and the thought that Tomorrow may not be soon enough.  That thing is in you and all over you, crawling around.  Your own desire blew out into the wind, and now the wind, wrapped around you, is blowing you, arched, you arrive at the same other place, tingling all through your legs.

When Socrates stood so still for so long thinking and getting it just right, he couldn't have moved if he had tried.  Maybe he did try, but the thought pushed down on him with such slow, heavy force it was useless.  The boy lying on his bed, unable to move, is under the same spirit of philosophy.  His thoughts jerk and twitch.

It is the cross-eyed, staring Jesus of the icons.  No one moves.  The whole of Being holds you within its gaze.  You are in the Eternal thing.  You are lifted up and you have yourself become the ambrosial drink of the beings who have silently been always so close to you.




1232  Does the agile, dancing Fire have something heavy in it?  Does the heavy Shekina have something ethereal and fine about it?  The delicate boy lies heavy in my arms.  Earlier, his returning glance held me immovable.  Now I can hardly think.  Dancing will have to wait.  The waiting may be long.

The empty, syncategorical connectors of logic and the heaviness of the boy's thigh against me.  The lightness of the Intellectual Forms and the weight of this.  The fact that facts are stuck and will not budge.  That the walls around me are impenetrable.  That even in the eternal Forms there is a heaviness and the Boy is there.  It seems that it has been an eternity that he has been lying here.  I'm not sure; I cannot think well.  Exasperation wells up in my throat.

I can of course intellectualize about the heaviness and the I-don't-know-what.  The bareness of the particular is ever a dancing light thing of thought, also.  And though empty logic does begin at times to wear down on me, I can handle it.  Things irrationally blend, but the irrationality itself gives way to reason and lightness and flying, smiling glances.  Nonetheless, the heaviness remains always there and is a mysterious thing for my ontologizing and subtle structures.

Ontologic without the weight of presence is nothing.  Pure energy without mass forming within it is not physis.  A night of dancing without the stillness of the night following is not complete.  Thinking without that thing yet unthought is not true.  A lover's speaking without the acknowledged unspoken never reaches its goal.

After Des Cartes, thought tried for the ever more clear and distinct.  It has become unbearably empty.  And our young people have run to the East to try to find out how to handle this monstrous thing.  But the East itself is agitated.  Only the heaviness of the heat seems real.

I cannot write philosophy without the weight of His body within me.  I have to feel its pieces go down and rise up in my throat.  I have to feel it press against me, and I have to see the stain it left on my shirt.

I am not speaking about what is called matter. Matter is a late arriving, scientific word.  It is only a word.  Rather I am talking about something in Being that we saw and then our speaking degenerated into science so that we might get on with life.  I am talking about a god, one of those things banned from science, as are love's obsessions from its sense of healthy, good sense.

Nonetheless, the boy who is so heavy against me now will soon be the delight of pure thought, wide-awake, so knowingly messing up my hair and papers, the dialectical marvel.




1233  The boy in my writings, his flesh, his full form, his firmness and the look of a god in his looking at you and your being unable to move.  Argument leading to a dusky light, heavy and anxious.  The Jesus we eat.  Our ambrosial drink.  The cupbearer himself in the cup.  A beauty full of the turnings of letters and meanings and illusion.  Failed scholarship.  The school for lounging-boys with the prick of the compass and a straight edge on which they will show you how to walk to get to that other world you so longed for.  They are there waiting for you.  This is the realism that logic tied together.  The boys of bondage.  Form resting in that.  That in your hand.

The boys in my writings make them the writings of a realist.  A Platonic Realist.  The blushing flesh of love added into the mix of nexus and empty variable.  The same with the same.  Filled up at last in the weight on your chest.

The naked particular, the mind boggling thing.  Now independent of me. On me.  I can do nothing but receive its great passivity into me.  I am that.  You know me by the look of love on my face and my strange, never fading grin.  I have been rejected by many.  Maybe you will not be able to.




1234  Outside the world in the ethereal fineness of the very thin, the shy and the furtive looking of this brackish god, a boy with no chance of friendship with the golden and rich boy of wide lawns and hedges.  The very slight and meager existence of our pure ontologic has left it without support and destitute.  It is as though it would like to say something full and important, but it soon fades and is overlooked.  How can he ever find the solid friend he longs for but cannot speak of forcefully enough to bring him over his bed of harsh nights and uneven ground?

Because I am a man of desire and I know the flesh and I have the substance of obsession.  And because I know and love the words of logic and ontologic and have had them on my fingers and in my mind times impossible to remember.  I, equally etherealized by the long drawing out, can help.  I am solid.  I am without the emptiness of beauty.  I am direct.  I can be the horrid presence that can make this thin boy at last be.  I have the caress of one who cannot dream.  I am just this.  I am real.  The boy would never choose me, but he has been chosen and he can stop his furor.

The delicate lies with this heavy presence.  The transformation goes back and forth.  Terrible dialectic.  Such is philosophy.  A thing not of society.  Shepherds and satyrs on the edge of the ordered world.  Just a step away.  Where you can easily get lost.




1235  Under my caress he settled into the thick of existence.  My hands got thick with existence.  My words to him were slow and meaningless.  And thick existence penetrated even there.  Existence oozed inside everything.  And every thing was only the thickness of the right here.

As the Vedas exist only in the mouthing of the vedic priests, so only in the steady movement of my words seen and read and penetrating the neck muscles do they exist in the world.  That is their form, which, of itself just in itself, lies outside all worlds.  Existence, that erotic thing, so in itself, is the nexus.  In the enclosed room, with the lover, the world is gone.  In my words, right now you are with me, somewhere else.  But here I am not anyone or anything that ever was in the world.  I am One thing that has always been.  All else never was. 




1236  In my constructing and deconstructing I have overcome the great dualistic non-dualism of the East.  I have not assumed a world where wordy, abstract, guru speaking is separated from the material sex life of home and wife.  Where chanting and argument never come together.  Where work is not permitted inside the great laziness of meditation.  Where student and teacher never transform into each other.  Where the writer is never written.  Where they boys walking past are never invited in.  Where the guru never knows the heaviness of the street boy in his arms.  Where the guru has lost all his weighty glory.  Because the lotus never mingles with the mud.

In my constructing and deconstructing, the sexual and the intellectual are one thing.  The intellectual man and the dirty, rejected street urchin are one and the same.  Cum on my leg and Him coming into my pure mind's eye are the same with ever the same, one thing.


I have not overcome the division of subject and object by pretending the object simply doesn't exist.  I have not made the world simply a philosophical mistake and then only half wondered how such a mistake could ever have been made.  I have not tried to find a way out of perplexity with a smile and a nice meal served to me by boys who could never reach the heights I, maybe only I, sublimely see.  I have not pretended that my sedentary grossness is dancing in slow motion.  I have not had to wonder if boys serve me contaminated food.

I have not thought that I am floating above the ground, above myself, in the Supreme Self.

I have washed the feet of many a street urchin and lain with them and known them.  I myself am a street urchin.  If you don't understand that, you have understood nothing I have written.  And I have visited them in a prison in the prison of this world.  I myself should by the world's law be there also.




1237  My thoughts all fly around in great disorder, but then when I sit to write they seem to come together into a tight body in front of me.  Into paragraphs, all views of the one astral body.  They glisten.  Maybe for me, only me.  He is there and I can taste him in my mouth.  I can feel him in the muscles and nerves of my neck.  He churns in my stomach.  He sits on my lap and pushes me back.  In there, in me, on me, he is free of the world.

The tightness and the firmness and the pressing make it all very sexual.  I am drawn to the contours.  My own contours are traveled.  I and the words are soon flipped over on our back and we flash.  A great white expanse.  The ever going around without boundaries.  An infinite surface pulled up close to itself.  We lie entangled.

I mingle with my words.  We are the ground of worlds.  Outside of it all.  Very free.


Before I write I read.  And I lie on my bed and think.  Loose connections and breakings and forgettings.  Until I make the decision to write.  It is a frightful decision full of wondering if I can do it.  I am sure I can't.  I wait for it to be done to me and for him to arrive.  Even here with these words, I can see now that he is almost fully here.  I see an arm and a shoulder.  A leg is bent up.  He is over me.  The spirit swirls.  This is creation so close to Creation.

The god ejaculated down onto his own stomach and the great plains of Being appeared, worlds and gatherings.  I have written this.  The god lives in my words.  This is a realism.




1238  Thought without heat and breaking and completion and then separation is like sex that is only foreplay.  Thought that is without struggle, contradiction, contraction and release is like love that is only pleasant compassion.  Writing that is a following a line without the moment of getting lost and the disappearance of any way back is merely a time of lying comfortably close.  Just as the completion of sex is later a time of worry and longing for repetition - and then repetition, so the written thing will not leave you and  maybe it should for a while.   All sex and writing is seduction of all involved.  The energy of ordering has led to your own disordering.

After it is finished and time goes on you wonder if it amounted to anything at all.  The body and language, so much a thing of the mouth, are strange and weird and uncanny.  Without the eyes of desire you see nothing except ruins.  Later when desire returns you see that such ruins are the perfect place to make love.  The gods appear in the old places.  I am a ruin.


Desire always returns.  That is the teaching of both Zarathustra and the resurrected Christ.  And desire churns until it breaks out.  And He is right there.




1239  The caresses of desire create desire and the filling up of existence.  And just as desire must reach completion and break so in the world's heat existence breaks and you, the philosopher, fly in pure light, the very thin threads of form, a skein and a scheme of body.

In the time endured in reading, the grammata have formed a thing.  He is there.  At the end it broke and he escaped and flew away.  Perhaps he took you with him.  But now you wonder if you really left.  You will try reading again.  You have sacrificed everything for just this.

Existence filled up changes to just existence.  Life goes on.  Another filling up will have to wait for later.  It comes again.  And then again the ordinariness of empty existence, until you notice the emptiness and you look for an out of the way place to work in to fill it up again.  And again.

The thickness of writing and the end of the sentence.  The shuddering end.




1240  Maybe somewhere in God, in the Spirit, I am beautiful.  I can go there and we can live the dialectic of Love.  Of the One and the Many.  Of the Same and Different.  Universal and Particular.   Mind and Body.   All the lovely transformations.  I hope.

Is it that this is a fallen place and we have fallen into entropy?  What is obvious glares.  Everything is getting very old, and the slackness increases.  This universe is wearing out and wearing down.  The beauty of youth flashes for a moment and then we live the wreckage.  Down time increases.

Is it that the great dialectic will everywhere and always require such horrible twistings?  Is there then a place in Nowhere and No time we can go to for refuge?  Is there a place where Love glistens on all bodies and satin smooth faces and heartbreakingly beautiful eyes always invite?  Does this paradise of love exist?  Or hover somewhere just outside existence?  Can we there deliciously live right into the heartbreak?

Is Jesus, the god of love, himself the lover waiting there?  Surely a god who isn't God would be insufficient.  The massiveness of the need requires the Final thing.  Perfection beyond which there cannot be a greater.  Surely if the great dialectic spins hard enough and fast enough it will dialectically break and He will be there on your beautiful arm.


A religion of the resurrection requires that I believe that a new, better day is coming.  Things don't have to be like this.  We cannot turn coal into diamond by teaching ourselves that coal is in fact diamond.  It isn't, unless a transformation takes place.  That transformation hasn't taken place. I do believe it will.  Or outside this place it is.  I am not infinitely resigned to absence.  I am not in love with the yawning ache.

I worry that above I used the word maybe.  I know that belief requires work and my infinite involvement.  I stand directly in the middle of this great thing.  I do not study it from a safe distance.  I am not, most assuredly not, a mere scholar.  The maybe is a part of strenuous belief.  And belief without strenuous work and the presence of doubt is not belief.  Belief is also worry.




1241  Jesus is the Word made flesh.  He is the Logos.  Do we really have any idea what the Logos is?  Philology hasn't helped at all, maybe because philo-logos is the love of that thing.  Love is a poor instrument for rational analysis.

Let me for now speak of the Word as the words I use to capture God.  I have no other instrument by which I can bring him here.  I speak the words and he is in my mouth as though I am eating him and drinking the smooth, red blood.  Surely I really am.  So intimate.

I speak the words to myself and a rhythm sets up in me and I am out for the night, dancing.  I speak about this erotic mind-boggling thing and neither the poets nor those thinking they are the just approve.  The servants of the goddess frown and the upright have fallen over.  The Boy has come and messed up everything for them.


My words are the flesh and the Flesh.  He has become that in me.  But you must keep the analysis correct.  He does not speak words, nor live in the words as other than the words, but he is the Word of the words itself.  Can you think that difference and that oneness?  This is a realism.  He is not a mere bunch of words.  Love wants a hard presence, not just a breeze of nothing.

I really have no idea what that thing is in my mouth and coursing through me and in my mind.  It is a thing not of this place.  It is a shudder and a burning coal into my heart and on my lips.  I have dared to kiss that thing.




1242  The analytic grasp, ever more rough, handling time, trying to take it apart, to see its pieces laid out, eventually sees, not time pieces, but that one god ever returning, unity and otherness, presence and absence, the same and the different, the unspeakable dialectic.  The bound and the free.  The enclosed and the boy running in open spaces.  Your worry and your distraction.  Things that you have always known. 


Time yields to the Castor and Pollux twins.  And to your silently staring at them.  You hold this impossible pair gently in your consciousness.  In you, they are safe.  The world remains.  Nothing is lost.  Time's loss and loss's resentment is nowhere.  Time is conquered.  That is philosophy.




1243  The heat grows, the flames burst out, the light blazes, a great clearing is opened, the wind blows through it, and blows, and time takes away all memory of the heat and the fire and the light and the opening closes. 


Monks and the Arhats and tourist seekers chant and chant and the blowing out of the great blowing out is complete.  Nirvana is gone, and it is not coming back.  The undergrowth this time is too great.  The tapatic heat isn't hot enough. 


Ashes ashes everywhere.  Young monks find more release in jacking off.  Maybe if the older ones watch, the heat and the flames and the silver blinding light will return.  Akasatic flying.




1244  The nexus grounds the fact, but just as point and point and ever closer connecting cannot produce the continuum, so the atoms of Being cannot be or generate or hand over into your world, fact.  The ground in philosophy and the grounded in the world remain maddeningly apart.  And the madness leads some to declare philosophy worthless and they are offended by it.  But the madness leads the lovers to that one thing they have been longing for.  The Beloved stands right before them.  Lips meet.  Unity is accomplished.  God and the one molded into existence by God are just God within his own heat.  


Fact is itself an entity, a category of Being, irreducible to thing, nor itself a thing to be added in.  Thoughts so close to breaking down.  Out on this highway, be careful, there are no tow trucks.


Between all the grounding things and the fact grounded, not a thing, there is no nexus.  If you think that "being a constituent of" may be that connector, think again.  You are about to fall into infinite regress, which, I know, can at times be pleasant, but it's sure wipe out.


Maybe the problem, you might think, arises because we tried to speak about philosophical things as we speak about ordinary things.  Surely that's true, but speaking is what we're all about.  And we do speak right nicely, even about these matters.  You understand your understanding and your almost not understanding, perfectly.  And the boy's playing with his friend confusion and blanking out.  He's soon back.  And the problem lovingly turns inside out.  The problem is how to speak about ordinary things and the world, which surely aren't really there. 


The boy really is there, both as the god of philosophy and as the almost forgotten one up in his room.  Your heart breaks trying to put the two parts of him together, but he is greater than you. 




1245  You can write philosophy from out of the inside and appear before others covered with its mass smeared all over you.  Or you can write from a safe analytic distance and try to prevent the unclean thing from spreading.  The stuff of philosophy is an opaque thickness.  It breaks through the words.  The Boy glances furtively.

Yes, philosophy is a mistake, but so is love.  The Buddhists are right.  Desire comes from Avidya.  And the world comes from desire.  The world is a mistake.  But whose?  Is it a mistake to commit this mistake?  Is the truth any better?  Isn't emptiness empty?  Surely you know that liberation is a heavy weight.  That the prospect of love can make you ever so light on your feet.  That the ultimate it-never-was-there can bring on the peaceful night.  And that in your sleep he comes again.  He brings your youthful energy in his pocket.  His Truth is greater than truth.  His unknowing is greater than knowing.  The mistake is the mark of surpassing beauty.  It is the mark with which you are marked.

In calling attention to these marks, this unclean stuff coming from out of me, my mistakes and the beauty that has passed me by, I hope to overcome the simple fact that I have gone inside a mistake, the Great Mistake.  I want to stare at it.  To stand over it and study it for a long time.  I need information.  I want to eat it.




1246  A sacrificial religion for those lovers who want to stick their hand right inside their beloved to get that information they want and to feel his death.  An offensive thing to others.

Information, when it is about the body of the loved one, so calmly studied, stared at, mighty movement in the heart.  This science of you takes my breath away.

Sacrifice is a precise thing.  Just as the caress across the one sleeping beside you must be so delicately, exactly laid on.  There are those who seem to have been born with the knowledge how.  Or Love is in their hand or in the knife, guiding it.  The blood and the shudder and the sheen must run with perfect abandon.  And your head must fill up immersing all the cavities of thought.

Mystics contemplating the torn body of Christ, the impossible having become that of the Eternal Thing.  Mystics lying in the dark, alone, waiting for Him to come.  Waiting for the tearing to strike them.  Waiting for it all to end.

Boys down in prison.  Dead in car crashes.  Too young to know that life is the very difficult, the thing we all must do, sickening.  A religion of the sacrificial death of the innocent is so lovely, so repulsive, so literary, so necessary.




1247  Some facts are actual, some are merely potential.  We all know what that sentence means.  But it is an absurd sentence when stared at and really thought about and taken apart.  It can't be that it is another fact that actuality pervades this fact.  There is no bare particular that exemplifies a fact, no nexus of pervading and no universal that is actuality.  If there were we would be far into infinite regress already.  And yet maybe we are into it, whatever it is, thus regressing infinitely farther.

Should we say that actuality itself is actual?  That possibility is possible.  That possibility is an actual ontological thing.  It seems that whenever ontology is applied to the things of ontology there is intellectual collapse.  The ground of the ground is a giving way.  Nonetheless, we do think ontology right well, and the collapse is ever intimate with the philosopher.

It is a principle of philosophy that all things that present themselves before the mind exist.  To see each thing in its purest form, the other things cleared away, is to be properly in the logos of beings.  Such seeing and such clearing away are themselves there and to be seen and baffle the mind in their very brightness.  The philosopher is suddenly in unseeing and darkness.  How can that possibly be?

I ultimately come to the very mystery of myself.  I am doing what cannot be done. I am doing my doing.  I am that. Marvelous.  I fall in love with myself.  Who is that strange beautiful sprite I see in the water of life.  I have at last become no more than a flower by the stream.

I stare and have become numb.  I am filled up and turgid.  I throw my seed to the wind.  I bend, but do not break under it.




1248  If my words are going to dance they must be strong enough to withstand the strength of the movements in the dance.  The tie must not break in the wind.  The winding must not become an entangled knot. I will try to tear myself apart.  I want to see the pieces each by itself.  I want the joints to be laid bare.  I want the very ordering that I am to appear.  I want to withstand my own being unable to withstand what I am doing.  The Dance itself will be danced.  I will see Strength itself.  I will become the very Movement that moves.

My paragraphs almost tear themselves apart.  They are too much.  They try to say their own saying. Unity rattles inside them.  My arms are spread out too wide and the force pulls open a splitting in my chest.  I thus have the energy to separate the inseparable.  I dance and dance and spin and spin and tear and tear and I fall back suddenly, too suddenly, become still, am there laid out and you observe so calm so forensic like, so like me.

Such violent sleeping together.  This bed is a mess.  Horizontal dancing.  Honey, we should maybe have gone out with the others.  But, no.  You are a blast in my head.  We saw the real things.  This white sheet contained it all.




1249  Mind is not something separate from Being.  It is deep in Being.  The idealists would have you believe that mind is apart from Being, that it deals in concepts and sensa that are nowhere a part of Being.  Eventually, for the idealist.  Being itself is lost and only false, fleeting things that never really were seem to remain, but they vanish quickly.

How could an idealist, who says he values mind so highly, lose it all?  How could he let himself get to having to convince himself that the emptiness is beautiful after all?  How could he have become engaged in battle with himself so vigorously, for so long?

The mind builds concepts, he says.  To see the world without the aid of concepts, to see it directly, is the goal, he says.  To see the world without the mind intervening, interrupting, polluting the pure field with its graspings and desirings and turgid filling up, is release, he says.  The mind free of mind.  Into Being, which has no part of mind's unknowing.  Into the Light.

The idealist, in the end, cannot overcome his dualism.  But the division was never real.  Mind is not something other that Being.  It is not an evil to be rid of.

There are no concepts.  There are only universals, independent of mind.  In the world we see them exemplified by matter.  Outside the world we know them caressing the mind, so close, pure Form.  The mind feels itself melt as does a beloved under the hand of a lover.  Then the mind really is with the Lover.  Its holding back from Being was merely fear for itself.  Love is a frightening, terrible thing, but without it the emptiness is emptiness.




1250  If I look at your face, your beautiful face, and, because it is beautiful and therefore full of the far away and the empty, and in that emptiness and in the wind blowing from the ever deeper recesses within the emptiness, I can somehow see even you now here with me, just you, no longer the mighty universal thing.  You come to me from out of that.  Oblivious to it all, you are just there, wondering what my problem is.  I see Being radiating, emanating, up-surging, coming down all over me.  I am wet with baptism. 


I will try to think about the ontological problem of the set.  If there is a and there is b then there is (a,b).  If there are the eternal pieces of your face, then there is your face.  I see the fusion of the great ontological List into just you.  I see the togetherness of all your parts.  Are you a fusion and a togetherness?  Are you just the blur of ontological boundaries lost?  Are you my sexual confusion?  My not being able to think?  Is the set of a and b together ontological weakness?  Is our great mathematics a falling from the One?  I am too far gone to be able to say.


I will try to think about the set (a) and maybe the set ((a)) and the set (a,(a)) and maybe even ((a),((a))).  I get very easily confused.  How can God think it so easily all the way to infinity?  And to the infinities of infinity?  I, of course, am just speaking out my confusion.  I blur.  And the word blur blurs. 


All things are identical with themselves.  If there is a, there is (a).  The thing internally divides into two that immediately vanish leaving no trace of any inward workings at all.  That a and b are identical with (a,b).  That your lips and your blue eyes and the creamy dew of your skin are not something other than, but are your face.  Disappearing identity.  That you oscillate back and forth between just you and the eternal things composing you.  That I cannot find that thing that is the transformation.  Leaves me no choice.  There is no nexus between the elements and the one perplexity that is your face.  You are an eternal puzzle to me.  You are my confusion.  I try to imagine you and I see just a blur.  But in you I see the eternal things clearly and distinctly. And then they too blur when at last I look and the One.  In Him, the clear and the distinct and my turgid desire drive together.  How can that be?




1251  Our normal view of the world is that it consists of perfect particulars, substances of all sorts, ordinary objects, the great controlling mathematical formula, all the things that a philosophy of realism has tried to blow up into a sky full of ontological atoms.  The world is ontological error.  Everyday life is a blur.  All our attemptings are an attempt to overlook contradiction and inadequacy.  We have never gone far enough.  We have never been very clear about our lucidity.  And we have never understood why.


I have tried to understand binding and unbinding by laying out the point flash of my ideas in complex sentences with regularly spaced words, in rhythms stretched out in time, in widely separated paragraphs.  I have written about only one thing.  I have clearly given you pieces without undue cramming.  I have given you room to move in.  But there is always the bed nearby, where, after reading so many words, mentally prone, you feel the moments stop, and the space move inward, and the flashing start again.


I have laid out the pieces in a strange togetherness.  Philosophy is a filling up.  It is desire.  It is the sultry summer sky above.  It is the student's algebra book lying now heavily on his chest.  After he has fallen into dreams, trying to understand it.  He is surrounded by all the wonderful things he has desired and now owns.  Perfect, particular things.




1252  From out of that massively destructive thing called Christianity, a thing that is even now leveling also itself, and will be quickly finished, the only thing that still remains and even now pierces the heart, is the Boy, the ancient desire, a god, the final thing.


Our one-god religion, the Alone without consort, a thing in itself, at one with itself, satisfied, moving all through itself, lost in itself, unknown to itself, numb from having fallen in love with itself, lies with the boy in his room figuring the figures that are to be more fuel for the technological fire leveling everything.  He will remain. 


The heat builds.  He swells up.  And the Light comes.




1253  Syntactical transformations, empty formula slipping easily inside each other.  In the Slip the mind for an instant finds itself outside the world, but pure form baffles and frightens, and it is quickly back with things. 


Finally semantics takes the mind back to the fundamental connectors of syntax.  At last, the transformation from This to That is what we are.  Then the ancient connectors themselves give way and the immediately close is on you.  The breathing space of laid out structure is nowhere.  The thing is a thick pervasiveness.  He has you.


Philosophy inevitably arrives at something that is nowhere in this world.  All of the everyday, all of the commotion, all structural support however fine is gone.  It's inevitable.  You fall in love with it.  You die.  It has you.


We so easily teach grammar to our students, not knowing what we are flirting with.  Or who we are approaching like a moth to a candle.  The agile flames end up giving the students bad dreams at night.  The transformations of syntax are the magical incommensurables of ancient geometry and the medieval proofs of angles dancing on a point.  The old world is still with us in a new form. The ancient disrupter god is here again.  Puck is lying with Shams-i Tabriz.




1254  The developed and the cultural things of life must give way to the primal and unworked things of the soul.  The great structures of Being rest on unstructured elements.  My knowing you and loving you depend on my finding you in that place away from the commotion here.  Away from nations and institutions and family.  Into the uncanny and the frightening unseen things in each of us.  Into the too close for comfort.  At last with that thing we tried to avoid and deny and think out existence.  And you, at last with yourself away from yourself not as yourself. Perhaps as me.  Perhaps in or behind the very developed and cultural things themselves.  Being is close.  The things present somehow are with it.  Perhaps it is our looking far away that has made us blind.  How can we go to the thing itself at hand?




1255  It is a feeling common to us all that the thing named is somehow in the word naming it.  The word tree is fused with the form of Tree and trees just as the appearance and the sound of the word God is with God himself.  Even the English words.  Other languages are not different.  So many different words all fused with the one thing.  And the fusing feels necessary and thus eternal.  It is a thing that was established by the gods.  But how can that be?  Language is so ephemeral.  Rather, not language itself, but particular languages, particular words. 


Also the fusing of certain musical forms to certain emotions has the same feel of necessity and eternity.  Nonetheless, even more so than with language, my friends disagree with me about the meaning and the value of almost all the forms.   How has eternity mixed with the so very particular so well and in a fusing so confusedly?


The answer to the question cannot be had by denying either eternity or the fusion.  The fusion is real.  The eternal forms, the very gods themselves, really are present in the speaking and the music.  The words and the music really do bring particular things near. 


Likewise the sound is fused with the appearance of the written appearance.   And the sound of the music is in the notation.  So also is the form of the world inside the marks in a boy's algebra book.  And his movements, his dancing and his fidgeting are there in the geometry book under his arm. 


Language, signs, symbols and syntax, mirrors the world.  It is fused with the world and the very form of the world away from the world. Without it we could not think the world.  With it we can think even more than the world.


With language we can think language and eternity and the gods, and the confusion itself in you now as your mind wanders to the one you came so close to having and your walking away.  It is the blur of newly awakened eyes seeing the bright sun.  It is the darkness and the madness of the one who has gone back into the cave to speak of the light and the freedom from madness.  Everyone understands even in not understanding.  There is no answer, seek it lovingly.  The world wafts over your coffee.




1256  Languages and bodies of all sorts are structures.  A structure is a set with relations and thus it has order.  Order is direction, a transformation, a going from here to there.   The One becomes the One.  It is a slight break in eternity.  It becomes magnified and the world appears.  And disappears. 


This changeless changing that is order rests for a moment as itself in the delicate movement of eyes lowering in thought, of an arm wanting to reach around, of both love seized and deferred.   An uncanny union of the totally different.  That the form of lips parting and eyes filling up with tears should be the look of love is beyond comprehension.  That breath held and released and shaped by the hills and valleys of the mouth should contain the thoughts of love is baffling.   That the unlikely forms of the body are the very stuff of timeless desire and of beauty that is Truth.  That in those forms and their ceaseless ordering Being beyond that being is seen.  That in the strangeness of English I have made you see all that is unbelievable.  But we all believe, even against our unbelief.


The ontology of structure finds its paradigm in the meeting of lips and cheek when the fusing becomes confusion and a turgid filling up.  Such is the world as love's body.  And logic is the language of love.




1257  My theme is still the search for the thing that is the being of a set.  I search out different combinations of words trying to see the combining itself.  And I search out that before the combining.  Before a and b can be tied together with a tie, there must first be a and b.  That simple word and.  The together in tied together.  My imagination gets in the way.  I must get rid of all images.  I must not look around at any perceptions.  I see nothing in or out of my mind. I have only words to cling to. But even then in those ephemeral things I intellectually see something timeless.  That and the words are fused together.  A fusing that is perhaps the togetherness I am seeking.  Togetherness is with the word togetherness.  A fusion and for me a confusion.  Or a momentary lapse.   But what is that?  I try to see, maybe even mystically see, the thing that the English word points to and I see nothing or a questionable thing or just the break between thoughts together, or between mind and word and world.  Togetherness has become a dividing, the opposite of being together.  My theme has become the one and the many.  And of their being one and many.  It's endless.  And maybe hopeless.  I seem to see many roads all leading nowhere.  Each becoming a muddy path disappearing into undergrowth.


The being of a set is in the words that select the elements.  The words 'a or b' select a and select b.  The elements of the set are those that are identical with a or b.  Nonetheless, the phrase a or b is different, it seems to me, from the thing 'a or b'.  The first is complex, the second is simple.  The selector is a thing that words point to, just as togetherness is pointed to by the word togetherness.  We must not confuse words and things, even if they are fused. 


We are now back to the difference between a complex and a simple thing that is the elements of the complex together.  Have we achieved anything at all?  What now is the difference between the set grounding thing 'a or b' and the thought 'a or b'?  Is a set grounded in thought as the idealists think?  I refuse to think so.   I can think that 'a or b' is the ground of a set, and in that thought I am outside the world in the form of the world, philosophy.  The clouds are building up high and the wind is rising; it's going to rain.  The swirling is down around my legs.  The singularity my thought was headed straight toward has opened up into my body and the great atmosphere.  I am studying intently.  I am free.  Desire is close.  And the one who is my bewilderment.  Together with him I blur.  I am neither the one nor the other.  I am a or b.  I have descended to the point 'a or b'.  I am that one thing that is the many.  I am the many, He is all over me.  The answer is here.  But it shimmers and flashes and it's gone. 




1258  On the Iowa prairie, which for some reason seems so much older than Europe, there is something here that has been waiting for me for a long time.  Here the elemental things of Being are free of the hordes of people and their buildings and their history. 


We have laid everything out in orderly patterns, but even then the patterns seem more elemental.  We have machines and the most intricate logic circuits, but here those things seem to have the gods of the wind in them.  We have great universities into which we have transported everything from Europe, but all the forms seem freed from their historical moorings and are floating in timelessness.  An unsteady floating.  The Wind could undo everything at any time.  I walk about in the shimmering atmosphere.


Unless you understand atmosphere, you do not understand the prairie or the thinking or desire that is here.  It's a great thing over you.  Almost suffocating.  Almost lifting you up.  Threatening everything.  Then pushing breath into you. The atmosphere together with the regularity of the grid defining the flat land, both extending on forever - the human body is caught. 


We drive and drive and drive over the land sucking in the air, incessant music on the radio.  The rhythms are never changing.  So well defined.  The heart beat.  The seat under you is wet with sweat.  You've done this too many times already.  And you continue driving.  It's all elemental.  In the monotone of Being.




1259  The one boy lay still, the other leaned over him.  Each watched the other.  Each moved his hand slowly over the other.  In the time of study.  The heavy thud of Being. 


Lying still, he waited for the other to move his hand into place.  Face down he knew the other was between his legs, watching and studying and becoming.  When he felt the other enter him his head went back the filling up the light.


Others gathered around him.  His form lifted off into them.  They watched.  Hands went into him.  The boys were in him.  He filled up with great space.  Flying to other worlds.  His cock stiffened and burst.  The others gathered up the translucence.


Because the gods live in our words and words smear themselves on our lips, you now taste them there.  Look for another to kiss.  Slide your mouth all the way down his stomach. The eternal return.  He's still there watching you.




1260  Finally the parts are incommensurable.  No ratio is seen.  Your thought can barely hold them together in one act of thinking.  Your thought is more like a spinning.  The one part eating the other.  You have been going around like that for a long time now.  You are old, you are boggled, you are a blur.  You have become something not here. 


I try to lay out the world against eternity, but I find no ratio.  God is not comparable to anything else.  Jesus is finally without any unity.  His parts together make no sense.  And yet all this is something I understand easily.  I am a monster.  I am surely the incommensurable.  I am beyond the moon. 


I am here to be eaten.  I want to be in you and become you.  I am waiting for your mouth to move up my leg.  I know you have been studying me.  I am the one who ate you a few days ago.  Surely you remember.  I also watch you.   For a long time.  Then the Act.






In the slow movements of mindfulness I move in desire over the permanent things.  I have filled up sunyata.  The beautiful young monks lie together in a pile.  Each the repetition of the one beloved of the Buddha.  Each in a blur changing into the other.  Finally stuck together in their astral body of cum.  Existence is desire and a blur.  Nirvana is a blowing it out all over your friend. 




1261  Can I really solve the problem of finding the ontological ground of a set by looking to the quick human blur?  If a car is a very complex ontological structure, monadic, dyadic, triadic, n-adic relations piling up, sensa, sensa, sensa, arranged in maybe infinite combinations, operations, functions, dispositions packed into every corner, etc. etc. etc. and then looking at all that I ignore the sweltering riot of things and ties and facts and on and on and I simply call it a car because I am not God or am lazy or I don't know what else to do, and I get on with life, can I take that as the analytic end?  Is a face and a pair of blue jeans and a good story just a great complexity ignored and made a simple thing in quick thought?  Or is there really the simple form of car and face and even of those blue jeans and the storiness of a story, though we may all totally disagree on what form those forms take?  It seems to me there is.  I am not saying that those forms aren't a blur, or a mind spinning spirit, but I am saying it isn't my blur.  The whirling dervish really is a whirling out there.  And the still analytical parts really aren't so still.  Everything is full of gods.  The blur is there, but it is not human. 


I am dazzled and blind from the brightness of it all.  I can't see the parts.  That car, that face, those bulging jeans and that story you told me have left me  bewildered.  The things of Being have all fallen into the saki cup, and I'm afraid I have walked too near the edge of the roof.




1262  It really is quite frightening to not have a steady foundation to build my writing on.  The things of philosophy I write about are nowhere to be seen.  I can point to no phenomena appearing.  And I cannot hide that fact in abstruse syntheses of great compound words from conventional scholarship.  There's nothing there.  The Boy god, though appearing blindingly in all the writings of all the world's religions, is nowhere on the streets where I walk.  Nor is he on your street.  He's only a bewilderment of words.  And the word made flesh is questionable.  I see the letters of the words form on the face on an ordinary boy, but, when I try to read them, the ordinary boy looks at me as though I'm something strange.  I am.  There's nothing there or here.  Or the thing has vanished without a trace.  Or two worlds, this one and a non-world, met.  Sometimes though I think the ordinary boy does know, and he glances back at me as I leave.  Even that is soon gone.  This is not something that should be taught to young students in high school.  I suspect secretly that they understand this perfectly already.


Philosophy is frightening, both my kind and the ordinary analytic.  The end of it all is unspeakable and mind capturing obsessive.  Romantic insanity.  Few can handle it.  Eventually we all must.  Nevertheless, there is never enough time or money or intellect or expressive ability.  He will never sit still while you try to explain what you just did.   Anyway, the floor under you has given way. 


Surprisingly, you see that he has fallen with you.  Maybe during the long descent you will be able to accomplish what you want.  Crashing at the end may be rough.




1263  Because philosophy is a torment and a madness and pure obsession.  And because science is helpless to stop it.  And also government and family and friends.  We need an All-mighty Authoritarian God to make our brains stop spinning.      ……  To make this book make sense.  To stop my nervous trembling.


Whitman wrote great lists of lovely human things.  Probably because he saw such terrible things in the civil war.  Or because the deaths of all those beautiful soldiers made him mad.  His publishers with their bankers have worked to hold it all in place. 


The Grand Inquisitor came to hold back the vertigo of his Lord's freedom.  He became a shield for his people.  He was desperate.  The Church would mediate the whirlwind.


The pedestrian pleasures of family are substituted for the intensity of boy love.   And the violent dancing of religious orgies, and great jeweled cups holding sufi tears of blood, and the saphic liquid fire of jealousy running under the skin.  The authoritarian ordinary is necessary.




1264  The great complexity blurred, the bleary-eyed blending, the blindness and the bleached out.  The bright blemish.  The effulgent flagrant flame.  The blank look.  The  blazing.  In the bleak night.  Black.  Your blankets pulled up over your head.


Bells blaring, bowls bulging, balls bellowing, boys belching, poltergeists bawling, blades flourishing, butts bolted, bulwarks down boulevards blowing, boulders swelling, the great bulk of masculine phallic tumescence burning.


The language brims over.  The clear and the distinct seek cover.  The riot comes down to one thing. And explodes.  I have caught it and held it still.




1265  I do not romance a boy; I romance the boyness in the boy.  The boy disappears and only the form free of being in anything remains.  And a bare This.  Here, up on the roof, after I have climbed the scala paradici, many boys, all one boy, spinning.  This is the transcendent.  A still, golden blaring light, a metaphysical place.  A pungent odor, sublimated, a smell of the flesh from beyond.  It is not right that this should be here in this world.  It is not just that I should make the boy disappear and turn him into this ghostly thing.  My romancing him has taken the life right out of him and put an otherness within him.  I have lifted his very pubic fragrance to heaven and made it holy.  He evanesces. 


In words, the repulsive becomes attractive.  The rejecting becomes alluring.  The painful becomes pleasant.  The gross is made fine.  The world rises up.  The boy, on his bed, dreams of another world of wildness and gods, where, in an instant, everything is accomplished, order is established, the very rough things are loved.   The boy himself dreams of the metaphysical beyond.  The boy is himself the source of injustice in the world.  He is not a right thing.  It was a mistake that he came here.  He is the one who put genius in words.  He is the Word made flesh.  His death is terrible.  It is holy.  In a holy eating, lifted up, strange tastes, he is sifted through me and refined and becomes stardust.  A metaphysics that doesn't belong here.  Words that will not pass the censor.  A romancing that will land me in prison, in penitentiary penance.




1266  Anselm wrote from out of the sublime fragrance of his Lord.  His Sapentia in the taste and savor of knowing.  In the rising up of frankincense and myrrh, the soul rising up in the presence of God.  The smoky curls climb.  They mingle with the oily blackness of His hair.  And in the sudden sweetness of breath is the essence of the kiss.  Descending into the pungent odor of tumescence, there, in the madness of love.  All our knowledge of this antiquity comes from its redolence.   


Our art is a lifting up of the gross and painful to heaven.  In the machinery of words, it is all pulverized into the refined stardust of thought.  The body is made sublime.  Its savor is alluring.  Its twistings are the dance of Fire.  The splattering blood shines as the red stars strewn.  Its stench becomes unforgettably fine.  Everything changes.  Everything is redeemed.  The artist has found his cross.


The Fragrance of Being comes from out of all the burning in it.  Sharp and too sweet.  With his face down on his own bed, in the prayer of his own odor, Anselm knew his God.  From the friction of thought endured for so long he reeked.  He wrote.




1267  How can one maintain realism if he sees the Forms coming to him through words?  If the tremulous vocus flatus is the spirit?  If the breeze from a whisper is the touch of a lover, of the Lover?  If the incarnate translucence works its way in the saliva of a boy's mouth?  If the caves in his head create the waves of mantra sound maintaining the universe?  If morpheme and phoneme in mucus cohesion is the stuff of thought? 


Eternity clings to the most insignificant, the most ephemeral, the slightest.  Clinging is not identity.  Nor is it hanging dependence.  Eternity is not thereby reduced.


As my eternal desire clings to his cheek.  As my eternal grasping grasps his hair.  As the eternal Fire rises up in me at the sight of the not-to-be-seen.


The Forms come through the words; they are not the words.  They become words, but they are not the words.  When I speak the words, I speak the Forms. The shimmering waves of my words are the shimmering of the Forms, but the Forms are not words.  I hear the boy speak, I am listening to God.  Neither the boy nor God is the other.  The complexities of the world rest on the simple forms.  The complexities are nothing.  The forms are everything.  Yet the world is not reduced to God.  Nor is God the world. 


I cannot think without words.  I don't know if that's merely because I am limited and human.  Or if all minds, however infinite, rely on this net to catch the imperceptible and the unimaginable. Whatever the case, for me the object of my thought, sometimes so sublime and abstract, fuses with the language of my boyhood, and I can speak God, and with it I can build a transcendent platform on which to stand to see the vast expanse that is Being. 


With words I maintain the real.  With words I can hold the real thing in my hand.  With words the real that my eyes never sensed is with me.  The transcendent has fused itself to something in my mouth and in the curvings of the letters I write down. 




1268  As the point, almost nothing, is the controlling element of a circle, of the sphere, of the hypersphere, so does that sufic mole riding darkly above your lip control those seated around you, the angels, and is the target of times vectors.


God, the point, the ephemeral mistake of beauty, all draw the mind to the simplest, the closest to the unthinkable, the singular ruination of order. 


The Eternal and the most insignificant meet at the point of reduction.  The instant is led back.  The infinitesimally almost not is the infinite greater than.  Formless.  Matter and the godhead.  That the eternal should be caught by the most fleeting is proper.  That the eternal should be caught by the worldly significant would be an embarrassment to both God and the world.


The naked particular, just that, lost in a sea of naked particulars, is forever one with itself in the Oneness beyond Being.  The instant will eternally be replaced by no other, only a different instant is possible.  You, just you, so close to nothing and lost in Being, will timelessly be you; there is no other you.  That curl of hair, your curl on your head, just now, is eternal.  There is no other that can ever be that.  The force of self-identity is too great.  Nothing can snap it.  Your curl fills the All.  The All gives way.


Anything merely permanent through time would be truly nothing.  This fleeting excitement for a moment flitting around your eyelash is the timeless.  The eternal vanishes quickly.


For a moment I thought I saw love coming toward me through your gesture, but it was too intense for here and I lost sight of it.  Homely things remain.  For a moment, in one short phrase, I thought I saw explained the meaning of the incarnate God.  I did see it, but for a moment.  You did explain it.  It was perfectly there.  At that very point where I looked when I read. 




1269  My writings are no more than mildly literary.  No great system is to be found here.  I have as a ghost thought about the timeless powers of Mind, and I have seen inside my fleeting glances at Being that even I have the Power in me for such a seeing.   The literary has, I have seen while reading others, the right and the power of Being.  The dandy himself dances for God. 


I have adopted the great and only method of composition; I steal my ideas.  Just as stolen kisses are sweeter, so I have felt the presence of the power of Being be mine from out of the thoughts of others.  May only true lovers steal from me.  I give the most insignificant.   I was one who longed for desire and I found it.







That eternity should just be my confusion, fits well with the order of things.  Opposites meet.  The dandy and the executioner.  The worried student and Siva.  The Taliband and the martyr's Night of Power.  Abraham and the unspeakable act.  Jesus and the Sleep that came over his disciples.


My confusion comes out of Confusion itself.  The Absolute is a senseless thing.  Weekend mystics failing once again to explain what they maybe saw.  A weariness even when you have energy to go on.


Nonetheless, confusion is confusing.  My vision of it is clear.  It is a distinct thing.  I write with some art.  The Boy has kept me in the presence of his pure face.  My swoon is in the open night of crystalline stars.  My disorder is a secret order.  I have stood back and calmly watched my passion.  It was merely a being I momentarily saw.  About its existence I have no doubt.  It is from afar that I watch the opposites kiss.  I have studied it all.




1270  I don't know why I like to read Cioran so much.  His depression is such a delight.  That I would find in his words gems of wisdom must be an embarrassment to him.  He's such a Platonist, such a Christian mystic, such a dandy; even in old age he is still a fashionable young man from Romania.  He was probably a sexy thing for me.  So pale, so listless.  A beauty to be bound in the cords of the French language.


I, of course, would probably never be given a second thought by him, nor by the ontological analysts I steal from.  Not that I have ever stolen from Cioran.  Pederasts who are hopelessly Christian have no market.  I write for the unknown.  I live in the Unknowable.  Cioran is too much of this world.  I think he could never die and leave it.  His fashionable Platonism and mysticism are manqué, as they should be.   We from the prairie could never reach such heights.  Iowa is farther away than is Romania. 


Nonetheless, boys from there, whether gypsy or roman, would find the same boyness in a languid, sex-driven prairie boy.  The refined and the artistic with a rock and roll boy in his car.  Long lines going to infinity.  Boys falling into tunnels going to the other side of the planet.  Each is a master at suction and seduction.  Their lure is real and eternal.  Cioran knows he is irresistible.




1271  At the beginning of the mad 20th century Wittgenstein, in passing, spoke of the form of the world.  He said it was not anything in the world and that it could not be spoken.  He would pass by it without speaking.  He never did speak.  It was too much.  He decided it was wrong, and he went on to lesser things.  At the end of the century Bergmann, who thought he could speak right well of it, because it was well within the world, lingered long.  He later changed his mind, though always waving his hands that he hadn't really changed his mind, and that he would now speak metaphorically, but that the form, he could now see, was not a thing of the world and really couldn't be spoken, but was something seen, he could now see, in words, yet he wasn't in any way a nominalist.  He didn't even bother to speak that last point.  Not being a good poet, or any poet at all, he never satisfyingly spoke this not being in the world and its being unspeakable, and even unthinkable.  He stopped short.


I have spoken it all.  I have not been afraid of the consequences.  And you have understood.  Though you may not at all trust your understanding.  I have spoken religiously without the grandness of claiming faith.  I am left here twisting in the wind. 




1272  Begin with Wittgenstein's idea that the world consists of facts, not of things.  That is to say of a something having such and such a property.  This triple of a something, a property and a connector is mirrored in sentences or the symbols of logic.  Obviously, the properties and connectors multiply and pile up and become very complex indeed.  And fact joins with fact.  That the world should consist of complexities isn't new with him.  Plato's world consisted of matter or some such thing participating in the Forms.  Aristotle had a slightly different idea about the connector between, but the world was still such a complex.  In this century, Bergmann had bare particulars and exemplification and universals.  The idea is basically the same. 


One of the problems with this view is what to do with general, abstract facts about facts.  Are they also of the world?  Can they be mirrored in sentences and the symbols of logic?  Let me give you some examples.  A fact consists of a particular tied to a universal.  This fact is empty of content.  "A" particular is not any particular.   "A" universal likewise isn't any particular universal.  Which leads to the question - Are particulars and universals particularized?  If so, that is another empty fact.  We could call all these meta-facts. But such names solve no philosophical problems.  Also, it seems that, in order to state these philosophical questions, I have had to use language is questionable ways.  Language has a hard time expressing philosophical thoughts, if indeed philosophical thoughts really are meaningful.  Are there really such thoughts there or only the illusion of thought?  If there is no thought there then the sentences expressing them are nonsense, and not real sentences, whatever that could mean.  It all becomes very confusing.  Nonetheless, we do seem to understand philosophy right well. And we also understand the most abstract statements of mathematics.  What facts or things do these statements mirror?   Are they pseudo-facts in a pseudo-mirroring?  Are they just vague word constructions?  If not vague, then tricky or difficult or even mystical.


"Empty" philosophical and mathematical "facts", it is true, are not phenomena seen in this world.  Yet we "know" them easily.  There is, however, no reason to use scare quotes as long as we remember that there is a problem here with finding a phenomenal basis for philosophical statements themselves.


Wittgenstein, at the end of the Tractatus, momentarily jumped into mysticism.  He quickly jumped back.  Bergmann left mystical statements to the poets.  He simply respected the limits of philosophical analysis as a personal limit and stopped.  I have jumped headlong into the sun and you see me here transfigured.  You may like what you see, you may abhor it.  That's up to you.  I am not so different from the others you see after the jump, from Plato onwards.  Only the artistic skill at writing it down is different.  I cannot judge my art.  I insist that I am doing philosophy, not poetry. 




1273  The boys of my writings are hardly real world boys, but they are the proper image of philosophy.  It was so from the beginning.  Their ghostly existence is that of my most abstract forms.  They are not of the positive and the practical.  They neither tend to matters of the world nor are tended to.  Even their roughness and their erect rigidity are not to be seen.  Real world boys do know these boys though, alone in their rooms, in their escape.


Philosophy is the escape, for those who want an exit.   Those philosophers who try to block the way, those who have felt it necessary to kill their boyhood ways, those who have learned guilt over such things, those who now fill the world's institutions, are safe, for the time being.


This is a Nietzschean Christian philosophy.  It all comes out of a technological leveling. It is a silent study.  It is narcissus made numb.  And it is sexual feeling brought to its peak.  It is in the bowels of the Transverberation.




1274  As philosophy is in the world about something outside the world, so are the boys of my writing.  As philosophy is seen and then not seen, the boys instantly move and then any possibility of a story is lost.  So is any visible structure for my thinking to hang on abandoned?  The construction was never begun.  These boys hang out in abandoned work yards.  The work of philosophy is finished.  Only Work itself remains.  A ghostly thing hanging in the air.  The boys are worked. 


This is maybe romanticism that seeks an escape from romanticism.  That is the modern world.  For some of us the escape is urgent.  Is Satan really the god of this world?  The maiden is thus replaced by the boy.  Technology is replaced by the essence of technology.  Logic becomes that beyond meta-logic, the Logos from long ago in a time of light.   We are in the unfamiliar.  The uncanny.  A thing so close to the heart of romanticism.  Have I escaped?  Have I captured again the classical?  Has Christianity made that impossible?   Did Jesus really find a way out of the lair of the goddess? 


The escape from romanticism and its inevitable rush toward the sensible and the practical as salvation from the wild gyrations of the singular way out.  The escape from the doomed escape that was supposed to be romanticism but was too frightening.  The escape that I have written, or, as I am compelled to say, that has been written through me, hangs in the wind.  Some of us can feel the wind blowing, or we feel that we can.  There's nothing here to be seen.  But we can see other things easily.


Boys alone in their rooms are frightening things to the world.  They use technology to accomplish that not permitted.  And they can talk to each other over great distances.




1275  The autoerotic boy, in the building intensity of his imagination and in the words of incantation for that beyond any imagining, is of no use to the world.  But from out of his mind has come the modern world and the world coming.  The beginning of the world, the formless form, the Urground, the unknown so well known by boys, so rejected, the intense love mass in the chest, suffocates us all.


Someone will try to save this boy.  To make him a proper member of society.  To give him a useful outlet.  But the outlet does not let him out.  And the use is of no use.  He dies to the world. 


I manipulate words incessantly, trying to once again see.  I work the work.  The thought is scraped clean.  I polish quickly.  The light comes suddenly.  I sleep.


I know language and the rhythms of language.  I know words and that inside the words.  The god appears in my moving knowledge.  I am abstracted.  I am the most delicate thing.  I tremble while I try to lay myself down inside smooth sentences, on paper, before I disappear.


Maybe all writing is autoerotic. A doubling.  The word emanates.  Nighttime emissions.  Better yet, because the writer is so close to the words, the Word in the looming emptiness is begotten.  The boy has cloned himself.  The Friend.  In the Movement they are that One Thing. 




1276  Facts about a golden ball - that it is heavy, that it is round, that it is old, that it is golden - are not non-existent thought things attached to a real object, the golden ball.  In this philosophy, only the facts are there.  Objects disappear into facts.  Objects do not exist.  Thus facts about facts are also there.  But the most general, abstract facts, empty facts, purely formal facts, are where?  We do not see them as we inescapably see ordinary facts.  Nonetheless they are totally understood.  They are even completely understood.  They are translucent.  They are in Intellectual Light.  You know well what I am talking about.  You also understand when I say that such pure facts about the form of the world are not in the world.  They do not present themselves to the mind's eye from out of the world.  Maybe from out of the point on which the world revolves.  I'm sure you can find some sense in that metaphor.  And when I say that it is not a metaphor you can make sense of even that metaphor.  The mind boggles.  The yellow ball remains before you heavy and old.  And your seeing it and your seeing and knowing what you see.  The translucent brutishness.


The ghostly things of philosophy are inevitable.  They become the most real.  And There their ghostliness falls off.   But where is that There?   I do know its curves and valleys and peaks well.  It has the form of a lover I move over in the night.  From out of his Golden Ball in my hand the world appears.




1277  Compared to the freakishness of modern writing, my writings are hardly anything radical.  Compared to the analyses in ordinary math, physics, and logic books I am almost old-fashioned.  Compared to the new words and phrasal turnings in today's philosophy books, I am definitely from the simpler past.  I am surpassed. 


My loving is too sweet, strangely too innocent, that of a Genetic prisoner on my bed.  Too lacking in story to be a story, too lacking in analysis to be analysis.  Too minimal to be erotic, except maybe for the religious, mystically erotic, but they are musty.  My words have no more content than the empty scholastic chants of Buddhist monks, but through them I have made myself excited with a god.  The darling Manjushri. 


Like all drunks, I think my words are wisdom itself.  The saki boy smiles.  It's enough for him to be loved by me.   He has neither money nor beauty, just his dick. 


The eucharist spreads itself before an old drunk like me, a nihilist monk, a faggot to be eaten himself.  And for me to eat that god is my attempt at the kenosis.  And the anathema.  And the secret escape.  No one has surpassed me in sublimating all that into the ordinary.  I am neither this nor that, neither a typhoon nor something more divine; I am Eros.  I sit with the boy jesus, whom you cannot see.  He tastes so good.




1278  I do not write as a lecturer before his attentive students.  My students have all fallen headlong into their books and are now dreaming.  The sentences I now speak to them are twisted and tight.  They are unbearably long and doubled like the helix.  They break easily.  The centripetal spiraling crushes in to a single point.  


The tone I use to speak to them is a quiet, gentle rising and falling, steady and insistent.   They are going nowhere.  They haven't gone anywhere for a long time.  They can't seem to understand what I am trying to teach them.  It's so close.  They can't get to it.  Order is abandoning them fast. 


Each wonders whether he is himself or he is the one next to him.  He watches the scene.  Maybe it's all just a movie.  There's very little oxygen in the air.  Paper dust has clogged everything.  Suffocation.


Philosophy is screaming.  Nietzsche can't get out of his madness.  The smell is oppressive, so sweet, so alluring, so sexy, so obliterating.


Philosophy is adolescent boycrotch itch wings sprouting.  A hand too close.  Cover him up, he's dead.  No wait, he's getting a hard-on.  Slowly.  It's rising.  Don't wake him.  He smells like musty flowers.  Can he breathe?  The sentences are so long and broken. 




1279  I cannot operate in the East.  I cannot sit on the floor with my legs made useless.  I cannot eat food covered up with spices.  I cannot stop my thinking and become mindful of nothing at all.  I read.  I ponder.  I question and argue.  I create my own way.  I dance myself.  I say I.  I myself am Aham, the Atman.  The feet on the Gurus stink.  I move away to be by myself.  I am peripatetic.  I want to enter when I want.  I want to give incessant little stings like Socrates.  I want to taste the taste of things unadorned and natural.  I want.  Art with food is sick.


To demand, as does the East, that boys sacrifice their time, minds and life to get enough money for a great drunken wedding is the original sin.  The gods of Race and Procreation must be stopped.  Teach the boys that Nirvana means to leave home.  Let them live only with themselves.  Let them learn to see the seething erotic loveliness of each other.  Let them learn the science of making copies of themselves.  Teach them to reek havoc on society.



Because Burroughs never learned religion, never really studied it, he got it all backwards.  He mistook fundamentalists for the followers of Jesus.  In fact it is the pagan religions that are the keepers of race and family and procreation.  Jesus came to smash that hell.  No more sacrificial dying on the Great Wheel.  No more family ghosts.  The demons Burroughs picked to do his destroying were the very defenders of all he wanted to destroy.  So in the end, it didn't work and he had only his cat.  I have learned a lot from Burroughs.  He was too much of this place.  


The Wild boys of Burroughs seem to have no mind.  They know nothing of paradox and separation from oneself.  They are not tormented and passionate like Jesus.   The Wild boys of Jesus are sexually intense and intimate with the wildness of thought.  Burroughs was too fond of the fine sensual pleasures of the world.  Always a boy from money.  Nonetheless, I have learned a lot from him.


And Burroughs should have let us see the whirlwind of his own mind walking around in among his boys.  In the spaces of his cut-ups he should have said I.




1280  There is a system to ontology.  In my mind's eye I can see how it all fits together, or one way it might.  One problem is that it is written into that system that part of it cannot be ordered into a system.  But that may only be a part of the writing of it.  What we can write and what we can think and what we can intellectually see are not the same.  In my mind's eye I see not only the world and its form, but also the system and the writing of the system.  And the mind's eye can see what cannot be seen.  The whole enterprise is always about to collapse.  Maybe we in fact are looking at the collapsed ruins.  The fact that I am here only writing and you reading does make matters worse.  Where is the escape?


Nonetheless, through all that we can be systematic.  And we can write a clear sentence using the distinct.  But it's not necessary.  If someone writes a sentence full of turgid and true ontological nonsense, we can also understand.  We can think more than the system.  We can think the unsystematized being of System.  And we can think the oppressiveness of systems.  Systems, like the human face, are beautiful in one light and then not.  I quickly get bored when I try to write the system.


Maybe I get bored because I am a bad system writer.  I get bored at doing what I cannot do.  Maybe the false lure of escape from incompetence has caught me.  Maybe, but such thoughts are also a part of the system.  The eidolon is also there.  It in itself is also a system.  No doubt a false system, but it is there and it is a system.  None of us can write the system.  It hovers above our heads.  It could be an angel.  It could be a vulture.


Shall I go on?  The dialectic is endless.  A crazy science.  And when love and desire and the flesh are mingled with it, it merely jumps to the higher quantum orbit of madness.  And the eidolon, the anti-particle, the virtual particle, is always there matching energy for anti-energy.  You see, ontology, because it is desperate and shameless, will try any metaphor, even that of the well grounded it steals from physics, not knowing how far physics has fallen.


This is only writing.  The words keep coming, no doubt from God, but he has plans that don't include rest. 




1281  Perhaps it is because we see Mohammed as the Caliph of the Heresiarch Arius, that we attribute to his own the forbidden.  Perhaps we are enchanted by those who dared.  On the desert, in the emptiness and the wind, there is freedom.  Surely in the holy intrigue of spinning commentaries on the Koran, in the magic of Arabic words to mean the opposite of what they mean, in passion restrained tightly, Passion breaks out and the boy is taken.  Visions of heavenly wine in the violence of Green everywhere.  On the desert, a man turns. 


Why is it so tempting for a Christian to deny the divinity of Jesus, to deny the sacrifice?  Is it because with the power of the Law kept in place, rage against the Law is stronger?  There is no rage like the quiet, silent dialectic of theology in the hands of believers.  Jesus, like them, thinking backwards to heaven, has become the words of argument.   A furious crying to Jesus to come back and take us away.


I too want to keep Jesus here with me.  I don't want him in a far heaven, in blinding majesty.  I want him ordinary like me.  And in that he is God.  I spin theology to get what I want.   I have attempted and achieved the forbidden.  The Boy is mine.  I have learned enchantment and magic.  I can slip off the covers easily.  The robe drops to the floor.




1282  In Jesus, God became sin, sin became God, the sinner in his sin was made into God.  As in art, the merely terrible is made into the sublime Terrible, depravity becomes the soul's dark beauty Depravity, and ordinary murder is now Glorious Knowledge.  And yet, art is only art, the world knows it isn't art; it knows the difference.  Religion isn't art.  It is real or it is nothing.  How can God and sin unite?  How can our sin be God? How can this ordinary terrible murderous place be the work of the pure God?  These are nerve-wreaking questions, easy to answer in words, in answers that are hard to live.  I must not let religion and philosophy become art.


In the Renaissance, religion became art, wonderful art.  But religion was thus betrayed.  Religion must remain the difference between art and the real.  Jesus must always be the unthinkable entry of the eternal, not into reverie, but into that very unartful one sitting or standing or lying with you.  The ordinary is not lifted up, but the on high is brought down, out of an inordinate love.  It looks like the leveling of the rabble.  The boy with his ordinary dick has won.  That is eternity.


The world and its ordinary, painful, killing ways are real.  There can be no philosophy of blissful illusion.  And there can be no Death that brings the balm of oblivion.  Eternity is this.  Jesus, help us.  The terrible will not become sublime for us.


And yet, the Terrible remains there to lure and tempt us.  Why?  God made it too as a part of things made.  Maybe it is even a part of Him.  Does God tempt us?  I should rather say, He tries us.  He tries us with Himself.  And He becomes sin and one of us to give us a place away from Him.  As Jonathon helped David escape from Saul.  As John was a place of rest for Jesus away from all that.  But is that art for us?  It can't be.  Art remains the temptation.  I have also written artfully.  Can god become that sin also?  For me?  And my inevitable dialectical confusion?


Jesus connives with me. 




1283  This is simply this.  The not this is a complexity built out of this and the not.  The not not this is an even greater complexity.   As complexity rises higher time stretches out to hold its being thought.  If this then that.  Higher up - It is not the case that that and not this.  Greater complexity is not reducible.  The complex and the complexly complex must be respected as beings themselves.  Being divides in an ineluctable division.  Consciousness holds the division before itself.  And in its self-consciousness it is a third thing.  The dividing irreversibly continues.  In a going on that was always there, everywhere, bleeding.  The Peace of the One was never a leading back to non-existence; it was always in the violence of existence, a thought not to be thought.


A philosophy of realism and categories, of both the simple and the complex, thought's eventual collapse and the laborious demand that it must not.  A philosophy of complexities that are too much for us.  Of no way out.  Of dry days.  Finds itself late at the foot of a ladder.  In the dark night flame of burning love.  With the cypresses and a roof.   He hides and holds the wound of oblivion.


The difficulty of philosophy has led me and others to this end.  It's an inevitable end.  A confusing end to the story.  So desirable.  So unexplainable.




1284  The boys I write about seem to have nothing to do but lounge and contemplate  Being.  These are boys of leisure.  Perhaps only kids from money can do that.  How sad.  The world is demanding.    Who can protect these boys?   Who can give them a high place?   Oh Lord, you are our rock.  We will fly up with the eagles.


The boys of the Academy loved the ugly, old Socrates.  And each other.  But jealousy was ever present.  Beauty and fierceness.  They spoke with words that were always close to deception.  Sometimes in the really real.  Always questionable.  Never with a concern for the work of life.  A wall protected them from the world.


School, when ideal, is useless.  But into this uselessness first come the things from the gods.  Surely the gods are equally repulsed by the need to tend to matter.  The removed and the spiritual belongs to the rich kids of Being, both here and in the unseen There.  The Sons of God have no need to work.


I have had to work.  The time for study and dreams and thought and the unconcern about obligations I have had by forcefully ignoring and defying the world.  I live in a rich country though, so I was able.  I urgently pray that the others will be rescued.


Philosophy is thus subversion.  In challenging the demands of the world, in making the counter demand that a different thing should have its place, in admitting the gods into their order and in connivance with them, the boys change the world into the uncanny.  The unfamiliar undermines the foundations and a city on high is begun to be built.


Nonetheless, it is not a city of slow peacefulness as is the material world.  The wildness of Love is there intense.  Thought is in extreme, tearing swings.  Lounging falls into deep sleep where nightmares appear.  The Lover is unremitting.  A jealous God.  The boys are in the sacrifice.  In the Labyrinth of the godhead.  While Socrates waited they were carried away.




1285  If Being itself appears or the Logos or God, then there is before you something that speaks of its being that.  Somehow through that thing you see into eternity.  You see a thing that will require you to grab at words to try to capture what is there.  We are all familiar with the words and with their uselessness.  We know why you use those words; we have no others.  We all know that maybe we should fight against the vision and the hopelessness of your words.   The vision of these things for those who have suffered them is impossible to conquer.  It is there.  I use the words from the long time of our history.  What else can I do?


For me, as you maybe know too well, the vision is a mind destroying unthinkable thing that leaves in its wake, in the parting of the moving spirit, the unspeakable beauty of the Boy and I am forced to try to speak.  The words somehow come. 


The words that come are only the same old words that have been found so many places so many times.  The syntax is the same twisted thing.  The arguments are those of a sophomore.  Ordinary.  And, I like to think, adolescent, because in vino, in ira, in puero veritas est.  That veritas is surely the emanating beauty I see and that undeniably speaks of the It-ever-was.


For a moment, the human being possesses beauty that no god can surpass.  Then it is Beauty itself that is there.  And we know it.


Why do I speak of Beauty and not any of the other transcendent Forms?  It is because only Beauty appears right there.  The other Forms we may know intimately and clear through, but only Beauty stands before our eyes, looking back.  It speaks, waiting for an answer.  You want to speak back to it what you have seen.  Reflected power now the only possibility of power.  Logical thought and calculations scramble through your head and you try to remember the old words.  You hope you can infuse what you see into them.  You want the words to make your soul beautiful enough in turn to be there.  A power, a gift, the sacrifice of your self.  Its presence is demanding, and you must think many things fast. 


It's all too much.  But you know Beauty soon leaves, and mental twistings will not make it come back.  The other Forms seem to be somehow always with you, and you know the incantations to call them up.  Beauty has frightening independence.


The sufi vino is also here, as is surely a secret holy ira in all I do.




1286  The act of teaching is the act of giving birth.  The teacher is pregnant.  He waits for the presence of beauty in the faces of his students, in their form and their movement, in their coy coming on and moving back.  In that, the Form that has come to be within him, transforms itself into an outward thing, in words, in art, in an ordering revealing something beyond them all, reflecting the very Beauty he sees.


The teacher is caught in paradox.  He gives the students what they already have, but, because he is there, they need him so they can be themselves.   He has become their being.  Just as the cop is the being of the criminal, and the psychiatrist is the very being of our mental illness.   And the lover is the being of the beloved.  The teacher may try to run from it all, if he truly understands all that is going on.  But where can he run to? 


The teacher is walking a fine line here.  If he is a good teacher and if he also has the wine of transcendence in him the danger of falling off the line is ever suddenly there.  Quite simply, he could land in jail.  Socrates did. 




1287  Moving around and away from that which appears to that outside the world, to the transcendent Forms, like a lover in a rendezvous with the beloved, revealing the unappearing, unthinkable contradiction.  What was it he said? 


Beauty has appeared, but it is an appearing of the not appearing.  In his being there, he isn't there at all.  His words have no meaning, simply no meaning.  His kiss is like water.  His taste is like air.  His promises are about nothing.  His fineness over his heavy sleepiness is only my own shudder.  His beauty is that he has become a thing totally, maddeningly independent of me.  That is Being.


That outside is merely that away from me.  The real.  That which does not appear as any of the phenomena in my mind.  I do not know what he is doing at night when I am not there.  His being, his reality, is never to be mine.  Thus he is the surpassing beauty I long for.  The others are too much, so oppressively much with me, in me, slumming me up.  I want outside myself. 


The real, the actual, does not appear.  A philosophy of realism is a reaching.  All men by nature reach to know.  Surely it is a longing, a great desiring.  For the boy, in the closeness of touching, a tickling agility, a fire, an itch to fly.   Pain in its extreme.  He is rigid.  His body is for him there real, he feels, he longs for himself, he reaches, it's all far away, outside.  He heard himself say something, but what?




1288  Without the incessant, unrelenting, frustrating, tiresome work there is neither philosophy nor love.  This is the Ascesis.   Without the numbing repetition of rehearsal the performer will never enchant.  Only in the stupor of the exercises can the heat build.  Only in spiritual stiffness can the translucent stuff ooze out.


The human is gone and the machine begins to move and we are transported to another world.  All ascesis is deadly.  It is the sacrifice.  The stageboy with make-up on, acting now out of pure form, alluring and hypnotic.  He has no free will.   He will not be allowed in normal society.  He is dead.


His muscles remember.  He has been in the positions too many times.  He is cooked in the heat of repetition.  He is a thing to be eaten.  The soft machine.


These ascetics move through the time when they feel that they will never arrive.  The spirit is always too much.  The over and over again is sickening.  The look of tiresome disgust is the look of the Spirit in him.  He is now something strange.  Twisted.  Perfection that is not natural.  It is lust.  He breathes hard with the Breath blowing through him. 


He is enchanting.  He watches himself.  Lost in enchantment, he knows perfectly well where he is.  When he tries to walk away, he is lame.




1289  Why are mathematics and logic and ontologic so enchanting to me?  And not only me?  At times they are no more than drudgery, lines on paper, the paper dust fills me up.  They are suffocating.   The tension of having to do the exercises, the fear of not being able to when called, the pointlessness of it, the vomiting up, the having to continue.  Dry, grinding sparks.  The smell of smoke and ozone.  A dark, dirty smith's workshop.   Enchantment.  But why?


To at last succeed.  The find the perfect coherence.  To clasp the last clasp.  To see a combination never seen before.  To be at the creation of the cosmos.  To become the Light.  To find the blazing up when the rush of oxygen flows in.


The conclusion encloses the work and transforms it from scattering into order.  The night sky becomes a well-marked highway.  The fall off the precipice has been taken over by air traffic control.


The energy the spirit uses to set up order comes from outside the universe.  The pure energy of pure form.  The instant of creation is always present.  There never was a first moment.  In the extending infinite we were always maybe somewhere else.  This right here seems to be the Place.  The universe never was one thing.  The many falls away to nothing.  The One thing, it seems, I have in my hand.  I have known for a long time that I would arrive here.  I have left ruins behind burning.  The smell is like incense rising up to me.  It curls around me.  I'm in the house of the Lover.  Hephaestus.  I am Alexander, who conquered the world.




1290  Our God is an absolute tyrant.  In His presence we have no free will at all.  What he commands is right because He has commanded it.  He can throw those into Hell, whomever he wishes.  And give paradise to whomever he chooses for no reason.  His glance can kill.  Or give life.  His lovers he will trample under foot in the dust.  His honored servants here are often the most despicable.   Need I go on?    


All this makes sense only if this holy thing is a youth of surpassing beauty.  We have all known such beings, and we have felt our helplessness before them.  The commotion that arises in us is maddeningly lovely.  We easily fall in love with the pain and the horror.  Life, then, without this becomes unthinkable.


If this God is not such a beauty, but is merely a councilor for our own good, then the religion is worthless.  We have no use for such well-being.


Fortunately, we have developed a mighty logic against such power.  A logic that amplifies it and us.  We have become gods ourselves.  We too have learned the backward going gestures of lover and beloved.  We have observed and practiced and cut our own wrists.  This God will at last be ours.  The Boy will yield.




1291  Beyond the Boy is …… what?  Is he the Son of something else?  Of himself?  Of the Void?  Of the Gloom?  Our religions differ and are confused.  Is there structure in the godhead?  Is it a hopeless labyrinth?  Is this thing the limitless going around of the smooth thigh?  Filled up and a power on your mind. 


The Boy yields.  To what?  To the power.  He too, it seems, knows the Thing coming over him.  Has he seen himself and made a double?  All religions agree that the unity of this God must hold.  There cannot be another.  But He is in commotion.  Over what?  He must have fallen into himself.  He must have been overtaken by himself.  And now the world shakes.  We are the secretion of that passion. 




1292  I write the Boy because the qualities I give him, the eternal Forms I see hanging around me when he lingers near, are those qualities that speak to me of the heart of Being.  Being is not the mute, unaware forms of a still and finished world.  It is not something merely there.  It is the stark staring at such things.  It is the turbulent mind here confronted.  It is the knife of intellect striking.  It is the waiting for blood to flow.  The Boy is all things disturbing.  Being is the rush to save him.  The Boy is the fright of Being for the safety of Being.  It is Being staying close to Being.  It is Being holding Being tight in its own arms.

Being is the questioning about the reality of the great heaps of things in Being.  The Boy's room is cluttered with treasured things, but the things there come to nothing.  They are dream objects.  Yet nothing is more real than a boy's dreams.

The Boy lies naked on his bed.  The loveliness of Being is overwhelming.  Sufis clamor to get a look.  Bring the wine and we will sit outside his window!

I am in the movement of Being.  The swinging and the dancing is violent.  He falls on the bed and then falls off.  I am pressed under his weight.  The Being of the world closes in tight.  But it is all as light as air.


The Being of the Boy is a tightening in my stomach.  I am sick with love.  Apples give me no comfort.  I have had too much of flagons.  I wait for it all to pass.

That I should be taken by all this.  Conquered and at its command.  No escape.  Wanting no escape.  Unable to imagine anything else.  In the Absolute of not knowing any other.  The brute fact of Being.  Is the drive of my consciousness.  It is all very deep.  Far from the wan and faded world left when Being departs.

The Boy's leaving is a part of Being.  It is the Leaving here that is Being.  It is Being that is the merely existent, the mute unaware forms of Being.  The objectively studied.  The study that lands once again in the heat and the Fire of Study, in Being.  The Student in me, lounging and lingering in me, driving me, hanging over me, looking down at me.  I have been scorched.

I look for others like me, where he has been.  He has been here.  Even their mere and the mute existence speak of it.




1293  Being is also the self-deception of Freud.  It is the backwardness of resentment of Nietzsche.  Both of these our teachers fell into their own ideas and became that.  As Van Gough became the darkness beside the blazing light.  As Jesus became sin.  As Socrates became sophistry.  As Bergmann became a nominalist.  As I simply walk away from the boy.  But in transcendence the reversal is reversed.  The circle that became a straight line is now a hyper-circle.  The fall never occurred; it was only a lifting up.  In the most sublime thoughts the thinker, the lover, is carried up.  He becomes disoriented.  Being takes over and swirls him around here and there.   


The Muslims, in their great rush to not be idolaters, in the violence of their twisting to shirk off shirk, in the incessant purging of their words - they have changed the Word of God itself.  They could not let themselves think of the revealing of the Thigh of God.  The image, so powerful, so alluring, so leading to a filling up of desire, was purged.  They would now speak only of the Power of God.  In the abstraction, they were safe from themselves.  In the end God will give them back to themselves.   Each will look at the revealed thigh of the other and swoon.  The Power will come them over.


In Being, at the insistence of Being, we eventually fall.  It becomes the Fall.  A blessed thing.  A lifting up.  The Eagle's hook has gone in deep.  Its wings become ours.  We fly up and swoop down to snatch up another.  The gathering in.




1294  Every thought, in ontological analysis, is surrounded by a fringe universal.  The idea that … is a fearing that, a hoping that, a loving, a simple perceiving, a remembering, a questioning, doubting, wondering.  We then are in Fear, Hope, Love, all the forms of Knowing and Not-Knowing; we are in Being.   That we are in something, hooked by the subtle connector "in", is clearly seen.  We are in the Translucence.  We are structured in Structure.  We float.  The Structure is a Coming Undone.  Everything is writ large.  Even our knowledge that … is piercing.  The fringe is on fire.


That this should be so is clearly too much weariness for the tired.  Or that this should be so is rest for the tired.  It is balm or offence.  It is another matter to read my words on the matter.  They easily and quickly become tiresome.  I depend totally on the fringes catching fire.  How the fire feels to you is your concern.  The Fire is real.  So is the escape from it.


Is there really a nexus that I should name "surrounded by"?  Surely, that is a visual metaphor.  So is the nexus "in".  Nonetheless, the image seen is itself fused with its meaning.  In that it is like language.  The world is a book.  The Book is the world.  Yes, "surrounded by" is the nexus, as is "suffused by", "steeped in",  "taken and ravaged by", the loveliness goes on and on, as does the worrisomeness of it "drowning in", "succumbing to", "slipping under".  Images are also real and structured with connectors, ties, relations, and nexus.  If you find this to be a slum and a teeming emptiness, I do also sometimes.  That too is a part of Being.    Our idolatry toward Being is ever here.  In that we are also surrounded, steeped, drowning, and slipping. 




1295  The boy lay naked on his bed, the breeze gently moving, gently touching, the sunlight fading, the boy's existence curling up into a single point.  This is existence as it is in itself.  Mere existence.  The world has vanished.  This is the pure form of logic.  This is the Logos.  The boy is with himself.  Face to face, inside himself.  He is the same.  This is pure existence.  Back to the beginning.  The god. 


This is the unspeakable.  The mouth closing myein.  The Mute.  The Myth.  I have worked and laid it out.  I am the Smith, Hephaestus.  I have made an Alexander who has conquered the world.  I am inside my words.  I am at the existence of words.  I have worked existence. 


The work and the gentle breeze.  The fading sunlight and my spoken unspeaking.  The curling up and the laying out.  The beginning that has conquered.  His face buried in his pillow.  Reality and desire that carries the mind across to reality.  Mere existence and the mere boy.  The world has merely vanished. 


The boy is the most elaborate structure ever built.  The most complex.  The most refined.  The most inward going recursive.  He explodes outward and is held in stillness.  I have made this the appearance of mere simple existence.


Philosophy is the identity of the simple and the complex.  An unspeakable identity.  There is no such thing as the complex.  It is mere shimmering over the elemental things.  The boy is no thing.  


The boy is the desire that comes over him.  He fills up.  He is numb with sexual taughtness.  He barely stares at nothing.  Grab his head and move it around.  He is just flesh.  A thing.  His being is eerie.  He is mere existence.  Existence is him.  The complex is just simply that.


The eternal stillness of things.  Just that.  The stuff of time.  The Thing that fills up the world.  The repetition of the chant.  The inward going holy words.  Just that.  It is written all over the boy's face.  His skin sucks it in.  He lies there.  Your thoughts are the gentle breeze sending cold flashes all through him.  He is curling up again.




1296  It has become obvious that in all the seen phenomena there is no explanation for all that we see.  There must be other worlds.  Other primal elements.  Other thoughts unthinkable here.  We must leave this home.  The heart breaks.  The god that is the answer is right before us, but we can't speak him.  He wants us to come away.  His call is sweet and probably irresistible.  He is unimaginable and sure death.  A painful death.  A promised sweet pain.  And the churches we have built and all the theology we have thought up cannot hide the fact.  A mad idea.  An immoral thing to teach the young.  The police are also close waiting for any true believer.


Physics has become the beauty of a far off geometry.  Time is reduced.  Grammata are stared at.  Revelations come out of the white sheets the curling forms lie on.  After a night of work and love his tresses are entangled.  The round fullness has been pushed flat.  The geometry is now bare before you.  Physics has used up great amounts of the energy left.  Disorder in now more prominent.  Understanding has laid him flat and worked him.  The physicist has brought the far off near and it is apparent that love is abuse.




1297  It is a question whether relaxed beauty or demanding questioning thought will eventually take the boy.  Will the ruins of destructive Thought ever be a proper home for the boy?  Will thought ever be destructive enough to fascinate him away?  Can Socrates keep up his corrosive dialectic long enough to keep his boys from wandering?  Will the acid deform even them?  Will it purge them and make them shine with a hard metallic sheen?  In pure thought is there a more alluring demanding Beauty? 


At the top of the empyrean cycle what kind of beauty did the philosophical lovers see?  Was the sharp Socratic sting a part of its heart piercing attractiveness?  Is violence deep inside it?  Is it beyond life and more like death?  Is it the stern cross-eyed judging Jesus?  Is it in twisted perspectives the perspective of all at once?  Is it a questionable thing?


Will the formula finally describing the unified theory of physics be a twisted thing?  Will it have been worth the while?  Will it have been better off if we hadn't gone there.  Is the body of Hawking the body of the god there?  Will the hawk of Osirus arise, the evolved tyrannosaurus Rex?




1299  Religions have gods, and ontology has those  constructor-set things that primitive logical symbols point to.  Metaphysics, sometimes, has an absolute that is the necessary actuality of its own perfect possibility.  Gods are the odd-man-out here.  How could such things be the first things?  Or how could even one be that?   Surely gods are the de-construction.  In that they are closer to mind bending metaphysics.


Christianity has a god/God that is almost not a god/God.  He's even an ungod/unGod.  Enough.  Between the pews and in and out the backdoors of the church, in Sunday school horniness I eventually arrived at a Jesus I could be friends with.  I swear it is the very god/God that was preached.  I am in all this closer to the construction elements of ontology.  Just as a boy is one with his algebra books.  As a boy is one with all those tunneled thoughts in his head.  He is the star strewn sky.  He is a dancer continually falling.  Fine abstract things.


But the problem remains.  How are those fine abstract things just a boy who really should have changed his underwear days ago?  A de-constructionist would have no problem answering that.  If he wanted to.  But he doesn't.  He has grander things in mind for his well-paid academic thoughts.  The Boy deconstructs the de-constructionists.


Nonetheless, I am not a de-constructionist.  I am a lover of all kinds of constructions.  I know, though, that lovers are not what they love, nor possess it, and are, more often than not, rejected by it.  Still, I am not a de-constructionist.  I am the de-constructed.




1300  As logic and mathematics are of the Form of the world and as that Form has made logic itself and mathematics always beyond any of the many specific forms they might take, and as the world then is beyond any specific formal description of it, because its Form is beyond, no science can capture the world; it is eternally beyond; it has escaped.


As, for Plato, no circle here materialized can present to you circularity itself, nor even be a circle without falling away from the perfection of the Form, so the world falls away from perfection.  Then runs to catch up with its lover.   Only in its ever moving becoming Being, only in the touch getting closer is it that.  The world runs ahead to that ever ahead.  The nexus of particular and Form is an eternal coming together.  Always close.  An entering in that almost.  Then obliteration.  And falling away.  And the setting out again.


All attainment is an entering upon the more difficult.  All presentation of more difficulty is the incoming of more energy to accomplish that thing you never dreamed you could.


As the forms of the world surpass our ability to lay out the forms in symbols we can grasp.  So the forms we have laid out never cease to go beyond themselves to higher forms. There is no end except the End.  We know it intimately.  We know the very Form of Form itself.  It impresses itself down onto us in a way that is undeniable.  We can imagine no other.  This Lover is for us the All in All.  And Oblivion.




1301  Eternal Boys in the far high places of monasteries lost in oblivion.  Reading as though looking into a mirror.  Captured by an unknown beauty.  In the stiffness of death.  The spirit so quiet.  A surge rising in them.  The Shout.  Lying on their beds.  Repetition and repetition.  I see it.  The Blending together.  One Lord.  All perfectly there in my wondering if there ever could be such a thing.


As the Hindus worship idols all the while insisting that the reality is other, the One there appearing and ever in endless true variations repeated.  So I create my desire images looking instead at the point, the heart, the prick of the matter flowing out congealing forming an ever in-going body, the One thing.  I am an idolater.  My graven words served.  I am bowed down.  I insist they are filled with the Word.  That boy I turn to look at on the street is Him.  The still as though dead face, so sexual, so filled up with the Gloom of God, the paladin shark, turning over and flashing, red, in my mouth, nighttime emissions.  He is with me.  Together we break the bonds of life-in-death.  We will simply walk away from it all.  


Under the Dervish cloak, spread out, flying, erect prick, turning, like clock work around and around the one the other, the universe falling and falling perfectly geometrically, ever back on itself.  He is in you.    Ya Hu   Ya Hu.


So science boys today tied up in Superstrings figure and figure, wonderful appearings, perfect alignments, signifying perhaps nothing perhaps everything, lost in their room, so cluttered with underwear lying about desire, pixels and pixies, pencils, stains and that left over from all the eating, dancing, sitting, legs spread wide, staring into the dark corner of the closet.  It's hard to tell what really matches anything out in the world.  Or even if that's important.


I am all of this.  I have stolen so many books from so many libraries and bookstalls.  I have eaten the sweetness until I'm sick.  I have stared and stared at the boy sitting always just a few tables over.  My eyes hurt.  I know so well where he came from and where he's going and what he is intending to do.  He has been here forever.  I have followed forever.  And I watch myself ever the third.  The unlighted corridors and secret doors in this monastery lead everywhere.




1302  I am always a third.  I watch myself write and be and not be the things appearing in my writing.  I am and I am not Eros, himself the Third.  I am beyond this god and the world.  Ever one step higher, I am a fourth.  Though it seems that now I am a fifth and maybe a sixth, but I am losing it. 


Recursively speaking my speaking I am here spoken, not of, but down onto paper, by my own doing. 


It may be true that the beauty of the beloved is in the lover, but what is that.   That's not the way I see it.  The beauty is over there and I am here.  It may be true that the unbeauty of the lover is the heart of the beauty over there.  I fear that's true.  I can feel it near. 


Paradoxically, the collapse of all reasoning must be proven by reason or it isn't.  I have failed at that.  I now fear that my reasoning hasn't properly collapsed and I am stuck in unredeemed rationalism.


And I have constructed a nice piece of deconstruction, but I never managed to get it very high before I wanted it now and it came tumbling down.  Tight little paragraphs wrestled to the ground.  I wonder about that.  I am that.  It goes on and on, ever another match.  Ever a fall and a pin.  The deconstructed will not stay down. 


I have tried to jump higher and higher.  I have never jumped high at all.  But I have stayed high in my jumping mood and I have come down slowly.  Gently and slowly.  And turning legs up as fall and over and back down upright.  I peter out.




1304  The pain of loss through death or abandonment is not the same as Nightmare.  Nightmare is not a loss, but something else.  A not being able to get away.  A consequence.  A fright, but not that of the threatening.  The nightmare is a thing present.  It comes from God.  It is God.  There's nothing you can do about it.  You must pray to God.  He will help.  God against God.  The lovely Son.  The Boy.  Also the source of your nightmare.  The substance of nightmare.  Your only hope of freedom.


Luther knew and said that God seemed worse than the Devil.  Only in Glory would we understand.  Until then seeming is being.  Now even Glory is the pain of Nightmare.  The thing that sought to kill Moses, the bloody husband.  He is the death and the uncleanness of his own Son.  He is the one who insists he has no Son. 


The Accuser is Satan.  Who else is this but the very God Himself.  The one who forgives us the sins we had, because of Him, no choice but to commit.  Who has given us no meaning for the word sin.  Who has given us theology that we might think all this is delightful. The closeness of Nightmare exhilarates.  Then unawares it takes us unawares.  We are aware. 


That this is Being and we are ever in it, the thrill and the thrall, I dare to say.  That Being and its words have been put in my mouth and speak themselves, I must speak freely.  That my own presumption forced on me is great.  That I stand now silent and wait for consequence is apparent.   The apparent pierces through itself.


I have not defined or described Nightmare.  It can't be done.  You have seen it and know it.  You know it is because of God.  You know the Son, the very idea of a Son, fleshy and preachy, is it.  You know that any love of Him, spiritual with or without the flesh of either you or Him is that thing.  You know that somehow you will have to negotiate with Him to escape.  Being some kind of lawyer might help.  I have practiced and practiced the dialectic.  I have not bowed; I have tried to eat my way out.  It is in me. 




1305  The great Zarathustrian rush to life.  Orchestral blaring.  The horns of twilight.  Sweet strings.  The drums of pursuit.  The conquest by art.  The real gives way to cinema.  Starlets and pouty men.  He, after all, has the stance of a man, and the high calling to a profession that uplifts Man is in his gestures.  If only the world would let him be.


Nietzsche is fun to read as it is fun and so uplifting to go to the movies.  His writings, of course, are really a movie inside a movie.  Maybe inside another movie.  He is the Grandness Returned.  On the big screen.  He is Virtual God.  Even his love for Wager was a little gay.


Heidegger, trying to be and be beyond Nietzsche, trying to be nazi Greek, living too close to those power lines, ended up with Christian theologians all over him and Zen Buddhists.  He loved it.  He was nearly burnt to a crisp.


The theologians, ever reading also their Kierkegaard, got good jobs.  The Buddhists even now have no clue about the West.


It's all good stuff for documentaries.  It will flip out the people who watch the History channel.  They won't understand anything.  But it will be so interesting.   They can learn a few new gestures and an impressive way to stand just like they were a kid again. 


Maybe the reason I like Nietzsche and all those other guys is that they are just so adolescent.  I love the Boy.  So showy.  So in need.  So confused.  But perfectly a boy.  No one does it better.  No one ends up so badly.   And then the credits.




1306  Those deep-voiced tantric things, strangely appealing, is that the voice of transcendental sexual union, totally blown out?  Did they learn how to do that by having a lot of cocks pushed down their throats?   In that keep it going repetition are they trying to come, not come?   Are those long horns used for other things?


I love to listen to those guys.  I can't figure out why.  Maybe it’s the total lack of melody.  I just sit there, thinking I should blank out.  I think about other things.    I pay no attention at all to those weird paintings of gods.  They are too much comic book stuff.


Why do the tantrists think they are so much advanced beyond the rest of us?  I guess everybody thinks they are that.  The only thing I like about them is their crazy chanting.  Not just because it's technically impressive, but it really is kind of sexy, in an old man sort of way.  Where are the boys?


I also, of course, love the magic geometry of the mandala.  I love geometry everywhere.  Unfortunately, all the Buddhas painted on them look like women with saggy breasts.  There's not much oxygen up in the Himalayas.  Om mane padme hum. 


I've seen a lot of boy monkettes walking around Kathmandu, usually with Adidas shoes on.  Are they preparing to make a break for it?  Alas, most of them will probably grow up to be just one more cocksucker manqué.


Tantra, they will tell you, isn't really about sex, except to horny, frustrated westerners.  What is it then?  One more failed Indian attempt at liberation.  One more demonstration that they can't dance.  But like all things in that part of the world - pretty.  And maybe, in spite of itself, under all those wrappings, sexy.  Let it be.




1307  It is difficult, if not impossible, to have l'esprit geometrique when writing about the super inseparable.  It is easy enough to speak of the existence of the color red, but to think of red separate from existence is impossible.  I can give a name to otherness, but to try to think it as a thing separate from the many self-identical things is mind-boggling.  And surely the simplicity of all the many simple things is the most beautiful, but there beyond even existence it is too subtle for any grasp.  How could any of these be solidly laid out in a system?  They can only be spied on the run, wrapped around symbols of the Uncatchable, the Boy.


It won't work to have a sort of pantheism that says that these things and the world are one and the same.  They aren't.  Nor a theism of God hovering outside.  There is no outside.  And these things and the world are inseparable.  At least for the ordinary human mind.  So how is it I can speak and in an unreflected instant think them?  Is there a part of me that isn't ordinary or human?  It seems there is.  Should I say that it is a thing in me separate from me?


So I write disjointed pieces.  It's not what I wanted to do, but sometimes my wants are more than what I have wanted.  I am always thinking I should explain and lay it out properly.  I can't.  Still, that is one of the reasons I write one more piece.  Maybe I'm reaching for a transcendent ordering.  I will write it in big letters - L'Esprit Geometrique. 


Maybe I've already written it, many times.




1308  Recently I seem to have descended into a casual, almost speaking way of writing.  I use the word maybe, maybe too much.  I'm too flippant.  I've been flipped around too much.  Who hasn't?  Have these long drawn out sentences of English made it impossible for me to have vedic compactness?  No doubt, but I was really after a breaking apart of analysis perfected.  The long sentences will have to wrap around back into themselves.  I want all the connections plainly visible.  I like the ordered architecture.  I see a grand palace.  A great monastery of labyrinthine passageways.  A hall of mirrors at the warm summer's night fair.  Lovers magically everywhere.  No doubt the One and then again the One.  And that thing between them Him plainly visible.  A secret revealing.  I write and write.  Casually caressing until the end comes.  I have been flipped over many times. 


There really is an ordering to this piece of architecture.  The structure is amazing.  The work required to find your way through though may be daunting.  Maybe you have been through such places already many times.  Maybe the pathways have already been burnt into the floor of your mind.  And I have written you.  I find you a great mystery.


There is no way we can approach each other casually.  Your beauty makes me very nervous.  I want to be something different for you.  I'm sure I will go on and on trying to say what I'm also sure is unsayable.  And I will pretend casualness, the common image of very uncasual commotion.  Passion. 




1309  I've been working at writing a computer program for the last three hours, it seems like ten.  How can I ever switch to writing philosophy, especially my type of philosophy?  If I were to write ordinary analytical ontology, the switch would be minor.  But my religious, mystical, unspeakable speaking about the boy who probably first appeared in some soldier's tent on the Arabian desert thousands of years ago, a fire in the heart, is maybe too big a switch to make.  Maybe I should take a nap and let the dreams come. 






Well, I did lie down, but I just thought, mainly about getting some coffee.  I hung, on my wall above my bed, an interesting ink blotched piece of paper that my printer in a burst of creativity made for me.


Why is it that doing the work of logic on logic machines is so weakening?  I really did accomplish something; I figured it out.  I laid things out is good workable order.  I learned something.  I'm even proud of it, though it's only elementary.  Why the difference?  The Boy, after all, is the Logos, the ground of logic.  Is the ground so different from the grounded?  I, the incessant thinker after the ground, do do logic.  The same I.  And yet there is a difference.  Even if that soldier had a laptop out there with him, the Boy would no doubt screw it up, trying to play with it.  The weariness of dealing with technology is not like the excited exhaustion that moves me around after my dealings with the spirit of philosophy.  Has the whole modern world gotten weary?  Is that why all those programmers want to quit their job and go climb mountains?  I doubt if it helps.


When I read analytic philosophy it is true that I eventually get bored with it, though it takes a while.  It isn't finally satisfying.  It's like foreplay with no orgasm.  Some of the old philosophers did get to that magical point.  They are the ones that are so severely criticized for falling into nonsense.  What's to be done?


Maybe I don't have enough foreplay, enough laying things out nicely, of first creating an enchanting setting.  Maybe I jump right to the good stuff too fast.  I need it bad.  I let the others do the forestuff.


I think I'll just have to let the techno-feelings drift away.  I can't force a switch.  No doubt I will soon be back to my normal self.




1310  The abstract world has the sharp subtle dry smell of the Boy.  The smell of number.  Of pure lines undrawn.  Of simple difference.  Of the one thing.  He moves with the movement of logical inference and his passing leaves the odor of night flowers.  The touch of his skin is along the smooth empty variable, the smell of where he was.   He varies simply in diffusion as from this to that.  His breathing in is as one infinity going into a higher infinity.  He is thus destruction.  He has the smell of burning ruins.  He is the red tool.  Hot coals on your lips.  He slides in cool.  He is your mouth filling up.  And that obliterating smell now so close.


The essence is in the fine pungency of holy fragrance.  The pugnacious one.  Biting.  Cutting.  Flared nostrils.  He has a flair all his own.  Incensed.  Candid.  A nighttime redolence.  Truth.


From the back of his neck, from the erect head thrown back, from the musky smell left on his hand, from the hidden chaos in his hair, the lethe and the lethargy of the swoon of union now taking hold.


All abstracting done not inside the hut of that boy's smell, that first thing, in that original home, is abstraction left fleeing.  Inside the conflagration.  Flames the odor of a sweet leaving.




1311  As for Plato, for whom paiderastia is a transcendental vision, so for me.  As for  Wittgenstein, for whom the unspeakable was a secret meeting in the park, so for me parked here on lover's lane in my shiny new Transcendental with --- whom?


His form is out of this world.  In and out of my mind.


As for Bergmann, ugly as Socrates, the most dialectically demanding, not wanting to have to go outside, eventually reluctantly going, so am I in ugliness and wanting to also find the lover right here.  I do not consent to go out, but I have always been nowhere else.  And I have written an equally demanding thing - the other outside of scholarly order.  On the otherside the buildings lie in ruins.  And the prose looks like poetry, but isn't.  And the casual walk is a lover's worry.


The question, for me, is why should the transcendental form of things find its image in a love of boys.  It somehow seems a necessary thing.  Even its corruption and fall, when here.  Unworkable, unspeakable, unthinkable, non-existent.  Thus transcendent.  Proven.  But the Question transformed remains.




1312  I write the paragraph and the sentence.  These units are pure form.  The content is as emptiness.  Philosophy is about nothing at all.  Transcendence in an unthought.  It is the Absurd.  A space is filled up on the page with only chains of hooked lines in turn filled up with ink.  The spaces repeat until a greater space is filled and the page stops. 


Transcendence is filled up, but with what?  With purity?  With its own purity?  Is it aware of that?  Surely a transcendent Transcendence  hangs over it.  Pushes it in on itself.  Makes it write.  A greater Absurdity.  The totally unhearing.  More filling up.  More breaking out to the greater.  The book.  A mass of nothing at all.  A heavy thing.


The East doesn't naturally read books.  It is a listening and a speaking culture.  At the feet of the Guru.  Such a sensible man, so psychologically with it.  He knows your every thought.  He speaks great truths.  Boredom beyond the absurd.  He's a confused thing, but, like a good sophist, a master of image for those who want and need to believe.


The Book of the West had to be translated into speaking by the priests.  A Guru in finer robes.  The Eucharist made him shut up.  Peace at last. 


I have written a lot.  I have filled and stuffed and crammed words.  It is all stuffed cream pastry.  I am an absurd man among absurd men.    If Truth is ever to emanate from any of us, if our students and disciples and readers are to stop falling asleep, if the Absurd is ever going to make any kind of sense, then it will have to be a transcendent happening far away from any of us.  We are so full of ourselves.  It is because of the Filling up.  Being has appeared to us and abandoned us and when we try to become what we saw, what we now were, we are this.  Our need for Grace is great.  Our need for redemption.  Our need.  But then on the Night of Love we have it all.  And it is ended.




1313  If ugliness is beauty at rest then keep reading; don't stop and analyze the completed form; I would be embarrassed.  If beauty is the projection of ugliness, as Genet says, then let the monstrosities develop and become purest ornament.


To have beauty you must consent to be the ugly.  Your material animal being is lethargic, keep moving.  And yet your pure movement must be the emanation that is the ugly oozing flesh, keep ahold of it and let it expose itself in your hands, a brilliant heavenly animal.


It is impossible to maintain the movement.  We always want to stop and see where we are and what we have attained.  At that moment it is lost.  An Orphic thing.  Perhaps God never looks at himself.  Perhaps He knows nothing of Jesus.  Or Jesus of Him.  Keep moving.  Beautiful.   I do sometimes read what I have written, but only as though furtively and quickly.  I remember nothing.  I'm afraid, not that I have written badly or said nothing, but that I might make it so.


Likewise, I cannot protect my words.  I must project them, but the projection, the thrown out cannot be allowed to hit the ground and be examined and picked apart by vultures.  I must throw high and far enough to attain orbit.  An impossibility; I have not written anything as maddening as Holy Scripture.   And the vultures are not hungry enough to not leave huge pieces left to rot.  It's not a pretty thought.  This is the nausea.  My existence.


Our ugliness is not great enough, nor our animal existence.    It is sure that transcendent beauty is a frightening thing.  And yet in our fear and stopped stillness we become more and more a thing of Ugliness.  There is hope. 




1314  The pillar exists.  The pot exists.  The pillar and the pot exists.  The pillar and the pillar and the pot exists.  The pillar and the pillar and the pillar and the pot exists.  (x, (x, (x, y))).  The recursion is complete.  If x and y then eo ipso (x, y).  Therefore, because x and (x, y) then (x, (x, y)) etc. etc. etc….. .  Therefore, the infinite recursive set exists.  Hovering over the pillar and the pot there are the infinite sets of the pillar and pot.  They are embedded in the ever rising higher.  Great cumulous clouds.  Perhaps thunderheads. The mighty atmosphere over the prairie.  Lightening flashes.  Huge fires.  Openness.  And freedom.


Our intellectual life began on the steppes.    And the intellectual problem with the many.  The Many has become a great problem.  By now a very old problem. 


Are x and y constituents of (x, y)?  If so, then (x, y) is not simple.  If it is not simple, then what other than x and y is "in" it?  If it is simple, then what ties it to x and y, if their togetherness, indeed, requires a tie.  Is it identity that ties them?  If c = (x, y), then (c = x) Ú (c = y).  Surely Identity is a problem in the problem.


Does (x, y) symbolize their unity or their diversity?  Holding them together it also holds them apart.  Is their unity not external, as the parentheses seem to say, but something internal?  Is diversity an internal relation?  An internal unity?  It seems we are here right in the old problem of the being of otherness.  Parmenides begins the account of his long love affair.


The Tibetan monks are surprised that anyone would think that the pillar and the pot is something that exists.  Two traditions, one driving toward emptiness and liberation, the other toward the fullness of Being and love.




1315  The collection x and y, are/is not the same as the set (x, y).  A set has unity and therefore exists.  A collection is simply the many and doesn't.  Those are statements that are very easy to write.  And to think.  But the dialectical examination of these mysterious matters is mind spinning.  If to be an object of thought is to be, then the many, the collection, because I think it, though devoid of unity, exists.  Or can I think more than existents?  Can being and thought break their embrace?  Can I think the pure diversity of two things?  Or even Pure Diversity itself, if there is such a thing?  Even if there isn't such a thing, but a no-thing beyond being?


Is the many a fiction of thought, a possible confusion, a will-of-the-wisp, made of the non-substance of ignorance and desire?  Is it Eidolon?  Is the many pure otherness?  Does it as such mingle with the things of Existence?  In its absolute separation from unity can it secretly slip under unity's shadow?  The poetry of philosophy and love's self denial here bursts into flame.


It is here that I work to keep off the road to logical, ontological scholarly analysis.  Should I say that our technological existence is soulless?  No.  I simply want that soul to be present.  It always is, but we, in our embarrassment about it, avoid looking at it.  I don't want to always keep off the road; I am only hitchhiking along the side, waiting for that special one with his sleek, fast car to pick me up.  Under the stars, the dim red glow of the radio, tilt back seats, far lights approaching, hands moving, very high tech, soul reaches into Spirit.  Mind-breaking, the pure many, Oblivion.  Until morning.  You became the world. 




1316  Chanting, whether done by monks in a monastery, so regular, so repetitiously driven, or by philosophical monks in their rooms with their spirit filled books and papers scattered, lying numb, all having the rhythms of the world read into them, is the one glossalalia.  It is Pleasure.  Each is slain in the spirit.   


The point of all this philosophical cutting and pulling away, to the Abstracta, the uncutable cut, this Nagarjunian destruction, is to find the Pleasure.  The Boy.  The Delight.  The Intoxicated.  His clothes torn off.


Your head swims in the impossible to handle.  The arguments are too intense.  The house too high, too unsteady.  The desire to come together too destructive.  Identity has become an intolerably loose thing. Closer. More, more, more. 


Whether what I say makes sense or not is irrelevant, if the rhythms and the turnings over and over are there to make it make sense.  The goal is to get out there.  The senses break, the intellect in its lucent darkness knows and can see.  If the intensity is there.  The translucent spirit must come.


The Spirit comes in the Difficulty of thought.  In the Difficulty of the work of your lovemaking.  The heat.  The burning away.  The Light. 


The Spirit comes in the Terror of the battle that is Thought.  Unless you have known the terror of your beautiful thoughts collapsing, coming to nothing, leaving you naked before everyone, then alone, and broke, then you cannot see the Light that is on the tip of His Sword.  Unless that Terror has called up terror coming from you, you cannot win.  Unless you win, you and That will never be one.  And the illuminated Word will never be in your mouth and coming off your hand onto the white sheet.




1317  Unfortunately Nagarjuna isn't now destructive enough, nor the Shaivites; we  have moved our schools on to higher ground and built higher walls on our fortresses of thought, covered with poisonous ivy, thick; the onslaught will have to now be much stronger, more elevated, more subtle, more ordered, terribly efficient, to break this adamantine order.  And then it will have to have a prickly seduction to lure the students out away from the ruins. 


The Prasanga has proved to be too much for those monks.  When life reduces it's cold out on the streets.  No friends.  Just a blue empty sky.  Lovely, but too much, too far away.  Run to the silly doctrine of the enlightened one who needn't go away.  Of the deferring of passion deferred for the sake of others.  Not to mention your self.  In a perfect world the Strength will arrive.  Here, now the prasanga is reduced by the power of the prasanga - Sublation.  And the sublation of Sublation.  It never stops.  It's totally unbearable.  It's too much.  And it's a little boring.


Willing ever more powerfully to have no will.  Thought thinking through thought.  Loving incessantly to find the end of love.  Emptying out the Emptiness.  Drawing maps of the way maps map.  Deferring any writing about the identity of identity and difference.  Much less speaking it.  Logically analyzing the non-existence of all the logical forms.


I jump into metaphor.




1318  Dying and entering into being something that was, is still to be a something being something that was once here.  Dying and then being yourself in another world perhaps very much the same as this one is to enter into the oblivion of any other world or of ever being in another world.  That dying then never was.  Such is time and the timelessness of ontological things. 


There is, at last, no transcendental Time; there is only the form of time, the form of order, the form of sameness and difference.  And there is no transcendental Space; there is only the form of space, and the one form of order, sameness and difference.  The forms are transcendent and are repeated and repeated in the many times and times in worlds upon worlds.  Each oblivious to the other.  Outside the worlds, we find the Transcendental Forms.  The Single things each in the Form of Simplicity.  To the Transcendent of the Transcendent.  There in your Perfect Understanding of such a thing.


In our understanding of Understanding, in our timeless being at home in the transcendent and being intimate with the form of transcendence, we see the very oblivion that is also at the heart of Being.


Blessed Oblivion that keeps Being uncluttered.  In the Night of Being the riffraff and the rabble never were.  Your very messy and fetid self never was.  The absence you hated itself is now absent.


To ask if we are in the many worlds successively or all at once is to assume we are in a Transcendental Time.  There is no relation of succession or simultaneity between worlds.  Nor is the change from one to the other instantaneous, nor is there a direction of the change.  Even the change suffers from there being no moment of change.  It too is merely a thing that is.  And the simplicity of the word merely points to the timelessness of timelessness.


Language here becomes metaphysical.  Spirits dance.  The Kiss is on your cheek. 




1319  "The world of the unhappy man is a different world from that of the happy man." The first is that of a terrible reduction.  The second is that of the explosion and implosion never ending, the clamor and the entourage approaching, the glance and the dazzling night when all things are possible, and then the Right Then and the Cut, the Questioning Look and then … the Stillness.  Tomorrow it all happens again.


From out of the No more to be said.  The Impossible one more time.  The Too tired to go on.  The Work.  Comes the easily read refreshing thing never said before.  The New, the One you never imagined existed, the thought that couldn't have been thought then, an ancient, it-always-has-been-there thing, right at its first blush of being.  The world changes into another world.  Being itself changes structure.  No more the same old thing.  Sudden and surprising. 


The absolute simplicity of Being is the ground of this ever more and more.   As the singularity of the first moment that never was, you skipped right over it on your way to another world.  A new thing more than the merely something more.


This is the He died and came back to life Again.  This happiness at its extreme, the place right in the happiness of happiness, always has something of expanding eeriness, the refreshing shudder, the blanket of cold air descending on a hot day.  The Don't touch me; I still have the uncleanness of death on me.  Bright eyes through the having seen the other side.


The world of the happy man is a different world.  A death is required as your ticket there.  But whose?




1320  The Eternal Form of First Love is repeated and repeated and repeated.  The beginning of the world is ever here again.  The Oversoul is eternally liberated again and again from Maya.  The once for all time sacrifice of Jesus is performed, performed and performed at every mass.  The One thing is beyond number.  Neither one nor many.  Beyond identity and difference.  Beyond here or there.  Beyond this and that.  Neither sensual nor non-sensual.  Neither logical nor mythological.  Neither ontological nor literary.  Neither beyond nor not beyond.  Neither profound nor too easy.  Seemingly trapped in contradiction where anything goes.  Where nothing is said at all.  Yet we all fall in love, and we all feel the first freshness of morning.  Eventually we reach the limits of thought and speak something we think we have found there and then realize we have said almost nothing, the very thing that has been so tiresome and so repeated and repeated before and before.  But it seemed so new and clean when we again first saw it.  Can we maintain enough youth to not fall into despondency over this?  No doubt.  The coming again is inevitable. 


Kierkegaard is once again in Berlin.  And once again he leaves his queen.  And once again his God is so close as to make him despair.  And then the absurd escape.  


The Absurd Escape.  The jump beyond number.  Beyond any ontological thing or structure.  To philosophy, standing back, looking at it all.


I am with the Boy away from all hierarchies, social structures, family, gurus, governments or scholarly institutions.  I am in the Outside.  The open spaces of freedom.  In the Fire that has burnt away the world.  With the comrades of Whitman on the open road.




1321  In order to find something specific you must first have a general idea of what you are looking for.  That is the Socratic remembering.  To find some thing totally new, new in specific form, new in generic idea, that idea must come to you unlooked for, contrary and counter to what you have been looking for, unwanted.  This thing is not of the family, the nation, the race, the genoV.  It must come as the enemy. The unseen.  The rapist. The uncanny.  Eventually as your savior from what has been suffocating you for so long.  This is the thing the existentialists tried to find, but repulsed and were repulsed by when it came close. It is the liberation the sanga tried to guard itself against.  It is the pulse in your wrist that could stop and start again at any instant.


That we really can move to worlds mirroring more Forms than this one.  That the very being, the form of this place might give way to another.  That the Different holds sway.  And you sometimes faint and come to …  but where?  That this thing is close and you might just go with it, in an unguarded instant, or maybe in full knowledge of what you are doing.  A new knowledge.  That it is so, makes you sometimes tremble and the others can see or never see.


What I have written here is a general idea that is easy to understand.  It is a part of the very form of our common understanding.  Therefore, it is true.  It cannot be overcome.  We must live with it.  It is just a nervousness in thinking.  It seems that Kierkegaard was deep in the memory of Socrates.  And we all must fail.  And in that it comes.  The Boy is mad … and intensely beautiful.




1322  That I repeat myself in words, that I am doubled in my desiring, that I watch myself repeating myself, that I reach the end of all repetitions so easily, that at last I am the Knowing, is the Surprise I endlessly wait for again.  I wait for the shudder and the transformation.  I wait for the surprise of the air suddenly cooler, the wind blowing through, from nowhere to nowhere, the Face moving through mine.


Repetition and then oblivion.  Once again.  The same oblivion as always.  I pull myself back into existence.  Am I a part of a movie?  Do I have a name?  The real is certainly real.  I slowly seep in.  Again.


This is dangerous.  Why do I do it?  I am disseminated and lost so easily.  But I grow up here and there. 


It's a movie in a play with the roles rolling over me as surely a night follows day and the undeniable hardness of His Being is in me.


Inevitably all these images of images in the purest images give way to That.  This is the inescapable game of love that we have been made to be a part of.  Your permission was not asked.  Let me repeat.  No one ever asked you if you wanted to play this game.  It is the really real.  But the End is at hand.  Are you ready!




1323  Comrades side by side, choosing each other lovers and being chosen, far from places of binding structure, equals, the same in the Same.  As the Sufis and Jesus with John are above and outside the Law.  As freedom flies above necessity.  As mercy lovingly pushes aside justice.  As blinding wisdom shines brighter than clear knowledge.  So here in the uncannily received sparkling kiss, a surprising place.  Into that, you have lifted me out and away.


God, out of love, cares nothing for your principles, for your what must be, for your what should be.  This is the tyranny of the Coy One.  He will get you one way or the other.  He knows his tresses are an eventual unavoidable trap.  His sweetness of lip is the only thing you desire.  He has no compunction about letting the arrows of his glance fly.  Dying, you will become his doormat.  He makes everything It never was so.  Was that a smirk on his face?  What am I to do?  The kiss, the slap, the terrible insolence.  The only things of value. 


Comrades, so gentle with each other, so quick to become each other's death.  It's a kind of madness.  Let me quietly explain it to you.  You look so inviting today.




1324  For so many of the old empiricists, for Russell, Wittgenstein and Bergmann the fundamental monadic, descriptive things are only simple sensual things.  Even the dyadic and triadic things are few.  Everything else is built up out of these.  There are no existing forms for horse and house and hat.  There is no form for lip or cheek.  None for desire.  None for desire's couch.  None for any of the things on its streets or in its gardens of horror and delight.  Amazing.  Only an abstract expressionist could love that world.  Yet all of us have a something of that artist of bare things in us, some more, some less.


His and their screaming world has a certain richness to it.  It is even fiery and subtle.  But we all feel it is not enough.  Anything more, though, may be unable to stand up erect.


It is also true that a structured world built out of few elements can, in the elaboration of its structure, find otherwise hidden pathways and along more delicately convoluted surfaces give place to the most amazing creatures appearing and disappearing.  But the real is missing.  And for the lover of Being the need for the real is overwhelming.  Mere permutations and combinations floating by will not do.  I ride a horse; I lie on the couch.  I don't ride and lie on possibilities of arrangement.  Your face is not a congeries of sensa.  Your presence is not derived from the existential quantifier.  And yet … the fleeting forms forming and unforming on your face fascinate me.  Your emptiness draws me in.  Your knowing unknowing confounds me.  You are solidly here.  And then you aren't.


I like the great ordering and the sudden orderings of order that rise up and flow down from the few things.  I like the solid presence of the many things in a world overflowingly rich.  I want it both ways, but how? 




1325  I'm intimate with the horror; I've only imagined the delight.  There is, though, a certain delight to the horror.  Is the delight of the horror the same delight that is the delight of the delight?  Is the delight of the flesh the very horror of not being able ever to have it, to become it, to thoroughly drink it in through the eyes?  In my words here all this seems to me to make sense and to point to something true.  Maybe it's only true in the words by means of the words, another potential horror, if I let myself sink into the thought of that.  I really don't like the idea of winning by losing.  Or of losing at the instant of winning the very thing so lovely in my not having almost ready to give way.  I want to win and win what I win.


Nonetheless, after a succession of passionless days, the feel of the horror of losing is itself a relief.  At least I am back on home ground.  And it is almost literary.  So close.  Still, I don't want to be literary.  Anyway, I can't be; it's only imaginary.


I'm sure, as sure as I can make myself, that delight does not come only out of horror.  Nor must it always be preceded by horror.  I've known no other though.  The delight of the simply delightful is like a dream. 


Delight doesn't really come out of horror.  It's more that I finally simply abandon horror and go to delight.  It's that I grow tired of the horror of horror.  It becomes a hoary old thing.  Wasted.  I simply walk away.  But is it then in the walking away, a thing further dependent on horror?  At last I will walk away from the world.  No regrets.  Will I forever have to do that?  No, no more waiting for death or the time when. 


In this orgiastic philosophy of mine, it seems that I always have to pass through the hard times.  I have to brace myself.  I have to hang on and keep going.  I have to walk in darkness and the eddying confusion.  Surely with at least always a touch of horror somewhere, maybe somewhere close.  But it is also true that just as there is in itself, for me, an Up that is not in its very being a Down.  And heat that is not secretly the cold.  And a timelessness that is not in time.  So your being here should not have to be your being elsewhere.  Logic holds in spite of the errors we inevitably make while figuring. 


In this ever moving until the end philosophy of mine I have said that the question is more important that the answer.  That the Logos is the Fire.  That oblivion is the goal and then the Goal of being there again.  However, the end reached is a reversal of the previous, an overcoming, lifting off and a moving away.  It is the Break.  It is not continuous with what went before.  The separation is absolute.  The new thing is absolute.  And the before becomes the It never was.  Logic holds, but barely.




1326  I write syntactically, not semantically, semantically, but I like the great hanging together.  Connectors, pauses, repetitions of rhythm.  But for all that, I do not write about timed things.  The reference is always to something present to hand.  And in that I am like B.'s asyntactical cut-up pieces flying through the close-in space of internal fusings.  But I am not that; even in my Brahma being.  Rather, I like and maybe am like, the comma; and the period is for me merely a greater comma.  (Or is it a coma?)  I feel uneasy with the semicolon.  They're too much like intestinal blockage.  I have strung out and flipped end for end the vedic compound words of scholastic writing.  That, though, is the beauty of English.  It is properly post-positional, like so many lovers. 


There really isn't much to say in Philosophy - or any other kind of love.  Words of love just flow on and on in search of the repetition of love.  Nothing more.  Philosophy is not a science of any kind.  It is the non-lovers who have tried to make it so.  Just why they do philosophy is a mystery to me.  Is it money or a way to fill up time or an intellectual puzzle?  If it is the joy of building an intellectual structure, then it will have to be also the joy of watching it collapse, because it, as sure as he will come to visit when you are definitely not at your best, will. 


Could it be that what I write isn't syntactical, but paratactical or metatactical or posttactical or even, but this is getting boring, pretactical?  How about bitactical?  Or, more likely, homotactical?  I think, more than likely, in this piece of writing I have abandoned all tact.  So that's enough.




1327  The form of anything can be scanned, turned into code, linear, non-linear, anything you want, any kind of code you want, and the code can be scanned and done likewise to, on and on.  Somehow all the different forms of the form have the same form.  Some of the forms being more detailed, some blurred, some jazzed up, some jazzed down.  Something through all the changes remains one.  Should we say that that one thing in all the forms of a face thus transformed, encoded, strung out, laid out, broken up, cut up, analyzed, squinted at, in all its abstractions in art or argument or whatever, is nothing other than its essence?  Should we say, reversing the idea, that the essence is just its DNA arrangement, its pixilated pointillistic parameters, etc. etc. ?  Is form or essence something other that its analysis through number or electrons or neurons or any other, seemingly scientific, medium?  It seems to me it is.  A form is a simple thing.  Any laying out of it is necessarily complex.  Thus the parts laid out cannot be constituents.  A simple thing has no parts.  The complex, we might say, mirrors the simple form.  As a sentence, a complexity, mirrors the thought, a simple thing.


A face is a complex structure, but has a form, an essence.  When you kiss that face you know its oneness.  You drink in that essence.  That one thing can keep you awake at night. And you can see that one thing "in" everything you look at as you walk on a street where it is near.  It is encoded everywhere.  That form hovers over and around the many forms.  Everything reminds you of that.  The ontological problem is Just what is the connector between the one thing and the laid out complex?  I have here named it "in" and "hovering over and around" and "mirroring".  Other poetic names constantly rise up. 


The perplexity is about whether there can be an ontological connector between a simple and a complex.  It seems to me there cannot be, except poetically.  The complex without the simple thing is nothing.  There is no tie between something and nothing.


To separate an ontological ground from what it grounds, to separate the red and the particular from this red of his lips is impossible.  The things cannot be separated from the fact they are in.  To do so would be to make fact a thing.  The ontological divide between simples and the complex fact they are "in" is vast, maybe the vastness of the absolute.   One cannot separate in the vastness.  The vastness is the absolutely close and tight.  True, but this form of ontology has taken refuge in metaphor, and the metaphor I was traveling in seems to have broken down. 




1328  It is in trying to speak the most general ontological form of what is here with us in the world that we meet face to face the unspeakable.  Between the timeless and the everyday.  It is when we try to think and speak the ontological divide between simple and complex.  Between the ground and the grounded. It is there that we stand to try to understand, but there is no place there to stand.   The thinker hangs suspended.


To consider the complex aside from the things in it is to make it another simple thing in a greater complexity, infinite-regressively.  To try to hold the complex in its complexity and see it as such becomes blown apart nothing, blue sky.   How, though, could the form "complexity" be anything other than paradoxical? 


The surprising thing is that we can think the simple-complex divide right easily, and the paradox and we slip gently into the no place where we must stand to view it all.  Amazing.  We play in the labyrinths of the One, with maybe a monster at the end.  Socrates waits until we get out and come back, or the ship comes back empty. 




1329  Sometimes when I walk on the yards and the stairs of a school and I look at the beauty of the youth and I think I see the ground and cause of it all, and I look into their schoolbooks at the symbols and signs so freely signifying anything at all, and I see hidden inside the form of form radiating, glancing off the bright faces, I wonder why the mystery has been such a mystery.  It is all right there.  Maybe maddeningly there, and beyond persuasion, but lovingly so.


I imagine fantasy madrasa.  Aladin-like, the boys rub the magic lantern and tangents over circles moonfaced illuminations seep through them.  The necessary existent.  The first thing.  The very first.  The being before there was nothing.  The being that came from being.  There in words like fire.  Letters forming all over their bodies.  The timeless at the heart of the phantasms of the world.




1330  I am a traditional philosopher, but by that I mean no more than that the same philosophical spirit that animated the old lovers of the clear-eyed boy, also animates me.  And that I am no lover of those others who pretend to be Him, nor of the pedagogs.  Philosophy without that center is not philosophy.  It is a thing cut loose from its Sun.  But when the center holds, and Philosophy holds the philosopher, the eddying constrictions of love almost compress him to a point.  When love achieves its beloved and love is no more, but possession and unity, and the point has stung him clear through, it is finished.  I am not one to say if that has ever happened here.  Perhaps in a time outside of mind. 


Certainly I have received the logical forms of the twentieth century, but they are no more than what has always been before our minds.  And in our hands trying to grab possession of what we maybe can never have.  Yet as the substance of God is one or three, but His names and forms multiply, so with the things of abstract thought; the one or the few is now great.  I have lived in this burgeoning thing.


I live after the time of the great fight between the systematizers and the fragmentizers.  Deconstruction is now as I write this an old hat.  Atomists of all kinds have given up.  Ragnorok and Armageddon have both flared up and past.  The clamor on the streets has only increased.  Search engines blare and find nothing much.  Prospects are bright, but it's just Brightness itself.  Nothing has changed much.  The boys of the Academy would feel right at home.  The Spirit is just as edgy and the pricks of love are just as long and sharp.  Everything is translucent and big.  I have received it all.




1331  Realism is always going to be an appearing of Dionysus and the Crucified God.  The Forms, heavenly Animals, coming at you.  Excess, exaggeration and agony.  Your being taken.  But maybe you don't like the idea of a power over you, much less an eternal Power in you.  No matter, the world is real, its form is what it is, it cares nothing for your likes and dislikes.  Life and death, pain and pleasure, knowing and unknowing, appear and disappear.  You're helpless to stop the great show before your eyes and between your legs.  But maybe it is a delightful thing for you, or rather it speaks of a most delightful thing about to make his appearance.

The bloodletting is too much.  The screaming and the laughter are head pounding.  That the Eternal is here cavorting with earthly boys is hard to think.  That the boys need it real bad is sometimes hard to take.  That we have become a people, among whom I am first, who have learned to transfer all this to words.  Gentle worlds in words.  It's kind of nauseating.  But even in that so delightful.  Our dying is for all that literary to us.  To this word-fragmented people.  A people that knows, not the real, but now the Really Real.

Likewise, our dreams are no longer the gentle dreaming of Apollo, if in fact he ever did dream, so gentle; dreams never being gentle.  In daylight imaginings dreams are dreamy, in sleep they are not.  Apollo is the daydream of a night dream undreamt.  As idealism and the idealist are realism's victim in the bloody sacrifice.  The gentle dreamer only dimly aware of what awaits him.  Somehow wanting it.  He is the real part of the words that realism now owns.  The lovely ideal boy of Apollo, the royal high priest of our lives, killed by all this writing.  He never had a chance.  Jesus is there to save him and see that death never becomes him.  The boy is lifted up.  The air sends prickles all along his skin.




1332  A dream philosophy and a philosophy of the Real.  But is the Real writ large itself a dream and nothing at all?  Where is the real?  Have we been tripping on chemical symbols, so familiar, tinkertoy things.  Is our science from the stuff of children's fantasies?  Are my words fleeting marks from out of the nothing?  No.


I have written the Boy, a thing that strikes the mind as no doubt a thing of dreams, but I have made him the very being of the real, the Real, itself.   He does not live in a dream world.  He does not seek the soft breast of night.  He is the hard, striking, lit up eyes of the intellectual Night.  He is the lover that twirls the Dervishes.  He is the Glamorous Thing.  The Heart-breaker.  He is the hard flesh in front of you when you are out on the streets.  You have gone out there and you know.  It's a difficult place.  A place where life is real.  In places between the buildings you have seen the Real.


God is the actual.  He stands against the dream.  He is hard.  He is the reason your reasoning is so difficult.  He is the frustration of the boy doing his homework.  The formulas not coming out right, then suddenly they do.  There are so many symbols to handle.  The lines pile up.  They are so real.  The things they point to are so real.  The fitting together and the not fitting together are more and more real.  You have almost seen him and his pencil up there in his room.  Walk, and work it.


The real is that which is independent of you, the uncontrollable, the incorrigible.  The beauty that will not leave your awareness.  That is forcing itself on you.  The not you.  The startling Boy.  Can you permit yourself to think the real?


It is true that the real and the dream seem to mingle, but without the struggle to separate them, to keep them separate, to find the order to things, writing becomes no more than the poetry of scholarly words, an absence momentarily obscured.  In puero est veritas.  He wants nothing to do with such technique.  He mingles with himself.  Find the real for him.  Be it.  Oh God, please.




1333  In Nietzsche's Apollonian world the Dionysian world is turned into a dream.  As Krishna turns Arjuna and the great battle into the illusion of the Vedanta.  Still, after all that, Apollo without Dionysus is nothing.  The battle and the blood and the real pain must be there first to be transformed.    That real thing lingers.  The yogi walks home from the grove.  And somewhere in all this the individual and the many mingle, and they don't.  Nietzsche's explanation needs to be explained more.  He could never quite be what he tried so hard to be.  And his madness did not become a holy sacrifice for anything.


The Dionysian and Apollonian are both real and won't go away.  The gods themselves are stuck hard in our world.  The real and the possible are both a part of Being.  Being is both real and merely the possible.  The logic of Being screws around with itself.  As I really do turn over on my bed at night. 


Nietzsche's Femina is a seventeen year old boy.  I twist and I arch.  We live in his world, and that is becoming apparent.  The transcendent transcends high overhead.  Arches and colonnades.  Pederastic peripatetics.  The geometry is lofty.  The sun and the great blue sky.  The incommensurable around the heart of Pythagoras is the Opening-up opening up. 


Krishna marks time, playing with the gopigirls, driving the waiting yogis mad waiting with desire.  How can they ever get at him?  The temples fall into ruins while they wait.  The blue sky turns a deeper blue.  Maybe in this growing shade the girls are gone, and he is standing there looking at only them.   


Desire twists and is real.  Real blood pounds and hurts.  Real dreams are incessant.  Nothing transforms the dreams into only a dream.  The lyrical song of blood won't go away.  Thought, mere thought, and the emptiness of it grind.  The work is tiring and real.  The real, the real, the real.




1334  There is an unbridgeable gulf between scholarship and those things it studies.  Between the scholar and the creative mind.  Between the physicist and the mind of God at the moment of creation.  Between the psychiatrist and the maddened mind of a lover.  The Legislator lets no philosopher into his republic. 


Is it true, in spite of all that, that the scholar and the scientist must creatively bring into being the forms in which he attempts to capture his prey?  Is he not then one of those to be studied by scholars and scientists who must further work to find the light to make forms for forms for the forms, without end?  Perhaps so, but then the gulf remains and has taken up residence within him.


Everything is filled with difficulty.  The artist doesn't want the scholar close.  Nor does the scholar want to get too close to the artist, either out of personal revulsion of professional concerns.  As for the artist so for the philosopher and the philosophical lover.  They must be kept at a distance.  But they want to be studied, dissected, gone over, revealed also to themselves.  They need the scholar.  And they too need the distance.  The distance is killing both of them.




1335  My realism, my direct realism, my audacious realism, that is my telling you that I see the Things of Being there in the one There, the locus that is existence itself, Existence, turns on itself and is maybe an embarrassment as was and still is the heaven vision love that Lysius so muffled in Phaedrus.  It is the punishable offense of Socrates, the corrupter of youth.  It is the Eternity itself that was touched when as that young beloved you lay your head on the breast of Jesus.  You are there.  You have been there countless times.  Being and the Things of Being are not unknown to you.  You walk among them even as Lord.  You are knowing itself.  You really do know, and you know that you are that Knowing.  Are you embarrassed or offended that you may be that?  I’m sure that when you are alone you aren’t.  Let it be.


Idealism insists it is not anything to be embarrassed about.  Though it seems to end up in solipsism, even fantastic extreme solipsism, when forced to confess its true end, it nonetheless insists it isn’t that, but rather a humble admission that it is totally limited in its ability to now anything at all.   Idealism is a good boy, a self-effacing scholar, a rebuke to those who would be a god, even God, out there up there with the real.  He exists to puncture inflated egos.  He wouldn’t dream of believing even in his own philosophy.  Solipsism is merely the hubris of believers.


Let me defend that hubris of a belief in idealism.  To believe that all the things we know and see are constructed out of the stuff that we are as mind, to find ourselves deeply interested, entangled in that, is to directly place the things of existence close.  The directly seen things are right there.  The trembling comes.  The Overwhelming of the mind appears from out of the walls of your room.  Only a great hubris could withstand that.   




1335  You have mistakenly come to think of me as a scholar of philosophy.  I have neither the leisure nor the dispassion.  I am worked.  I am pushed and I receive philosophy in the middle of the night. 


I do not sing, with others, the fixed chants.  I have not lost myself in the Self of the school.  I am alone.  But for all that I am not dreaming.  I steal one of the boys from the school and I rape him.    It's all so intellectual.  I and the boy are then among the things to be studied.  Dispassion studies passion. 


I am dispassion that has been invaded by passion.  It is the Passion.  It spreads out from me.  It is so intellectual. 


I quietly read books.  I am looking for the words that will once again turn me on.  I am looking for that thing away from the world, in the unworld.  I am a sexual thing and I look for that look in the other.  Everything is balanced.  I am the nighttime places where scholars go to drunk.  I am the one the monks have insisted be covered with a cowl and who receives them late to be uncovered.  In the day I quietly read books. 


I am not just a thing of my own creative imagination.    I have the chemicals in me.  I am ravaged by them.  They have not left me a pretty thing.  I am really real.  There is something in the smell of the burning Eucharist incense that reminds me of me.


I have received the Forms, and I have worked to see the whole of the scaffold I am tied to.  A scholar is one who owns and can use scholarly words and can turn a scholarly phrase.  For him the sentences spin out and a text is woven.  A scholar has his fine clothes.  I have my scaffold.  Am I on a cross and I await a resurrection or am I simply awaiting the executioner?  That Boy, who is now approaching, may be either. 





1336  Monks are looking for that place between scholarship and the pleasures of chanting.  A secret place where logic unites with fire.  Where they can find the great Beauty at the end of Deduction.   They are waiting to be led.   Down, back, around, through, over, into themselves and out into intellectual space.  They follow Him.   The Light.   Glowing cheek and red lip.  Ununderstandable  tresses.  The point of blackness drawing them in.  A stolen kiss as they go by.


The instructors in our schools have no chants to sing.  How can they find the place away?  How can they get outside themselves and their words?  They have no words with Him in them.  There is no trap door in what they say.  They have only drunken bars, not even a sufi tavern.  They have no saki cupbearer, only waitresses.   The profane, nothing where the holy peeps through. 


Perhaps the Reason that monks cling to should be abandoned altogether.  They are having such a hard time finding what they want.   The chanting and the deductions seem to never come together.  It won't be abandoned though.  The Beauty seems to be almost seen in their reasoning.  One more glance.  One more leading through.  Skirting paradox.  A dervish's skirt. 


I have tried to unite philosophical logic and ontologic with enchanting god-filled rhythms.  With transcendental intoxicating beauties.  And I have tried to make the stuffiness of matter be the tumescence of desire, a turgid thing almost too much.  I have tried, but I can only write what I am given.  If He has chosen to give me ridiculous things, what can I do?  If my own pleasure in them and yours is ultimately laughable, still, He isn't.  It really makes no difference.  The enchantment is the same.  Ontologic, even as error, speaks a truth.  Monks are scandalous old things; why does He cavort with them. 





1336  To be in the world is not to be one who sings carols to the Forms of the things in the world.  To see the great transcendental unities and to fall in love with the existence in them and hovering over their unearthly flesh, to fall in love with duskiness around these sprinkled pearls, the residue of God.  To find yourself in an ethereal love with its force a presence splattered all over your face.  Being in Being.  Moving around with Being.  Force onto force.  The Real wrapped up in the Real.  He and you out there at each other.  Is to be a singing that is nowhere in the world.  Only words pasted on paper.  You have become only that.  In the world.




1337  It seems that the beginning of my philosophy, and maybe of all Platonism, is many-headed.  There are the basic ontological elements: existence, individual, universal, nexus etc..  There is the scala paradisi on which the philosopher is led up by Eros.  There is the vision of the Beloved that the philosopher tries to describe, not using, but as the basic ontological element.  His describing becomes orgiastic.  The scala becomes scandal.  His attempt to fit it all together becomes contradictory, paradoxical, absurd, confused and collapses, but in the process he, for a moment, speaks the ineffable Truth, he thinks what it is not possible, maybe not permitted, to think, he sees what is outside the world, maybe outside existence.  For a moment.  The aura lingers a long time.  The memory of it will not leave.  At his death, he hopes, we all hope, he possesses that coy Beloved.


How could we ever teach such a thing to a student!  He will be taken by it untaught or he will not be.  No teacher can force it.  No teacher could speak it, or would be permitted to speak it in school, no matter how much he wanted to.  We all wait.  If it appears, we close our eyes and most probably deny it.  Platonism is not the philosophy of civil society, and what they calls Platonism, isn't.     




1337  The mystery of time is the same mystery that pervades all of Being.  The form of time is that one thing is two.  At one moment this, at the very next moment that, and this and that are one thing.  This moment now and then this moment is just the one Now.


The triangle that has three angles and the triangle that has three sides is one triangle.  The triangularity that is exemplified here and the triangularity that is exemplified there is the one Triangularity.  And each exemplification is the one Exemplification.


As friends know intimately the one form that they each are.  And the otherness that separates them is the one thing known intimately by each.


Beyond the otherness is the one thing. 


Surely I know all this with a Knowing that is beyond each of my knowings.  And each of my knowings is just me again.  You know all that.  You know it so well that my repeating this one thing can be wearisome.


The Wearisome is just the same old thing.  And that the old changes into the young is also a thing you know.  And you know that you never grow tied of that.  Eternity cannot wear out.  Nor can love fail to leave you at times wonderfully worn out on your bed.


Separate from the one thing and the two things, is the one-two thing.  Aside from It is one and It is not one, aside from It is two and It is not two, there is the It is one-two.  Things multiply (no doubt for the sake of a greater unity) and the mind always escapes from contradiction.  For an instant, though, the anxiety, the same anxiety that walks with love, drove you into philosophy to find the way out.    Into that cramped room, and then in that tightness - the Open. 





1338  Because of the firewall of acne vulgaris I was kept from society.  And from any boy.  I took the idea of him with me into the woods and out along the river, by myself, under moonlight onto the snow.   Everything caught on fire.  I developed a philosophy of intimacy with transcendence.  I could see Him.  Far from society.  Far from any school.


My ideas grew big.  I walked and was eventually, back in my room, laid out flat.  Tired from so much being led here and there by That.  I daydreamed about someone living near me, a beauty, I thought, soon to occupy my every mystical desire.  I never really approached.  The fire was there. 


I wanted to take him out of society.   I wanted the school to fail him.  I would teach him wisdom he never dreamed of.  I would make him see that he stood outside time.  Then I would be that wisdom, not being able to be me before him.  I would show him the non-existence of death.  I never taught him anything.  I have right now not taught you anything either.  I saw something.  I can't and I couldn't speak it.  And the fire was there.  The Fire.


I couldn't proceed.  I drowned in mystical feelings.  I couldn't do any of the work that a scholar/cleric should do.  The inertia was great.  My thoughts, constantly about the primal ontological things, lit up.  They swirled in paradox.   One thing magically turned into its opposite.  I was insane.  I wonder, if I could see myself now as I was then, could I see what was in me written on my fiery face.  Rushing mystical love, soon to unite with my already overwhelming sexual abilities.


I continued to walk, always by myself.  Through graceful suburbs, past dimly lit boys' windows, dreamy, with one into the far sky transcendence of light.  I walked into the woods, craggy, weedy, rocky, hidden.   I walked along creeks, able to see the pure Form of equality before me.  I carried a book.  It's philosophy moved in my head.  I knew it perfectly.  No one was there, only me.  I knew That.  I knew Him and him.  How can I put it all together in strung out paragraphs?  It's already too tight with itself, and me.


My face and my cock both erupted.  Sharp tight pushing out.  Sexual chemicals poured through me.  The more so, the more I erupted.  I transformed it all into religion.  How could that ever have fit in the schools?  The end of the onslaught is not in sight.  Even right now it is next.  I will fit in with the boys There, all erupting, faces pouring out.  School books wet.





1338  The Act of Being, forever bringing into existence the Forever of existence, right now, but certainly not just right now because right now is the first now that has been ever brought forth.  Just so the actual Infinite is the Act.  That the End has been reached instantly, and there never will be a time when the End is not being reached just now.  Nor a time when that instant of time isn’t present far ahead at the end of the time necessary to reach the End, in the Very Far Away.  And language, my very sentences, roll on in the Act into themselves, around and around the high and the low road.  Language has a great amount of things to say.  The end isn’t, only the End.


In the Act of Being things never reach what they are.  So close, but when reached for, a dream.  A dream that will not let go of you.  Until you scream that you are only a dream, and you know that that thing is super real.  A lover who will not let go of you.


Perhaps I have traveled only the low road, pretending nobility of reason, but am really wallowing in my lust for words.  At times the wings of flight have itched a lot.  The caress always tickles.  And too much anticipation has made me uncontrollably yawn, a gapping yawn through which these words, these of themselves, came out.  I was taken and used and I had no choice.  That is my excuse.  I wasn’t acting up.  Though sometimes because of them I was.           




1339  How did any Greek, who, because he was Greek, and was thus so very social, manage to build a philosophy of transcendent, separate Forms.  Did he then dream of getting away with that one beloved he had worked so hard to get?  And fail because he was of a people so social?


Weren't the angels of the Christian monks, each a Form unto himself, the ones to whom each monk alone would escape, away from the world?


I have at last escaped into my sentences, past the words themselves, to the twisting wind.


The red-haired, blue-eyed Sun of Greece, the twilight cowl of the North, the cumulous air of the prairie.  Where can we hide away with him?  To where can we entice him?  Will he have to die by fire as I did, as they did in the sun, in the spirit, in the spinning climbing clamor?


Dervishes, Pentecostal boys, party boys, I want to take them all away to teach them thought and the magnificent agitation.  To show each himself.  But where am I?  I remain behind the Fire.  I am and am inside the far transcendent.  He is all over me, but it’s all too close.  You could have distance from me, and we could talk.  But I would end up talking about the same old transcendent things.   I am the inevitably so-separated.  The Wall of Fire.


The Greeks invented tragedy and philosophy to be enchanted away from themselves.  I have written philosophy.  The monks prayed and waited to be taken.  We have all been wonderfully successful.




1340  Separate Forms require a separated mind to view them.  That without matter requires that without matter.  I can perceive that this is blue, or I can grasp Blue.  Grasping is not perceiving.  The Form grasped is not in a complex with space and time relations.  The thing grasped is by itself … separated.  So what will a grasped Form look like or feel like or strike the mind like?  If we're fishing for one, how do we know when we've got one on the line?  And what does it feel like to have one's mind free of matter?  What kind of line do we use to tie mind and Form together?


First of all, you, but not your individual self, would have to be in the Nowhere and at Notime.  So you see, such grasping has never taken place anywhere by anybody.  And you probably won't be able to see that while you are your own individual self either.  Nonetheless, I am convinced by experience that separate Forms and separated minds grasping exist. It's a mystical thing spoken of mystically or flippantly.  I have here chosen the latter because I am at the moment tired of the former.


Neither flippancy nor mysticism, though, is very satisfying for the logical ontologically inclined.  Logically there isn't much of a problem here.  Simple things exist.  The complex is categorically different.  This is all well laid out in philosophy.  It is all present before the mind's eye.  We "see" philosophical things.  How else would we "know" them?  How else could we do philosophy?  And we do do philosophy quite nicely without quotation marks.  If philosophy is not nothing then we have grasped all these things.  We have even grasped the very universals that are "in" the thoughts that we are.   And the self that is in the many moments of ourselves. 


I failed.  In all that I couldn't get outside my particular self.  I remained trapped in matter.  I couldn't jump up beyond myself.  What to do?


I can see my immaterial, non-particularized self, but, seeing it, I am this particular grasping. 


(In all this, I, of course, do not mean by matter anything physical.  By matter I mean merely that which individuates.  Thus even angels as pure mind are individuated by matter, call it intellectual matter if you like.)


Only in God are all the ontological elements separate.  I am seeking a looking into God.  A looking at God.  Beyond any world, angelic or human.


The Vision is immediate and close and effortless.  Surely, too much so.  The line is no doubt burning love.




1341  Let a e F represent a fact.  It says that the bare particular a exemplifies the universal F.  Let 'a e F' represent the idea of a e F.  That makes the idea another universal exemplified by the particular in the thought.  In symbols,  b e 'a e F'.      I (as the particular b) am the idea.  Just as the sky is blue.  In fact, right then I was the idea of that very fact.    The fact, which is not a simple thing, is somehow one with the idea, a simple thing.  Metaphorically, there is a mapping of one onto many, surely something difficult to imagine.  I as idea am mapped onto the sky and its blue color.  This is all a dialectical difficulty that leads to trouble for philosophy.  There is, though, no such thing as an untroubled love affair.


Because the idea and the fact are so hard to distinguish, idealism easily seems true.  If the world consists of facts, and facts as complex not-things seem to exist only as ideas, that is, as something having the unity we feel is required to be an existing thing, then the world is idea.  To preserve realism the unity of fact and the existence of facts as something other than idea has to be found.  Thinking fact aside from things is troublesome. 


Dans l'esprit subtil, I see the distinctions that constitute the body of philosophy.  The distinctions and my seeing them lead to further distinctions without end.  The infinite falling that is Thought.  I see it in stillness.  There is no way out of this mysticism. 


If the world is a "synthetic manifold", mind is not the ground of it.  Mind merely observes what is there and what isn't there.  Exemplification grounds the unity of a fact; the simplicity of an idea is either ungrounded or it is grounded by transcendent Simplicity.  The simplicity of idea is not the unity of fact. 


A further question is about the unity of idea and fact.  The mathematical word mapping will not work.  Is there an intentional nexus?  The closeness of idea and fact, that they seem so inseparable, the feeling of intimacy with the world, seems to say that they are one without nexus.  That I am not the world, that it is so maddeningly independent, also seems to say that there is no nexus, that the break stares at us.  That thought is of the world seems to say there is one.  If there is a nexus, then idea joined to world is a further fact, sometimes called "act", which surely leads the problem higher.  That's fine, because I love these high climbing problems.  I love the explosion of thought.  And the ultimate rest after a wild night.




1342  The act of the mind seeing the sky as blue is not the activity of the mind putting the sky and the blue together.  The togetherness of things in the world is not the simplicity of the idea of the things together.  And the simplicity is not a unity made by mind.  A unity is a composition of many things.  A simple thing has no parts.   The idea is simple.   This simple thing is of a unity.  The act is me united to the idea.  The act is a composite, a unity.  In all this there is not a doing, there is no activity.  At least not a doing or acting in time. 


To say that the nexus is an agent outside time acting in time is a great complication.  It separates agent from its acting.  Then the nexus doesn't ground anything, but its acts do.  This is a lovely theological distinction worthy of the high middle ages.  It leads to where the middle ages led. Occam then Berkley.  The distinction between substance and its nature as its substantial form weighs heavy in history.  It has become and long has been a drag on thought.  Philosophy becomes about weak things and suffers them.


I have often said and perhaps it is a central idea in my words that God, Being, the Forms, the Boy, strikes, is at you, takes, and slays.  So many descriptions that seem to make these things a doing to the mind.  How can I rid them of agency?  It isn't necessary.  I have taken the weight of the words of the tradition.  Without the now dead words, I have make philosophy that weight now weighing down on me.  If I do have agency it is without the word "agency".  I have stuff without it being stuffy.  I have tried to put the erotic back in.  If others use my words and use them and use them, they too will die and be stuffy and weigh down history.


Thus act without acting, agency or activity.  Finally, no act.  The word is of no use to me.  For the same reason, I don't use so many of the other words from the tradition.  Just as Idealism, at a certain time in life may seem lovely, it quickly degenerates into scholarship.  Our job is to keep up with philosophy as it passes by.  Not to stay behind cataloguing where it has been.   Where the spirit has left.  Where I have been all through this page.




1343  A person writing philosophy cannot be all things to all people.  I cannot write a defense of every proclivity.  Nor can I live up to Kant's injunction that my actions should reflect the universal.  That isn't really what he said, but it's close enough.  My actions do reflect a universal, maybe even the universal, but few want to do what I do or see any good in what I do.  That is the way it should be.  I don't want my heaven cluttered up with a lot of other people.  I have absolutely no objection to the One God being timelessly simultaneously present in an infinite number of totally different worlds.  Each world totally disconnected from the other, if that's the way the inhabitant(s) wants it.  I am willing to share my God, if I can have Him eternally totally alone just to myself, his thoughts on no one else.  There is no logical screw up in that sentence.  It is only unworkable inside of a particular space-time.


It works like this.  A flower in this world or another has to itself the Form of Flower; it belongs totally only to that particular.  Universals aren't part time lovers.  They don't have to run off for a while.  The Attention of the Form's Being onto that particular doesn't drift away.  The Form is always perfectly directed toward just that particular.  And yet that one Form in its timelessness and placelessness is present attentively to many very different flowers.  This is the way of the things of Being.  It's mystically wonderful for those of us who were never very closely tied to space and time and world anyway. 


Diversity, in Being, need not bend to a totalitarian Unity.  If the diverging ways contradict and one doesn't like the contradiction, fine, that's why the firewalls of absolute separation exist between worlds.  In God's house there are many mansions.  A strange statement, but true.  In God's blossom there are many flowers.  On his lips there are many kisses.  In his eyes there are many seeings.


In his godhead there are many divinities. He can be wonderfully jealous, we can never be.  We would be, though, if He were an individual and not a universal.  I will share Him with no one!




1344  The words Form, Being, the One, universal, particular, nexus, etc.  have long ago died.  All the words of philosophy for a moment flared up and then were quickly burnt out.  That's life.  Nonetheless, we all use them; we have no others.  We should not forget that they did once really burn bright.  The words are not bad words.  Everything is only for a moment.  And then another moment comes.  Sometimes the old words can be used again in a new lively way.  The spirit comes and goes wherever and whenever it wants.  It revisits places often.  So be it.  Our using the old words, trying to revive them, sometimes works; the spirit returns.  I hope it will be so, for a moment, with my new use of the old.  Maybe this is of the Eternal Return, a thing named in words now very dead words for us.


The resurrection of the dead.  Regeneration for those who have lost their energy.  The return of first love.  Surely this is because the Universal Form is always young.  Only the particulars come and go.  And I can cease to be the particular I am and jump into the universal.  Then I am a new particular.  Or I am a particular with the New.  Such transformations are commonplace.  That's life.


For those who love the idea and the feel of eternal loss, eternity will last only a short time and then become tiresome.  Despondency can be a wonderful trip when viewed in an instant in a book.  We can swim in the eternity of that Form.  It is always lovely and new.  Then another Form catches our eye and we are off.  Love is a bit fickle, but the heavens are vast and lovers await everywhere.  Eternity is not the everlasting, but even the Everlasting in itself is an eternal thing and not itself.  Everywhere you look there is only fullness and Being.  You have no choice.  The energy to accept it always comes.


There are no new things to say in philosophy.  Nor do I every day have more to say.  But the words come, and I say more.  And I am always at the beginning of philosophy.  Inside my head I am still 15.  And so are you.




1345  The discipline of being seen and being judged in your individuality, the feel of creepy power around you, a total power of the unempowered,  the universal nowhere, it never was, no one, building you, patting you, putting you up as their work, is the presence of ghosts, the world transformed into documentation.  This is the everywhere universal of the unreal.  It is an individuality built up then eaten by ants.  It is the world we live in.  The god of this world is Satan.  Not the Satan of Milton, but the accuser you must meet outside the examination hall.  A functionary. A clerk.  The normalizer.


This image of individuality, the only individuality allowed, is the last vestige of reality.  It is grabbed by the mad and the criminal and the immoral.  I am all three.


I live as a pretended Royal Priest.  I am the Philosopher.  The age of Glory now gone, I put the boy and myself up for examination by the Just of the world, and I and he fail and fall out of the world.


My tool, the only tool of the poor, the tool of only the poor, is Beauty.  I have written it into my words.  It and they go round and round.  Glared at.  Glowered at.  Loved.  Handled.  Rejected.  Needed.  The case.  The file.  The world is all that is the case.  Minutiae fondled.  He's strung out.


Seen clear through by God, by the beloved, by everyone, I am undone.  I become an individual perfectly judged, slotted, forgotten only momentarily.  I worry.  Rejected by the beloved  himself.  I am undone and done up.


God the examining clerk for his own universe.  Becomes the examined, the immoral, the criminal, the mad.  God becomes the boy caught with his pants down.  Judged impure.  Far from the real.  Close to the real.  You can feel that here it is close.




1346  The boy is seen by no one.  He is observed, measured, watched, categorized, marked, noted, viewed, scrutinized, even gawked at by a world trying to discipline him, order him, normalize him, make him calm down and learn to get along.  He generally has no objection.  He likes the attention.  He's used to it.  He expects it.  He plays to the crowd.  He knows he is the problem.  He knows though that there is really nothing there for anyone to see.  As a real self he's hardly there.  He's minimal.  No one seems to have seen that.  He's slightly worried.  Maybe no one will ever notice.  Just keep moving.


By himself, he watches himself in a mirror.  He's a strange thing to himself.  He goes into his room and jacks off.  The strangeness is interesting to him.  That anyone would try to discipline it is even stranger.


That strangeness, sometimes his eeriness, weirdness, otherness, his ghostly distant future and non-existent past, his not really being here, somewhat covered up by school and church school and television, his other-worldliness is exactly that.   It will not go away.  It is him.  What is by nature outside the world cannot be brought in.  His twisting turning unruliness is it.  Half pulled in.  Caught.  Asked to help pull others in, he might try.  Made an object by study, he will try to believe he is that.  Nothing works.  The strangeness never leaves him.  He's always staring at it.  And it at him.  He's in love with that Boy.




1347  Beauty is emptiness insofar as it is really nothing at all in this world.  Nor is logical form nor Truth nor Being nor any of countless other philosophical things.  They are not a part of the phenomenal scene.  Unthinkable, unspeakable, non-existent, they are thought, spoken and felt continually.  All so in a way that is a greater mysterium.  Thus they are the Thrill and thus the inevitable embarrassment. 


Any philosophy that pretends to be able to calmly and rationally talk about these things can't.  It is a sham.  Any philosophy that calmly and disinterestedly and rationally talks about life being ultimately a sham, thus skirting the problem, and exiting fast, will.  The things of philosophy remain.  The strangeness is still there.  The Beloved still has his fingers in your hair.   




1348  We live in a world where details are power.  The minutiae, the infinitesimal, the delicate touch, perfect alignment.  Knowledge is just that one thing.  He stands in front of the mirror into eternity trying to get his hair just right, worrying that his pants are maybe too short; he sees that a red pimple has made him a freak.  He loves the game of making it all exact.  He will move his finger along the straight line pressing not pressing with perfectly equal pressure every unseen point.  Smooth. Then a moving away timed exactly.  Important notions to a boy.  He will control the world with his exactness, his delicate timing, a simple touch.


The boy is part schoolmaster, part rebel because the lessons are not exact enough.  He writes nonsense with perfect timing.   His periods never fail to make contact when they come around.  He throws away the paper as something too fine for the world's eyes.  With the right word at the right time he builds his thoughts into ecstatic frenzy.  With a gentle release his creation is there before him.  It's done.  Another time.


He tries hard to make his friends match his rhythms.  That they don't is maddening.  He will build a bigger system to control it all.  Eventually they all have built systems into one System strangling them.  Each searching for the perfect alignment, the perfectly equal, the two exactly the same.  A search that leads them outside the world.  They become transcendental beings. 




1349  The boy eventually fails.  His imagined precision did not figure in his own body's inertia.  Gravity's dead weight stops him cold.  And entropy.  He grows older and then old.  The boyness of the boy recedes farther and farther inward.  The inner and the outer divide.  He transcends into the far spaces of his spirit.  Until he is precisely cut off.  There, the perfection is his. 


The artless and his art.  The boy observes with a scowl his outward inept formless form.  Can perfect perfection ever accept it, contain it, redeem it?  The things stuck are just stuck.  The mystery of weakness. 


All the things of ontology are eventually formless.  And seem to be close to nothing.  The very weak.


Fact is the highly structured.  The Act of Being.  Energy.  Independent.  Unyielding to any of your mere wishes or beliefs.


The formless and the highly formed both stand against him.  Nothingness and Being.  Almost indistinguishable.  And yet the one is never mistaken for the other.  He stands in the noplace between.  It is just Question and questions.


The immovable and the perfectly yielding, therefore, also an immovable thing.  Inertia and entropy.  The boy is caught.   His death is sure.  He has failed.


No matter.  He seems unfazed by it all.  He's sure there is a way out or around.  He is even now standing back from it all.  They are just forms among forms, exemplified here and there, and though in that, as brute as an oak tree, he stands back from it all and moves on.  Even the bruteness and the nausea coming from it seem close to nothing.  Reality has escaped all the real things.


Nonetheless, the old man remains, and the boy, now so inward, waits.  Why is it like this?  I have no answer that is not obvious.


The Spirit blew over me, and I was like wet grass in a fire.




1350  There is of course beauty to age.  It is surprisingly the beauty of strength.   The ability to remain standing in the face of age.  The attack has started and you are now less concerned than you were years ago.  The youth in you has grown strong and big.    You are younger and more beautiful than ever.  The old will crack and peel off soon.


It is useless to try to see old people as outwardly attractive.  They aren't.  They are waiting and putting up with what they must.  Even with the solicitousness of youth.  The escape and the Glory of Youth are about to be theirs.  They have been hardened.  No more of the softness of earth.    They have earned the right to judge the angels.  They will wait expectantly on the streets of heaven, dark eyed beauties watching for Him.


Just as the beauty of a boy is his independence of you, so your growing independence of everything that is the world is yours.  Leaving this home will be easy.  The young will just have to accept that. 




1351  Headache, old age, lack of money, on and on, so many things that seem so far from considerations of loss of logical form, of a fall from order and energy, of the presence of weight, the incommensurable and a final redeeming of all the pain.  The intellectualizing explanation of the misery explains nothing.  On the other hand, health, youth, the wealth that brings possibilities all seem essentially and presently to be those very abstract ideas. 


The evil of our lives is a fall from the intellectual.  Dead weight cannot be thought in pure form. 


Nor can dead weight give birth to the intellectual. Nor to the thought that it is far from the intellectual.


Can the intellectual, though, give birth to dead weight.  To say that it cannot is to require that in God, in the Real, these two things are ultimate.  Not only these but the third thing that is the question of the one and the other together.  So be it.  There are at least three ultimate things.  The mysterium of the unity of God seems to require that.  Otherwise the pleasures of life and love would vanish.  Our God, above all else, is the God of sharp delight.


That we do intellectualize about the dead things and they do somewhat yield to their pure formations, shows that only a little remains that cannot be taken up into thought.  What is that little thing?  That the third thing can almost answer its question about them being together and partakes of the lightness and the painful heaviness itself, is a deep hole boring itself into the matter of the thing.  That the dead are redeemed and their deadness is forgotten is true.  That the unredeemed are real, also is maddeningly able to hold out.  That thought collapses here is unavoidable.  There is a dark darkness somewhere in God, the Real.  Perhaps there is also a place in Him, in It, where it doesn't exist.


God is God with or without the pain as only pain.  To see Him without it is also to see Him.




1352  The difference of pain and need from pure form is not different from the difference between that and color or shape.  Number somehow fits with any form, sensed or synthesized.  Yet number and that form are categorically different.  Difference is difference.  A fit does not overcome that difference.  There is no reduction to pure form.  All the descriptive forms, all the forms with content are brutally there.  Number itself, though, may not be pure form.  Maybe it cannot be reduced to empty logic.  Maybe it is a kind of thing between content and emptiness.  But then what is that betweenness?  Surely it is also pure form.  Pure form and content mingle.  This and red and is mingle into this is red.  And mingling itself, in order to avoid a mean regress, isn't.  Or rather it is a thing beyond existence, which makes no sense.  It is transcendental, ineffable.  Take it or leave it.  The Boy's precision precisely cuts.


This and Red and is all dialectically become each other.  A theater of one person playing all the roles.  A holy trinity.  The boy begets himself.  And the What are we to think of that?  He is the question we have become.  Between me and myself I have become just bad writing and bad acting and bad.  There is no laying out any ontology here.  An ontology of ontology is impossible.   




1353  I ask my friends if they think I am a rationalist or a romantic.  They always say a rationalist.  I suppose I am.  Though I talk about the pain of love and the collapse of reason and the ineffable, it really is all because my thought has tried to reason about all this existence around me.


I worry that I am not poetic enough for the old Persian poets, and I remember that Rumi is said to have abandoned reason.  I suspect, though, that he never would have said that about himself.  Shams-I-Tabriz, no doubt, appeared right out of the essence of Reason.  The Lord of Reason sends the mere moon and stars of reason running. 


I worry that no one will be able to follow me in my reasoning about Being, or want to.  I have not systematically laid out this wild thing which, nonetheless, taunts me that I should try.  Temptation?


To talk and think about the things I am interested in I worry that I have to help you make your way through reason first.  I have not done that.  Surely others, though, have already led you there.  You have probably led yourself there.


I worry that I am making excuses for the bad job I have done.  No doubt I am, but I can't write otherwise than how I have written.  It is not given to me to do so.  Probably my worry is because I am the old Persian and the one unable to follow and unable to let myself be led.  I lead myself, but I am forcibly led.


I have somewhat learned not to worry.  I have learned to politely talk back to the complainers.  To those who set themselves up as judge.  I am no longer wonderfully done in by them; I am a little bored with them.  It has done me little good so far.


My friends usually tell me I am a rationalist with a tone of despair in their voice.




1354  A God who sees everything has no need of informants.  No need of betrayal.  Man finds them the most useful as information, the very essence of control, becomes more and more valuable.  We cannot see into the mind of others with our computer eyes.  We need other real minds to do the work for us.  To make informants and traitors we establish petty crimes to make delinquents whom we arrest and then we make life impossible for them after we release them for which they are so very grateful.  They then have to give us what we want or they die.  Only we want them, we information seekers.  If we were God we wouldn't have to be so vile.  The pendulum swinging has taught us it all.


I am inside the Panoptican.  God sees me thoroughly.  The Peropticon.  The Periprosopticon.  The Hypersubopticon.  An Epopticon all over me.  I have become informant and traitor to myself.  To others.  God, through me, has become that to himself.  He is Judas.    A hall of mirrors where He can admire His own beauty.  Through Him I mine.  At last we are one mirror reflecting itself.  Information sees information.  Seeing sees seeing.  All through around face to face under up against.  Relations relating relations.  The self is lost.


Foucault is a writer and so am I.  Each betraying himself mainly to himself.  If our words convey any real information at all it is a pity.  They, at the time, seemed so pure.  That they should be merely used is sad.  They should be loved transcendentally totally.  All through around face to face under up against.   Of what else is God for? 




1355  Christianity without the incarnation, the sacrifice, the uncanny resurrection, without our eating that flesh and drinking that boy's intoxicating blood, without anything real, just symbols, is no religion at all.  If it becomes the unspeakable myth of nothing really there, just words leading around and around inside themselves, a terrible emptiness, covered up with phonemes compounded and syntacticized and reflected in traces and transformations, high scholarly stuff, then what good is it?  Even the imagined real is better than that.


Myth, the closed-mouth unspeakable, is what I am speaking.  Even paradox.  Myth as stories and symbols for just more stories and symbols, images of images, the eternal Fake, the repressed sub-conscious, the Matrix, is what I am not speaking.  Realism fights with pale idealism projecting shadows.  The self- identical fights with the eternally something else.  For me, even the Other and the Question is each itself. And also the non-existent existence.  I play with all these things around my fingers.  I see them clearly on the boy's face.  He is right there.  I do not resort continually to the scholar's analysis of what was meant.  Kisses are a better fate that commentaries.  His kisses' wrap pound that into me.


That the world exists out there is a scandal.  That it is a rough place, not fitting into logic structures, a power coming down, is offensive.  That words speak the unmade form of this place is brute.  That we cannot somehow reduce it all to nothingness leaves us no choice.  But the boy delights in the strength of it.


That a timeless thing is right here this is when seen as just that hardly believable.  That that timeless form of all forms being just this is itself right here this is too much.  It all piles into itself and builds a transcendent plenum and weighs down on, not only the mind, but the head. 


Logic running back into itself.  The logic of logic becoming ontologic.  But it all makes sense so nicely.  Being is full.  Can we really believe that?  Perhaps I have lost my way and I have ended up in an illusory City of the Real.  Is the Real unreal?  Let me cut, separate and repeat and make a third thing.  Or is that the very thing that brought me here to this fantastic place? 


The dialectic never completely destroys itself.  It overflows and runs away only to do it again and again and again…. .


The incarnation and the sacrifice and the Boy are exasperating.  And tiring.  Beauty never completely wears out.  In-turning at the last formless minute is Pure Formless Form.  It starts again.  We are cannibals.  Live with it.  Eat the Boy.




1356  The world feeds on itself.  Your strength came from you eating yourself.  You betrayed yourself with a kiss.  You hung there in the wind.  You were beautiful in your rising up.  Glory glows so brightly on your forehead. 


That you are real and that the horror of the sacrifice was before you were and you are now it.  That you are an immortal and thus an embarrassment to yourself.   That Being and all the Eternal Structures in it are really there.  And you hardly understand any of them.  And you will always have to try.  That is what eats at you.  And it is you.


Religion is a despicable thing, so worldly, so much a concern for power and a need for money and we are all dying.  Its lovely people kill each other.  Usually in gruesome pain, maybe unintentionally, often not.  Its thinkers seem to try hard to be stupid.  Its mystics are trying to force God's hand.  Its God is either too much like a dictator or a willful beauty that is really the same thing.  Why can't we just learn to get along! 


Getting alone is a dream.  Religion is real.  I am a realist.  I sit and write and I am undone in that.  This is the dangerous Onanism.  IT is all over me.  So what if the popes were cocksuckers.  That ritual dripped with blood.  The church itself is on the terrible cross.  Its knowing that is necessary.  It is unclean.  It will rise in your unwanted Glory.  This is Being.  This is the Logos that is the core of logic.  It's too much.  We are inside this thing.  And time doesn't exist.


My thoughts shimmer.  I have been watching you for a long time.  Time never was. 


Should I say that time has eaten up time?  Is your Glory eating a hole in your head?  Has the wind blown itself away?  It's all an easy logic, an easy piece of writing, an afternoon relaxing.  But you haven't yet slipped into nothingness.  The Real is still there.  He is over there looking at you.  It's all so uncomfortable.




1357  A friend of mine told me that I write meditation pieces.  At the time I thought that was fine.  Meditation is kind of dreamy, which fits the rhythms and the flow of my words.  Later I didn't like the hint that my writings were not serious stuff, not analytical or the completion of dialectical reasoning.  I, after all, love structure, though I write about the limits of structure into the essence of structure itself.  I'm also very aware that most scholarly analytical writers spend most of their words preparing the reader for the quick movement of their logic.  The point comes suddenly and after his stride hits the ground only a couple of times.  It's the same with sex and death and striking a deal.  It's the slow spinning spinning of a shark before he turns flashes and it's over.  I like the climax, the point of no return in orgasmic anything.  Meditation is too much like endless foreplay.  But foreplay is very nice, necessary and I'm sure I don't have to tell you any of this.




1358  To feel the transcendental in any act, in any looking, in any touch, for us, the words must be uttered.  Perhaps under your breath just to yourself for another, perhaps quietly whispered to him, but perhaps in an explanation that seems to be failing with each additional word.  The words for us are necessary.  We cannot see or feel the transcendental directly without them.  With the words that mystical thing is directly known.  The words are not substitutes or deputies but that which brings the longed for unspeakable thing.  The Form thus present is not the word, but is fused, for the moment for us, with that word which is always different, formed by different lips and somehow in a smile or frown.




1359  When philosophers become scientists in institutes studying the phenomena present before the mind's eye, analyzing, dividing, analyzing, dividing until A is B and darkness is light and every thing is other  and through a nexus standing alone,  the very absence suffusing presence itself reveals itself, the nothing at all.  Such philosophers, denying that philosophy is nothing but love's sickness, professional, paid, established are also and truly of philosophy, afraid, knowing, a band of sophists, the fallen, so necessarily sure they are the ones, the only ones who have not fallen.  Their work comes to nothing, the very nothing.  It was wonderfully on the way but the road became just the Road, an unmoving thing just there, surely not itself.  These scientists became their own studying.  It felt good, but like all pleasure, it had to end.  Another preoccupation and occupation will soon come to replace it.  It always does.


I am that.  I am the statement that has become itself, speaking itself, its own existence.  The final mystical end.  The meaningless.  That thing we know the meaning of so well.  Perfect syntax lined up so neatly inside itself.  Himself.  The god is here. 


Institutes and the Boy.  So different from each other.  So dialectically at each other.  He will win.  Of course he will.  Eternity stretches out far.  He is there.  He is that.  He picks at the scab on his knee.  In my professor existence I watch out the window that is always itself looking at him.   Even into the machinations of this computer I write on.




1360  It seems that the object in my philosophy, philosophy itself, is the grinning Boy.   It is possessed. He is the unraveling of all my arguments.  Then he is the Knot that will not disentangle.   The simplicity of the nothing at all is his complexity.  At his rushing by ordinary complexity vanishes.    I am thrown against this.  He's hard.  Hey, Mister, come here, give me your money.   I wrestle with him down on the streets.  Strange lovers.  He knows I have nothing to give him.  I hope he wants only me. 


Because of the twistedness of life we say it is a dream.  But such dreams are more than real.  They are the really Real.  And urgent.  And intense.  And perhaps not to be mentioned in public.


The Boy is crippled.  Maybe it is the disease of childhood.  He is pale.  I have always wanted to rescue him from I don't know what, but what can I do?  Parallel universes are close, very close.  I did this to him.




1361  Philosophy always eventually falls into mysticism and the meaningless.  The closed-mouth unspeakable.  The thrill and the publicly disreputable.  The secretly religious.  The philosopher, the lover, needs quiet.   Maybe the Quietness.   I don't know.


He tried to make the meaning of his words arise out of his words.  He tried to make the  chaos of his thoughts, in the being of Chaos , give rise to Order, and then to all the ordered world.  From the Nothing felt as nothing and in anxiety he was reaching for something, sure in Presence and finally each presence.  


The philosopher must be a logician.  He will do the logic of logic, metalogic and metametalogic.  He will search for the end of the endless and the Endless and experience first hand the collapse upon arrival.  Then the Arrival.  The Too Much.  The moving on degenerates into money given for doing his job.  Failure.


He watched himself fall.  It didn't take long.   He knew it was a necessary fall, but maybe not.  Maybe he could go only part way, stand on the edge of the cliff, and look out into the blue for a long time.  Maybe he could be a tour guide up out onto this moor.


Should he say that philosophy is only poetry and metaphor?  Of course not.  Philosophy is about the real.  He quite rightly was speaking and writing the real all along, but Being or the One or that grinning god is more than reality.   And the Fall is a part of love and Love is deep in philosophy.  Even the self-identical denies itself and serves itself and is hard onto itself.  Oh, where is the truly One?


The truly One isn't.  I easily make the statement and then I wait for the Dialectic to arrive and take it apart and, of course, there never was anything there.  The gods are dancing together in this all night drunken fast.  Now you see it, now you don't.  The One is.


I dream of Spain and the lovely desolation.  But standing in Spain after the long trip there is painful.  I dream of following all the forms of mathematics, a magical non-euclidean circus.   The work of learning it all is tiresome.  It's too much.  The books are heavy and usually closed over there on the table.  So I run to the Work that is in work or around it.   I concentrate on the hardness of the streets out there while I am in here.  I purposefully dream of reality.  I think the unthinking thing.  I can do it.  It's more work.  I write it.  I have written it.




1362  Philosophy is an unclean failed thing.  I will not use comedy to hold myself back from it, nor disinterested analysis, which is the same thing.  I wallow in it.  I take pleasure in it.  All things are permitted.  Everything is true.  Everything exists.  God watches, but He sees you as Himself.  This narcissus has fallen madly in love.


Empty variables and traces and lost references and the simply disappeared.  I must, of course, make myself be that before this God.  It is already accomplished.  I am the Other.  I am the pure godhead.  Sheer nonsense.  There is no other end to philosophy.  I will dress it up as well as I can.  Maybe I'm dressing a wound.




1363  Existence seems so very inseparable from any other ontological thing.   Yet we know the difference between that thing and existence very easily.  It's only their inseparability that is so insistent and any separation is so very unthinkable, and is surely non-existent.  This onto-theological Knot of the transcendence and immanence of God is impossible.  It is the same with love though and we know it so well.  I am my beloved.  My beloved is the only thing really and excruciatingly beyond me.  We are all intellectually and emotionally torn.


Likewise, that the complex is made from parts and is not one of those parts is obvious, but that leaves over nothing for the complex to be.  It can't be the whole or the sum because that is just a part excluding the other parts, which are tied to it by the relation "part of".  The complex cannot be said to be a something.  Existence without being a something seems impossible.  It feels unimaginable.  Existence is tied to every something.  But there is no tying.  There is no separation.  And we are back at the Knot.


Somehow when the Boy glances at this body and that Beauty appears, it all makes sense and I think I can tell you how it all works together.  For a moment in my hands the Knot unravels and the robe falls off.




1364  Aristotle didn't destroy the philosophy of separate Forms with the Third-man argument.  I'm not saying his argument didn't work, but we ignore it.  There's no way to do philosophy, to explain what we see, to be true to reality without the separate ontological things.   All the complexities around us are grounded in simple things.  The Simple Things are separate from this philosophically non-existent world.  This man is made of a bare this and the form of Man.  The separation is absolute.   In ordinary thinking philosophical statements and philosophical things are absurd and must be interpreted as something Delphic.   In philosophical thinking ordinary statements must be handed over to the non-human Real.   Ordinary confusion must be cleared up. 


If philosophy is clear thinking, it is separate completely and absolutely from the muddled.  If confusion is grounded in a nexus of fusing, the nexus and the elements fused, exist, not the confusion.  Have I made myself clear?


To say that the Form of Man is identical with this man and that, but is nothing separate.  To say that the Form IS the individual, in a forceful saying that tries so had to make the two into one.  To feel beyond feeling that this right here is the real and the ground of the Form and that there is no other, is a feeling and a saying that must succumb.  Particular and universal and the complex that they form in nexus cannot be one.  Mystical unity beyond words and thought isn't.  Or is something so transcendent that philosophy in grabbing at it will always fall back.  Every thought and speaking of it turn and rot in the philosopher's eyes.   I speak as a philosopher.


For the ordinary man, analysis has led only the philosopher to a coming apart.  The simple thing is just this one man.  His Form is nothing apart from him.  It is common sense.  Only the philosopher, not his absurd Things, is separate, and anathema.




1364  Philosophy, unlike anything else, is present in the thinking of it.  The Logos, The God, Whose Being is His Essence.  Capital Letter Writing.  The Transcendent End.  Exasperating.  The philosopher is thinking It is It.  The Philosopher.  A sudden Deification.  The shame is too much, but this is what we are.  Philosophy is a part of our history and a part of what we are in our essence.  It cannot be shoved aside as sickness.  It is Love's Sickness.  It remains always beside us and in us.  Ordinary thinking must, but can't, accommodate it.  It's a prick in the side.  It is the insistent Beloved.  Positivists, running from Him, have run right into Him.


Atheists become theists.  Theists become atheists.  The God we killed is back among us.  Is it a walking corpse?  Can we do it all again.  Do we have faith enough to be glad at the Return?  Our poetry and sad songs cannot survive.




1365  Philosophy for money has always been a philosophical problem in our tradition, East and West.  The money itself isn't a problem; it's the kind of non-philosophy that the market demands for its money.  The mystical otherness that is philosophy's obsession can be used as a weapon.    One can mentally stun his opponent into acquiescence.  He can even stun himself into submission.  The confusion that philosophy can spread is an open door to every reversal of fortune.  Learning to make it work for you is tempting.   First you make the other one into a sophist, that is, into one who has attempted to elevate himself to divine status with Capital Letter transcendent knowledge.  That one would be comic if his state were not so pathetic.  And he is leading innocent, young souls to perdition.  Something must be done urgently and with care.  These anti-sophists, working for society and thus deserving money, with great common sense, upholding the traditional but strong values, lead us all back into the light.  They are moderately and properly humble before reality.  They teach the correct use of reason and one's eyes.  All decadent capital letter things falls before this Moderate Propriety.  Of course, one must recognize a touch of passion and innocent madness in life, but held within bounds as the child within us, which, of course, we don't want to completely lose, they reason.  And to all this the anti -sophist will employ the self-evident, well, of course.  He points to a reality that is plainly seen.  He uses a logic that cannot be denied.  He traces out pathways in knowledge and the categories of knowledge that will lead us through the maze.  He has made the maze itself appear.  He is amazing.  Give him more money so he can have the time and freedom to lead us into vaster realms.  We are stunned.  He's so professional.  He goes to conferences.  In Conference everything grows in the ground of gossip and rumor and soothing chemicals.   The Decadent is here again.  New anti-sophists will appear soon.


There is no escape from this one more time capital letter thing.  This Reverend Professor Doctor of Philosophy in philosophy sits in blue jeans trying to avoid himself.  I, who ran from all this, love these guys who once were, I'm sure, the most delicate beautiful boys dreaming on their beds of not so distant intellectual fields.   That pure boy is still the only reality in us.


Decadence and entropy are a part of a boy's intellectual game.  The game of the Real and the Frightened Pretence.




1366  With the return of transcendence, the separate place, the academy and the ecclesium, the garden of dangerous,  maybe conscious, vegetation, the place from itself in itself, High Walls, paths leading,  grammaticum, toward gym nasium, the  couch, and the fanning wind blowing from nowhere to nowhere. 


Boys with skin of sprinkled pearls.  Inside their towers of ivory.  The lifting up into the non-human.  The symbols on paper are alive.


These constructions I write are already there.  I disconnect the ordinary and make changed reconnections.  My doings are only a moving into what is also here.  All facts exist.  I see that this is that Form, and I see then I don't see it fill up and become empty of the Actual and the Possible.  The transcendence is that thing that is my knowing all this. 


That I know otherness and fact and the non-human, and a reconstruction of the world into another world, not here, another here, and falling and rising and my knowing of knowing running quickly to the End, I see.  It is Him.  The mind-boggler has been waiting for me on the paths.  The clear water is here.  His skin crinkles. 




1367  Facts are out in the world.  They are not judgments of the mind.  Ordinary things are confusions.  Confusions are somehow also there.  The real world is a dialectical dividing and joining.   A separating and a uniting.  Otherness and the nexus.  Dependence and independence.  Laid out clean and clear.  It is just there.  Timeless.  Eternally done.  Nothing now or then is the doing of it.


There is no intellectual act that makes the ordered world into solid objects.  The critical moment does not occur.  The layered forms are already there.  And time is one more thing lying in eternity.  That is the mystical vision. 


I see through a glass darkly.  My thoughts fuse and I am confused.  I seem to be putting together what is already put together.  I take apart what is already scattered.  I feel my doing and in that I am a fainting.   I have done nothing.  Forever I have done nothing.  I am at the end of time.


The crisis is already out there.  The world is a blast and a panic.  War is real.  The sickness is always a lover's sickness.  The facts are brute.  They are all there.  Every possible one is there.  The sheen of actuality shimmers over them in waves of Yes or no?  I have lost the straight line.   Judgment is not in the mind; it is there on you.  That is a fact.  Divide and conquer!  The dialectic is your salvation.  The Boy of entangled hair.  He falls so smoothly onto the couch.  He will straighten it all out.  But first the terrible mess.  He is to be eaten.  This is soldiers camp. 


When Eternity comes these present things you are doing are nowhere.  But if you insist, Eternity will not come.  It is after all too much.  The boy is too intense.  And you are soon dissipated.    Sssssss




1368  In idealism philosophy tried to be science.  It was, after all, terribly frightened of the mysticism that had at last forced its mouth shut.  It joined hands with psychology and sociology and anthropology and linguistics and on and on, so many hands, so many friends, none of whom were really sure they wanted this new forced friendship.  Philosophy was frightened.  Its God was everywhere.  Transcendence was blinding.  Christianity made no sense.  Boys were shoving them, the old men, out of the way.  Those old men who were afraid to be lovers.  Worthless things.  Old men who didn't know the intellectual attack.  Old men who had forgotten the Words. 


Society cannot be a refuge from the blast.




1369  Transcendence returns with the ontology of ontology.  With the philosophy of philosophy.   With our looking at the fact that our looking at the Form of Being is a looking at something that is there.   Inside, outside the mind, everywhere, that Form holds sway.  And in that dialectical veering the Spirit breathes and we are held.  The world is gone, That remains. 


Existence is something, its simplicity is enchanting.  A Simplicity that is as the down on a boy's cheek.  What could we possibly think of it?  It and its existence, the confounding Diad, build up a philosophy that oozes Intensity and is close to total collapse.    The Breathing is heavy.  This ontology looks to leave itself.


The Form of the World is the Form of Love.  Its hiding from itself and the Fall is Love's Hiding and Love's Falling.


The Form of Being does not itself have this form that all beings have.  As Red is not red, and we know it.  As Long has no length, as Two is one, as the self is without a self, so Being isn't and Form is formless, and we know all of them.  Such knowing is transcendent.  And the knowing of Knowing. 


Philosophy is a simplicity that is too much.  That we can do it and that we in that doing exist is too delicate for assertion and argument. 




1370  Last time, I mentioned that Hegel said that the Being of Mind is Time.  And I said that solipsists see everything as in time.  Time is for them, it seems to me, indeed more fundamental than mind.  Mind arises from Time.  Everything is in time.  Nothing exists outside of time.  Time is the Great God, bringing things into existence and then swallowing them up.  Surely someone has said that Extension (space) is the opening up that is time coming to stand always falling and closing up into hidden places.  Then to be in mind is to be in time is to be in space.  Nothing escapes time and its opening up and its closing.  Universals are said to be outside time and space.  There is no place for them in that philosophy.  Everything is an individual this here and now, Dasein.  Every individual is ultimately made out of Time, that thing beyond existence and presence, but which is their ground.


I think the question of whether or not anything exists outside of mind must become the question of whether anything exists outside of space and time.  Do universals exist?  With that comes the question of whether there is a nexus connecting universal (if there are such things) and particular.  Do the pure universal forms of logic and mathematics exist? 


Time is a frightening thing.  Is it Kali?  Are Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva the three forms of Kali?  Is time not a frightening thing for you?  Does the Atman rest on some other dark thing?  By having universals I look for a place away from it all.  A refuge.  I look for a lover who is not my death. 


The question of number, whether the Self is one or two or three or many, is difficult.  It seems to me that the great pundits don't have much to say when analyzing number.  After all, if everything is an individual, that leaves little room for them, or for sets of things.  It doesn't have to be that way, though.  It seems to me, that there could be a fluid arithmetic full of rising and disappearing.  Maybe there couldn't.  Idealist mathematics is usually finitist.  It is a thing constructed by mind.  Constructions come and go.  They aren't real.  Anyway, there isn't time to construct anything infinite.  Therefore, any individual thing in space and time cannot be infinite, they reason.  Only individual symbols that define infinity exist, but they are not infinite.   They are momentarily useful, no more.  Mathematics is a tool that disappears with its use.  Forms come to the mind from out of time's super-absence and fall.  Number is a swirling in the head.  It comes to nothing.  There is only the opening out and then the swallowing up of Time.  Das Sein des Geistes ist die Zeit.


Time and the Veil.  Poetically they are very close.  Frightening.


As for all that hopeless worry about the master who is trying to enlighten his student but the student is only an illusion (of his?).  And if the student attains enlightenment so does the master and all things disappear.  And enlightenment is finished.   Maybe, though, the master falls into deep sleep, surely then too all is finished, the world never returns.  You know these puzzles better than I.  What are we to make of them?  Is the fall into puzzlement a sign that our reasoning has gone wrong somewhere?  Or is "reality" really depicted in them?  Does the Real have the Form of a puzzle?  Why not?


It seems to me that these puzzles are not the form of reality, but of the transcendent.  The Real is an unknown behind the skin of things.  The Puzzle is a knowing too well clear through.  The Real is the inaccessible.  The darkly seen.  That over there.  The veiled.  The Frightening.  Philosophical puzzles are not that.  These puzzles are outside mind and time.  They are the transcendent. 


Surely this dialectic of the real and the puzzling transcendent is a wild thing.  There is no way anyone could write the darkness with clarity and the clarity as the veiled real.




1371  For a writer it is always a worry that he has not explained his idea well enough or in a way that his reader can understand.  He knows that his reader is not a dunce and that he has a right to expect him to do the labor of reading.  Nonetheless, he thinks that as a writer it is perhaps he himself that has not been intelligent enough to find the words or that he has simply failed to do his fair share of work in the writing.  This worry is doubled or tripled in the act of writing philosophy.  The writing becomes a thing in itself separate from the writer.  Philosophy itself takes over.  The philosopher loses control.  But let me stop the progress of these sentences and try to explain.  Writing philosophy is not at all identical with writing about philosophy.  The latter is mere scientific analysis as art criticism is analysis of art but is not art.   The act of art is also something separate from the artist.  Though the artist has diligently studied and has been as attentive as he can, he, nonetheless, must give up control, even give up understanding, when he and the act are engaged.  He becomes the wheel driven.  And the philosopher is himself laid out in the words of the Logos. 


The Philosophical Logos is surely friends with or has learned from or was the teacher of the Oracle at Delphi.  Philosophy for the non-philosophical is meaningless, it has no object, and it is senseless, the words do not hang together.  The reader may be non-philosophical.  In which case, any labor by either party will be for nothing.   No reader, though, it seems to me, is completely non-philosophical.  We all understand more or less the words of the oracle.  And we all fail to understand, likewise.  Labor becomes then a putting-up-with a letting-it-be.   A more difficult labor. 


In spite of all that, I think I have kept myself in the rhythms and always on the smooth surfaces of this god of uncontrollable form.  I have not taken the reader away from the place where that thing is.  Nor have I let non-philosophical things in.  I have not injected myself except as that bare thing that endures all this.  I have written by being written.   I have let the shame of such writing fill me and I have not tried to empty myself of it.  I have never climbed up to the heights of the disinterested.  I am thus, for them, a case.  I am not attractive, but It is, nor are my words, but Something in them is, and in that perhaps I know jealousy.  Likewise, It may be the Thing in the reader, taking him where he doesn't want to go.  Philosophy is that thing that is necessarily in society with philosophical Necessity necessarily fought by society from out of common sense and good sense necessity.   The Oracle had to be safely away in Delphi, not brought to Athens.  It came in the form of Socrates.




1372  Here at the beginning of the twenty first century, our philosophies have reached the limits of analysis.  The Thing that has appeared has appeared before.  These our philosophies that were to avoid the evils of mysticism have the same mystical look as before and evil is, no less, all around us.  But we have not failed.  Either ourselves or reality.  Or truth.  We have been, through all that, true.  We at last have found truth.  Reality is, in the end, mystical, and evil is as real as the Good.  The God, now visible again suddenly and remarkably, is, in its Perfection, the same  intellectual God of war and of love's madness as we knew, as we have known from our beginning.  From our own adolescence and the adolescence of the world.  The Repetition. 


The destruction that our philosophies have found is that of Perfection.  What else could they have found after they had set for themselves such glorious goals.  They wanted to know the truth of mind and time and existence.  They found it.  These are not small matters.  Their work was performed with no small amount of energy.  The spirit of man in reaching was steadily noble.  He deserved a great thing.  Now he will have to live with Greatness.  He surely will not run from himself, nor deny himself. 


I have worked to not let myself be afraid of philosophy and its terrible beauty.  I have walked the streets and not run from what I saw.  I have not looked at my own destruction.  The spirit has blown over me and I have remained standing.  I reek with the philosophies of old all over me.  I am the Eucharist eaten.  I have myself become the Thing of religion.  The logic led inevitably.  The Presence, though absent, was undeniably present. 




1372  The monotony of my philosophical words puts them in the company of Buddhist chants.  Both use the words of simple empty analysis, logical, psychological, ontological, and in the steadiness of the vibrating voice attempt to carry the listener beyond.  The sensuous and the concrete is rarified.  Not any the less intense because of that.  Emptiness is powerful, too much so.  It fills the boy's head and pushes down back onto his throat bones.  It is Him.  Manjushri, the boy Jesus, Phaedrus the seducer.  How sensuous, how finely abstract.  Each living in the perhaps-he-never-existed.  Boys know still repetition. 


He is right over there. 




The commotion and the clamor.   Is it a speaking in tongues?   The mass of supposed words sits there.   The drums and horns are played by people who seem to have no thought of how to play them.  I stand back.  I could easily get sick from the knot in my stomach.  I have been tied up inside out by these sexual ontologists.   The wall on which I lean is surely the center of the room.  Every night we do this.  The boy being initiated and stolen from his family is only the abbot projecting.  Tourists are everywhere watching us.    Enlightenment has not touched us.  The tourists are us from the other side.  I am monk and boy and one of those come to watch.  Sometimes I am the mass arising from the shuttling bus.  Sometimes I am the bus. 


This is all logical swaying back and forth.  Like a boys legs up moving, slowly.  As he lies on his back, examining myself.  Intensely, minimally sensual.  A Dionysian cutting.


Everything is torn, apart, and flung back together.  The love sickness will not stop.  The trip is too long.   It is somewhat monotonous.




1373  I am a Christian by birth and by upbringing.  I have written a Christian philosophy.  Of course I have, what else could I have done.  No one can run from what has been given him.  The beloved thing I saw and see, that swelling and breaking Beauty, I have called Jesus.  He inevitably filled my head as I lay on my bed and thought.  And in that as I walked out into the beautiful countryside of my adolescence the swirling and the burning of logic became for me the Logos.  Of course it did.


I have tried to maintain the balance of divinity and humanity that is Jesus in me writing.  The flesh and the eternity of his mad existence.  The earthly boy and the heavenly Boy.  Two things that I cannot write as one.   The boy, the Boy that is inside all of our old men existences.  I have been writing of transcendent Beauty, not civil legislation.  My concern is There and That, not these things here.   But I am also concerned that in Jesus That and these things are hopelessly together.  I am concerned that the flesh and the Logos in my philosophy have not come together as one.  I suppose I cannot escape that worrisome concern.  It seems to be a part of this impossible whole.  Kata  ¢olh  a catholicism that I have been made to protest. 




1374  There is a difficulty in my writing that comes not from my failing to write well, though my failings are obvious, but from the twisted difficulty of the thing that I am writing.  I am not writing about it, but in it, and I have eaten it.  It is the ink with which I write.   My writing is a wallowing, but I have written it fairly, simple and clear. 


A swallow wallowing in the air and swallowing light.  His flight is smooth but too fast.  His turns are too sharp.  The airy letters he forms blur.  The palindromes are running again.  From nowhere.  Why did it come to this?  I have not been myself. 




1375  In these writings I too am running from a mysticism, a certain type of mysticism.  All philosophy ends up in closed mouth wonder, in a maddening love, but not all wonders or beloveds are the same.  Mysticism is properly philosophical or it is not.  A mysticism that is a running from philosophy toward the world and home and gentle suckled peace wallows in crying despair.  An alcoholic's philosophy.  So civil, so uncivil.  Nerves that are too sensitive.     A bad nighttime.  


This is a crying for the maiden long after she has grown up.  You cry and maybe she is also crying.  So very much crying.  What are her thoughts?  I really don't know.  I am writing about the mystic, not her.  She just did what she had to.  She worked.   It was all for the peace that is not here.  I doubt she has a mysticism of simple maidenhood.  Maybe somewhere she is also running from that.  That is not my concern.  I have the mysticism of the Boy.


The Boy is a war god.  Sufic glances like arrows from the bow above his glistening eye.  In this argument he will slay you.  In that love he will let you eat all of him so that he may be you.  He walks off by himself, dragging your entrails.  Surely a questionable mysticism.  But it is a mysticism of possession and the brilliant night of the tall stature of the Cyprus, not loss and not a cold lonesome wind.   The Boy is Light and His unseen hand is taking ahold of the rod you have suddenly become.   He is carrying your spear into battle.  If you are left as dust on the field, he is the field and you are his very thoughts. 


Choose your mysticism.  Time and generation and the world or transcendental glistenings with no time, no generations, no world.  Both are extremely difficult.  Both are a madness that mystical sensibleness eschews and chews.  You are somewhere in all this.  Even if you are lost in no thought of any of this.




1376  I live in a mysticism that hovers over the Prairie.  Here the Wind is too strong, the Atmosphere is too high coming down over the contours of this land I lie stretched out on, minimal and delicate like a boy's chest ravished by my touching it.


The people here all want to go somewhere else.  The great openness is killing them.  They go.  Then they come back.  Despair is close, but surely faith is better, they think.  Love never came, it came too close.  Can one ever learn to handle such love?  Everything here is overwhelming.  Even the ugliness of the place.  Why are the boys so pretty?


Everything is now on a grid.  It is finite except for the fact that it seems to go on forever, and the atmosphere would not yield to such rigid lines.   In winter it is a frozen ocean.  In this place so blessedly far from the swallowing sea, we walk calmly on top of it all.  Here Peter remains Up.  The crystalline ice eyes of Jesus have mesmerized him.  The high clouds are but flimsy wings.  Soon it will all be open space and the northern lights, mere ionized gas.  Boys study it on their desks, the coming test worries them.  He is third one from the left, second row.  Vectors arise from nowhere.


Angles and angels are of course very close as every boy knows.  And tangents are too delicate.  The point of contact is almost nothing at all.  Straight lines bend when looked at from a different angel.    Arcs and chords and harps and loose strings and pants falling off.  He's caught on the horns of a dilemma. 


I will teach him ontology and the bare particular, a thing even less that a geometrical point.  He is that.  A center around which.  Later up in the transcendent Form he is inside that thing.  He aligns the edge of his ruler now so close to his eye with the bar going up the center of the window out.  So many perspective changes and space collapsing and this is that.  From his Place he rearranges the universe.  He is the Place of the universe.  There is no universe, only the many things he contrives.   He is a conjurer.  Surely a frightening thing to be controlled, some others think.  He is captured, convinced he isn't really that and dies.  I move on to where he went, outside the world, maybe I am him, it's hard to say given the holiness of the logic in this place.




1377  Do unperceived things exist?  If I say that they exist only when I perceive them, then I am placing them in time.  They exist at certain moments and not at others.  If time is analyzed completely as a relation, then nothing is literally "in" time.  If I say that all things must be  "in" an act of awareness.  If all universals and particulars are necessarily "in" a fact.  And if any fact – F - is in the fact that x exemplifies the idea of F – call it F' - then we must say that all things are in an act of perception.  Nonetheless, that does not mean that unperceived things do not exist.  An existing fact is not the same thing as an actual fact.  All facts exist, or may exist in your ontological theory, but only some are actual, at least in this world.  Thus a fact F might be actual without F' being actual.  This assumes that there are indeed two facts involved here and that they are or can be independent of each other.  If that is so then it is not true that all things "must" be in an act of awareness.  The question now is - are a fact and an awareness of that fact two independent facts?  That remains to be seen.


Certainly a fact or a thing and the idea or grasping of it are close.  F(x) and 'F(x)',  F and 'F', x and 'x'.   What is that  '  ' ?  Furthermore, there doesn't seem to be any nexus between the idea and what it is the idea of.  Nonetheless, we feel that they are two, not one.   So close and yet so other.  We must do justice to that feeling of otherness.  Otherness, though, especially here, is such a fleeting thing.  The mind fights to maintain order, which further contains the idea that one of the ordered terms is directed toward the other.  Complication sets in.  Do those who hold that only one simple thing exists have it any easier?  Not really.  They have to show how non-existent ideas can be of anything at all.  I find it extremely difficult dealing with things that aren't there, ghosts.  Give me a real solid immaterial complexity any day.  Life is strange.


What can I do with this otherness I can hardly see and can only with great difficulty figure?  I insist it is there.  That I have never seen a fact while I have not been seeing it certainly leaves me dull.  Maybe it isn't actual then.  Why not?  There's no telling.  That word "while", though, brings in time again and I don't want to go down that path.  Another time.  Still, if there is no Time or Place certainly all facts are actual, but not with me.  I am only one of my ideas at a time.  Which brings me back from where I didn't want to go.  Maybe I am not just one of my ideas, but I am a different thing "outside" them all.   Then I "am" all my ideas of x is F and x is not F.  Then the whole world may be in my timeless and placeless being.  And nothing exists "outside" of me.  The logic is airtight.  Such is the pleasure of philosophy. 




1378  Why do I always put off trying to lay out an ontology of time until another time? Even if I cannot find any system to hold a final answer, couldn't I have some penultimate structure to sit within while it takes me farther out?  I don't know if I just put it off or I am put off by that or the thought of that.  Time is somehow nauseating and frightening.  It swallows me up, though I must admit I do say that I swallow Him in my loving philosophy.  And lately I have seen swallows as slightly frightening fascinating birds.  They allow low wallowing.  Something is inside something else here.  And there is a film all along my throat.  And cords and recordings.  Homosexual homonyms running back again.  And up my back.  Time is the de(con)struction of philosophy.  It's a snake that's hard to handle.  It's the same old Otherness that Plato talked about.  Scholarly words can't cover that up.  The compounded articulation of great language is not a good tool for bringing in the new, and we are no more now on the verge of a new age than we always have been.  The newly fresh is always with us.  And the old for now.  Philosophy returns.  I am put off by that, but that's only to say I am put off center.  Ever so slightly.  Because of the solicitation.  Why would He ask for such a thing with me?  It isn't licit.  And so I am waiting at this station for something that may never come.  Maybe I'm just cold.


Time stretches out and I cannot run fast enough to lay out that.  I do have my rhythms though.  He is here beside me.  It is I that is being laid out.  No, it is me.  I am object.  It is me that am that.  Again the silly philosophy of deconstruction.  A boy's tease.  I have never been comfortable with that.  And that is probably the reason I am put off.  Ever so slightly.




1379  In words that are meditations the philosopher quietly writes about himself,  reciting the words to himself, imagining that he will have written the words that others recite to themselves about themselves.   It is all Being speaking to Itself.  It is the Beloved eternally speaking to Himself.  The Self, which is not a thing but a relation.  The Self is always a back-onto-itself.  A circle.  A turning around.  A face to face.  A thing that these descriptions can describe only because each is one more of its forms.  The Self of meditations mediates itself into endless variations.  All thoughts are in the self as all the world is in number.  As all our sentences are in the word "is".  As each logical connector is in all the others.  As the outside is in the inside.   As the word "in" is not in itself, but blows away in the Wind.




1380  I am as though swallowed up in Being.  I am swallowed up in Being.  Metaphor and reality are one.  This is not theater.  No one sees me here.  I am alone.  The Alone, I suppose, is all around me.  I watch myself and have watched myself.  I am theater to myself, to the Self.  I speak to myself.  The stage out there is vast.  Maybe infinitely vast.  There's no one here.  Except, of course, He is somehow here.  Because of all that my words remain stuck right here.  He and I and this vast untheater are words.  I am swallowed up in my words rising up in my own throat.  And the seeing, even the unseen seeing, and the seeing unseeing.  And the breathing, this unrelenting breathing, that everything rides on it.  And in Him, my only spectator, the one who isn't here, but who is in me, who is me, who after all isn't, the constructed actor in this piece.  For you sitting there, lost with me.  In Being. 


This word construction and your recitation of it to yourself and I whom you do not know, but whom you know as well as I do, and your bent up, curled up form that is your sitting there, circlings and artful bands to hold you in place and me with you.  It is all Being and the Form of Being and the Breath that is the spirit with which you speak all this to yourself.  I am thinking of you.  But you are not here with me now.  Except as God Himself.  My eternal Other.  He is all over me. 


I am squeezed to a point.  All this you see is as all the universes on the whiteness of the page before the first instant.  Still no time.  You desire him don't you?  You see him standing over there at last alone and you are alone.  And he sees you seeing him.  And he's not at all upset that this is the way things are.  There was never a question but that you would take what you wanted.  The others are eternally gone.




1381  I am more than theater, I am a spectacle.  I am carnival for the rabble.  But because my words are so full of dialectical turnings, labyrinthine mirrors, and there is no place for the audience to sit, I am totally unseen.  I am the rabble itself.  Maybe the pure form of the Rabble returned now, after the inevitable trying one more time, to be inside that little room where the son of God lives.  Just him and me.  On a side street, not too far off the central square, in the City of Being, jeweled and grimy from too much touching.


From the Transcendent back to here.  My computer, my job, my getting money and my getting ready to leave again.  To India, where no one has time because they have to get ever more money for their stupid family. 




1382  All philosophical things belong to Eros, the child of poverty and plenty.  The third thing beside knowing and unknowing.  The boy who is not beautiful.  Nor is he ugly.  The oldest and the youngest of the gods.  He neither is nor isn't.  He is the dialectical other.   He is not here.  He is the only thing really here.  He is the world's desire and the world's aggravation.  He has kept the Philosophers from doing philosophy.


There is no other god like him.  Perhaps he is Jesus.  Perhaps he is Allah.  He is a worry about himself.  He is irresistible.  He is you.  You have seen him walking the streets.  His meager unstriking existence strikes you hard.  He, for a fleeting moment, possesses all things.  Then he possesses nothing.  He is the overlooked and you stumble against him.   He is the ragged boy sleeping on the doorstep of the Prince.  The mullahs and the priests have kicked him aside.  He goes into an old room and jacks off.


He is neither the Hindu maya nor is he Sat, he is neither vidya nor avidya.  He is outside both the family and the ashram.  The Hindu thought there was something illusory there, but he looked and it was only him.   An illusion of the world's Illusion.   Nothing to write a philosophy about. 


The boy is philosophy itself.  He is the Great Spirit of old. 




1382  To say that existence is nothing aside from the Form is to say that Form and existence are one.  To say that there is no such thing as existence but there is only the thing existing, is to say that the thing and existence are one.  To reach that thing that is its own existence, the essence that necessarily exists because it is necessarily just itself, is to reach the end of philosophy. 


Nonetheless, beyond knowing that the existence of the Form is just the Form, we know existence as different from the Form.  And we know the simple idea that existence is other than the Form.  And that that simple idea is its own existence and then it and existence are different and on and on always arching back as the saying slips and slides forward.   It is Kierkegaard with his twisted so flexible back.  The End is always beyond the end.  As the Infinite is beyond all the levels of infinity. 


To say that simplicity is nothing other than the simple Form is to say that the Form and simplicity are one.  Surely existence and simplicity and the Form are one.  And they are all different.  And difference is different still.  And Parmenides and Socrates and Zeno and Phaedrus and Eros all crash together.  The clamor of heaven arriving.  Taxis and Syntaxis lined up waiting to take you to meet it.  The Taxi that is its own existence.  The chariot of God.  I have put together many.  Choose any one of them.  Each one will break down, but you can jump in another one as it goes by.  Lovers never get tired of the ride.  One more swirling around.  Mevlana.


Like vibrating strings the curling up inward and the unfurling outward forever are reciprocally one.  The dervish one hand palm up the other palm down.  Circling and shivering with love.  I almost faint that my logic is so easy and just the stuff of the boy playing with these words naming eternal things.  Quantum fluctuation inside the plank that is the boy's bed.




1383  The Self in those philosophies that give primacy to the Self is dialectically the bare particular in it.  Stripped of its ideas which are like properties surrounding it, it is just that.  Created by the self, having no connection to anything else, the ideas are of nothing.  Ideas that are of nothing are nothing.  They are a useless doubling of the self.  As the properties of a thing are only that thing.  Properties fall having no self except the Self and only that remains in bare existence.  Just That. 


But such philosophies want more.  The non-self-existing ideas are not the nothing of nothing at all.  Their being there outside existence is the richness of the world.  The Self, That, hovers over it.  In a hovering, with a ghostly over, joining it with an equally non-existent other, the world.  Though ideas and all worlds and properties of worlds collapse together into one non-thing, these philosophies and their philosophers cannot give them up.  They make the pronouncement.  All these things are there, but they are only the Self itself.  Much as a materialist says that they are only matter being matter.  And as matter, materia signata, is the bare particular, these philosophies of the Self are materialism, and philosophy becomes breathing and all its words are vocus flatus. 




1384  Ontology is a laying out of all the fundamental categories of Being.  That is, of course, a mysterious sentence.  If it has any meaning at all it is dense.  Perhaps if I say, instead, ontology is a statement of what exists, I shall be clearer.  But no.  So let me try to expand my idea with examples and analogies.  My hope is that you will somehow gather for yourself what I am talking about.  My idea, though, isn't perfectly clear to me.  Maybe there is no clear idea here. 


If I say that all the world is an illusion created by the Self.  The fundamental categories of Being here, the existents, are, upon one reading, Self, illusion and creating.  The world is the thing analyzed into these existents.  To be an existent, here, means to be something that cannot be analyzed into anything more.  It is of the fundament, though firmament is perhaps a lovelier word.  Some might object that only the Self is an existent.  That illusion isn't real and creating is merely an act of the Self.  That illusion is dependent on the Self and of itself it is nothing.  Such objections are of no importance even if they are true.  I am not talking about what is real or independent or of itself.  I am merely talking about what are the various categories of things.  Some of those things may be entirely non-existent in an ordinary sense, such as bent sticks in water, dreams, hallucinations, square circles, even numbers, or abstract things.  Nonetheless, these non-existent things are among the fundamental types of things of our world.  To exist in a philosophical sense means to be one of those things that cannot be broken up into something even more basic.  The Self and illusion are fundamentally different.  Likewise the connector, creation, is neither.   


I think all of that is fairly easy to understand.  The search for the categories may be somewhat difficult, but it is reasonable.  The hard problem philosophy has comes when philosophy tries to analyze philosophy.  The philosopher in his philosophizing seems to have a vision of self, illusion, creation each in themselves.  He sees the world breaking up into those things.  He feels all those things intimate with his knowing them.  He knows this knowing.  And he knows Knowing.  None of these things are of the world.  Philosophical things and philosophical facts, such as the things Self, illusion and creating somehow joining into the fact that illusion is a creation of the Self and that this world is just that illusion, even the thing called thing and the factness of fact, are certainly nowhere to be seen in the ordinary world.  They stand out as timeless divinities there before the philosopher's gaze.  He gazes and in a kind of madness loses his way in the world. 


Even all that is easy to understand.  But the statement that the world is an illusion created by the self is nonsense.  The laying out of fundamental things, the search for existents, is not an innocent pastime. 


Surely this easy use of the word "exist" matches the fineness of the thing itself.  The philosophical es gibt, il-y-a , hay, there are, is a thing outside the things laid out in philosophy's ontology.  What is the category of "category".   What is the mark  " " ?  To say that they are merely diacritical things there to help us on our way is true but not enough.   Compared to this the Thomistic Existence is full- bodied indeed. 


L'esprit subtile, so rare, so frightening when gabbed by the hands of a scholar.   As accountants use numbers but know nothing of Number's relation to God, who are surprised that such a relation exists.  Who know nothing of that existence.  So scholars cry out existence and category.  Perhaps they are using the word in its meaning of accusation.  They are using it as an accusation.  It's diabolical. 


If Existence is one of the fundamental categories of Being then we must say that Existence exists.  That it is a fundamental thing.  That it is simple in its having no parts.  But the existence of Existence is not something it has, nor is its simplicity.  Those non-things are merely the philosophizing with which we have surrounded these things.


Likewise, the brackets of phenomenology are the philosophy of phenomenology itself, nothing within that philosophy.


Nonetheless, philosophy and the existence of existence and the category of category are not nothing.   To overlook them is to fail transcendence.  Yet to look directly at them and to ontologize ontology is to fall from transcendence.  Surely you should try to hide your glances at the beloved.  And to stare is to lose him altogether.  Perhaps the accountants and the scholars will be the only ones he will hang out with.




1385  If the first moment of the physical world had form, form must already have been there to be had.  Prior to its being with that it was.  The forms are separate.  Prior to its being grasped by a grasping it was.  The concept follows it.  In the concept grasped by you, me, him, then and now, here and elsewhere, there is the one form.  It is in itself, of itself, for itself.  The Self is in it.  For the form to have that form that form must already have been there to be had.  For each grasping to be a grasping, Grasping must have been already.  And the Already.  And Priority and the Succession of each succession.   


My grasping at the form, the world's taking and having the form, the being in of the Prior, the closeness of the follower, all reveal a Tying together and a revealing.  The gods within God abound. 


It is Intense.  A Mood hovers and pervades.  The breath of beauty or gloom.   Of frightening victory or of the sameness of failure.  The worlds of a happy man and of a sad man are not the same world.   The Spirit seeps in.  High intensity, low intensity.  The Real, the merely thought about.  Grasping with a hard grip, grasping with looseness.  Before form is Form.  At the beginning there was the Beginning.  The Energy was high.  It was the Moment.


This is meditation.  It is a mood I enter into.   I let the gods of philosophy come through me.  I let Philosophy himself take me off with him.  I have gone There many times.  That going and coming back is the substance of my life.  It is no more than a mood.  It is the Spirit.  It is no more than my words spoken to me.  There will never be a time when there is no more.  I have measured it out precisely.  And I wait for him.




1386  The subtlety of ontological distinctions may not appeal to you and I will be left alone.  It's not that you can't see or taste such fine things, it's just that super decanted wine that tastes and appears as clear water in a goblet of gold spun to be more translucent than crystal is of distinctions in which all distinctions are lost and the appeal is as though it never was and you go on your way.


The story line is lost or it never was or the ones involved were so tightly folded into themselves that there was no inter-action. Or it is simply that here is the contemplation that precedes the action of any story line and you want to get on with it.  I may have tarried to long before the white page with pencil in hand.  Such a prolegamma is the deliquescence of this spirit of water, wine and the gold.  I have poured myself back into myself.


This fiction is a science fiction in which science has come to the end of time and in which any seeming record that might substitute for time is a corrupted palimpsest of a palimpsest.  I chew the wine and the edge of the cup.  In the purity the breaking was complete.  I pull my finger out of the glass.  It is swollen and inflamed and the spirit blood flows off. 


Some of the dimensions of space never do unfold.  Any laying out is a laying in along an accelerated line approaching infinity.   This speeding up has been a slowing down into my meditations.  Philosophy and stories and science meet.  There's no money to be had here.


It's all so geometrical.  L'esprit subtil et l'esprit geometrique.




1387  The syntax of the sentence holds  in place the spirit of philosophy.  As the syntax grows and twists beyond the three dimensions of space into mind, leaving time imperfect, outside common sense, so artful, so unnecessary, it mesmerizes, it frustrates, it places the listener inside.  In the placing together that is Syntax, in its stretching out along the back-arched period.  In its too close compounding, the blurring mist.  The endless repetitions of repetition.   So obviously forged for the sake of Aphroditos.  His frothy kiss.  Around and around that pubic mouth uttering.  I speak at length for nothing more than that.  A breathing onto me.  The spirit.


The movement of philosophical thought, pure, about no real center at all, except for the Real, surely more like stillness, a movement that is just a caress, curled up in itself, the great and the very small equally, a movement moving, a self with itself, a mouth kissing its self.  The finite verb never came.  The thought flies off into it never was.


The art of writing is in its traveling the edge of what can be said.  Wielding maybe unwieldy combinations attempting to strike lightening high.  The eminent meaningfulness of art and nonsense merge.  Illusion becomes that it only appeared to be an illusion – it was real.  The Very Real and again the fall into illusion and then the Period.   Your enlightening sentence is a serpent.  Your pencil is a penis that is too long.  Linking verbs link only to other linking verbs.  You scribble right off your paper bed.  Later you see it was marvelously done.




1388  I always suppose a philosophy book should begin at the beginning, maybe at The Very Beginning.  I could easily begin there.  It is the easiest thing.  But the path of philosophy from the Beginning has no beginning.  Any first statement of what philosophy is will quickly be undermined.  Or it will simply disappear in later considerations.   Such suppositions are groundless.  Their always being there is merely the eternal return.


In the Beginning I or God or something created this.    I or He or We or It or It through Us or or or or forever.  The Beginning of the beginning is broken syntax.  It is the froth, the down on the Boy's Cheek that no razor has found.  One thing with itself is too much for the sentence.  The curling up is too tight.  The period is too fast.  He spoke something but what was it?  The hard things are far down below.  So I begin here with only the expectation of lips, close to speaking.   When the soul jumps across.  I will begin. 


The Beginning that is the beginning never begins.  The logic is easy and playful and a boy's toy.  He will break it from his incessant working it.  I suppose he will.  I suppose he will do with that as he has done with me and with all things.   Things come apart. 


At the end of it all there is only the fine residue.  His smell lingers.  His cheek is in the mist of a cold rainy day.  And the smell is the memory of a smell.  He is fresh but his existence is penetrating. 


If I had a beginning to my philosophy it could be a story, and stories are always nice.  In stories, though, I always wish the writer would come to the point, and I like to come right to the point.  Philosophy is then for me without a beginning because it is always at an end, the End.  The penetration must be quick.




1389  These writings are not in narrow poetic form, but in the wide form of an invitation to an analytic laying out.  I want to give you plenty of intellectual room to move around in.  Unlike poetry, I have an abundance of articulation.  And the articulation is so wordily unwieldy that like little vibrating strings in eleven dimensional space it breaks out into other universes of, Honey, you have to stop falling off the bed.   The geometry here is beyond me.  Labyrinths down into the dust.  Calabi-Yau   Calabi-Yau   Calabi-Yau   


This wide form is tighter than the dream form of poetry.  Concentration insists.  The work is stressful.  Being, across Aeons, is difficult.  The search through possibilities is numbing.  Finding the right form cuts into muscle. 




1390  There is the thought that two different things are both the same kind of thing and that there must be a ground for such a thought.  The particular thought is that this and that are both streaks of white.  That form must therefore be somehow present.  But is that form a thing that is independent of the mind and external to it or is it always in the mind and dependent on it because such universals are the very stuff of mind?  Is the numerical difference also merely a thing of mind?  Does the word "merely" point to the brute fact that any thought of a universal and a world of particulars being independent of mind is illusion?  Is any kind of realism mere error?  When the mind turns and looks directly at the universal being of the universals or at the particularity of the particulars does it see anything substantial enough to say that it is?  Does philosophy, looking at the things of philosophy, amount to more than nothing at all?  Are ontological facts brute enough to have any being, even simple existence?  Philosophy comes close to fainting.  The philosopher is back in the frailness of his boy existence.  He was then so close to not being.  Like wisps of cirrus clouds in Height.


Philosophy at this late time in its climb to the Heights, in its determination to build a firm ladder up, in its thinking it always has one foot squarely planted on the ground, it has thrown its thigh socket out of joint and become lame.  Like a crippled boy, he has to be carried about. 


Philosophy has become the lovely Boy.  This is the god we now worship.  He is here again.  Has he been transformed at all?  Is there any change at all between this and that that was before?  The delicacy of our flesh and the god who would be God are in each other again.  And we have been eaten.  Nausea and salvation.  Both are stunning.


I have written the end of analysis.  There is no other end. 




1391  The philosophy that a philosopher gives out, if it is really philosophy, is not merely a thing for his scholarly followers to use in trying to outdo each other.    Philosophy is not a thing for text searchers.  Rather than fall into their hands it would be better if it were lost forever.  Philosophy is the passion of someone's life in trying to come to grips with life.  It is something you secretly reveal to your friend, not to prove that there is no such thing as philosophy, but to be your love for him.   At last to be real for him.  Philosophy is the reality of your friend before you and you see him without mediation of idea.  You go through no one else, man or god.  Through no thing material or ontological.  He is directly in your vision. His naked existence is right there.  He is real.  You can feel him.  That is the substance of the philosophy you give him. 


This is the philosophy that comes with Eros.  The lover that seeks the real.  The philosopher twists in his sleep trying to find that not of his sleep.


The holy moment of philosophy is when form and existence are one.  An impossible moment.  Scholars can show that he made a mistake in thinking he had found it.  His mystical Holy Grail was empty.  But they fail to see that it was filled past the lip with his passion, a thing at which they hold their nose or try to pretend isn't there.  Or he isn't really a philosopher.


The scholar must learn to feel the philosopher's heart beat.  Even if he for the moment was proving pure nihilism or silly solipsism, he was trying to calm his heart that was beating too fast and hard.  Or he isn't a real philosopher and the scholar deserves the reputation all mere scholars have.  




1392  After the disappearance of the world into pure thought, after the war against the gods had been won and heaven's oppressive presence obliterated, the scholar, tired from assault, sat down to gently talk to his battle friends, but the gentleness wasn't there.  The war raged on amongst them.  After the war leading to the great disappearance only the weapons used in the battle were left.  Text and manuscript, now dusty and as though seen from far away, meaning nothing, the world now never having been.  And the victor scholars, now turning on themselves, school against school, interpretation against interpretation, traces of a world lost against traces, oppressed each other.


The world, gods and men, all vanished into words.  The words became words about words.  Barely seen.  The manuscripts being very old and now transported to a far country.  And the now wasn't then.  The now isn't now.  The writing turns to dust, and the dust makes it hard to breathe.  Maybe our computers can make it all hold still.  The dancing dust in scholars' lungs will kill them, but the trace can go on forever in a machine-time that never is.  


Why, in the first place, was there such an assault on all the magnificence of existence?  Why did the intensity become unbearable?  Why didn't the intensity moderate itself out of consideration for these men?  Did the intensity intentionally lose the battle?  Is the raging animosity between scholar and scholar now revenge?  Can the world be regained and the intensity accepted?  Is the battle, are the dead gods inevitable?  Who can help us?




1393  Idealism is a scholar's philosophy.  Words, texts, manuscripts, colloquia.  Hermetically derived from other words and texts and manuscripts and colloquia.  Sealed.  The words mean nothing aside from other words.  The world traced out now gone.  The scholar is if he can get his words out there.  If the others will consent to it.  The Lebensraum is tight.


I hate this ruined philosophy.  I have laid siege on this fawned over, pawed at Emptiness.    Surely it is empty, though, and strategy is difficult to devise.  For now I sit on the outside.  The boys playing out here are intensely beautiful.  I will let them be as they are. 


I too am a bookish person, though I spend my time looking for the world in traces that are still wet with life.  I too write words, though I wait upon the Word, now in the down of flesh.   I know him in the rhythms of love.  In the ever moving on caress.  In the coming around dance of periods.  In the glance that makes me know the guilt of having pushed myself into this heaven.  The boys consent to play with me.  I don't know why.  A teasing and a perfect yielding.  They have given me this book which is not a book.   The scholars are above all this, and inside and maybe in warmth generated from their continual fighting.    The intensity of heaven is slightly cold.  And so subtle.  The scholars make bawdy remarks about me.  I wonder if in their nights in bars they find a distant closeness I don't have.  My closeness is so very close, I can hardly hold my book out properly at length.  But I do have an I of which I can speak.




1394  If you say that the Beauty in the words of Philosophy is merely the beauty of the words of this or that philosophy and that beauty is merely the pleasant rhythms or mesmerizing nonsense of pseudo-thought, and if you say that there is nothing in the world that is the meaning of the words, you will undoubtedly be right.  Still, I can respond that at least in the words something, maybe something fallen from the heights of real thought, did appear and someone loved it.  It can be repeated.  Perhaps it is the only thing that can be.  The gods reside in the recited words of the priest.  They do not last through time because they are not in time.  Beyond any mental image I can think that thought.  Beauty and a momentary, airy beauty are one.  The very fleeting, the very insubstantial, confused boyish thoughts are the closest images we have to non-temporal, immaterial, unthinkable Being.  The disjunction between that and its image is even more maddening.   Such a minimal thing or non-thing.  If you say those things above you are undoubtedly right, but only if you know how to speak it in the intensity of its rightness.


That these images are eternal Being is the finest thought.  The littlest nexus, that is sometimes called love, is the substance of these words uniting themselves to That.  Their own substance is other.  As I am nothing without Him, and with Him I am here a despicable something.  I and He hover around in the articulation of words.  The Reality of that is not real.  That the real might be in the Real is what I write.   That the overlooked word "in" contains in it even the possibility of being in, holds the mind tenuously in the words.  Intensely.




1395  If I were a god or God I would want God all around me, and be weak and be me.  Therefore ……. .  Therefore nothing at all.  I can prove I am God, or not God or anything that strikes my fancy, but it is mystical, which proves nothing.  Mystical Proof is not a proof and it is worthless.  It is maybe of the fine arts.  The low brought high.  As the blue of sky blue is the same blue of midnight blue and is unseen and so common as to be of no concern to anyone, so God in me to the extreme that I am not is not to be worried about.  My mystical proofs are of no value to the world, except that all of us who are the world in a little thorn in our existence are also not of the world and we prick the sky and ….. .   Still I have proven nothing.




1396  A universal is one thing in itself.  A number is both one and many, divided from itself.  The nexus uniting universal and particular is neither one nor many, or perhaps like number it is both.  With number and nexus we are in an in-between world. 


Number is the image of the One.  As the geometry of the boy’s body moves in and out of itself, as my sentences periodically return, so number always comes to align itself with itself, as thought builds and turns and flashes in cataclysm and then is there again, one thing.


Between the one and the many there is the one that is many.  The One, then the Diad, then the building.  The Shattering. 


As words move in sentences laid out in intricate otherness.  As the meaning is one through all the forms of the sentences.  The textual weaving makes one light cloth lying across. 


The idea in text is one thing lying across the many.   My thinking moves between here and There.  I spy the delightful thing lying under the cloth.  The fire.   The Agile thing has made me as the particles of ash, I am blown away. 




1397  There could, I suppose, be a place where the fact that the trees are green and the sky is blue exists, but there is no fact that the trees are green nor a fact that the sky is blue.  Certainly our type of logic wouldn’t hold there, but perhaps there are other types.  It seems to me that there must be. It seems to me there probably is such a place somewhere in Being.  Logical facts are thus a priori only within a certain place.  Logical facts, though placeless, are of a place. That is an ontological fact, which is something other than a logical fact.  Logical facts are of a place or they are not of that place.  That is a logical ontological fact.  The complexity builds.  And I continue to suppose. 


I have to change my use of words.  Let me say that there is a place where a and b is actual, but a and b are not. Thus we can still say that all facts exist, existence being something different from actuality.  The question of the copula, or lack of one, between fact and actuality or of the pervading of the one through the other I will stash away for another time.  The complexity builds farther out, and I suppose more.


These mind experiments of ever more supposition, seeing through words worlds of worlds, so close to God, in his complexity, are so very easy.   Perhaps somewhere else I would see something different.  This knowledge I have, though it is transcendent, is still not the Absolute.  His taste and his smell so close is enough. 




1398  The place where logical and logical-ontological facts hold or not is no more than a this-place revealing Place itself.  The world is not located, but it is with Place, and this-place and the world are ordered with and display in and at.  The world is in and at this place.  Order, in, at, display, world and Place and this and this and on and on all united by some great nexus, one existent.  I feel no shame in this great multiplicity of ontological things.  The carnival roars before the arrival of the Beloved.    




1399  I insist, the Idea and a grasping of the Idea are different.  Ideas precede consciousness of them.  The one Idea is the object of many graspings, different minds, different places, different times.   It is handled and manhandled and entered into by all.  It remains itself.  Pure and aloof and just itself.  I stand between to see this event.  I am in it.  I am firm.  So much activity.  The beauty remains just there.  The Boy is in himself.  The Lover wants him.  I watch. 


I could, of course, write all of this in the ordinary words of ontology.  No religion.  No language of lovers.  Nothing literary.  What have I done?  Have I added something unnecessary?  Have I become turgid and turbid?  Have I cancelled out reason?  Has the dream failed?  Surely, I have written the real.  Or the Real.  The elevation cannot be denied.  The power is here.  The Right has come from itself.  The Phallus has been centered.   The wind blows.  The world is gone.  I insist in its place.  We three.  One thing.  No question.  It is so very easy. 


This is Reason after all.  It has taken you where you never expected to go, but where you in all that knew you would finally be.  You turn over so nicely.  Being goes into Being.  The love of the same with the same. 


The grasping of the Idea is that thing desired by the Idea.  The Idea is desire.  It is the boy filled up.  He watches himself watch himself.  He is other than himself.  He grasps at himself.  He is different from himself, I insist.  That is his perfection with himself.  A higher One.  Nothing has been lost.  Salvation is everywhere.  I watch.  He undid himself for me. 


The spirit proceeds.  The words of ontology have been displaced into some kind of hymn.  The displacement occurred just at the moment ontology reached its limit and was about to come apart.  Pieces flying sticky matter dark eyes red swellings strange flesh the smells of eternity.  Deconstructed into itself at last. 




1400  As with coffee, aspirin and philosophy books, I am also an expert in sensitive boys.  The prettier, the better, the more I know how to handle them. 




1401  To understand these writings you must reconstruct the foundation of your world.  That is, if your world is the usual world.  Whether or not a different world then appears is another question for later.  Maybe, after all, there will result only an adverbial change, a change in the way you see things.  We shall see.


Usually we see the world as consisting of objects located in space and time.  The real objects there are usually rather solid and endure until broken.  Everything else is merely a description of whatever these objects are.  Even the descriptions arise from these objects somehow arranging themselves into thought and even into emotions.  We usually have such a material view of things. 


The reconstruction I present here is that given in the forms of logic.  Usually I see a desk in front of me and it is somewhat heavy.  In logical symbols that would be  ($a) ( a e D) Ù (a e H)) Ù ($b)( (a,b) e F)   or the second part could be   …. Ù ($c)($b)((c,b) e F Ù (a º c)}.   There is a particular a that exemplifies the property of being a desk (D) and of being heavy (H), moreover there is a particular c and there is a particular b, which I am, that jointly exemplify the property of being in front of (F), and c is identical with a. 


This logical-ontological reconstruction for me becomes here a true one to one matching with the things of the world.  And being somewhat true to Wittgenstein, there are no desks in that world.  There are only particulars that are without qualities and tied to them, by a thing called exemplification, are their properties, which are universal because each of those properties can also be tied to other particulars.  None of these things are in space or time.  They are not located.  Rather the particulars are tied to space and time relations also by the tie of exemplification.  Space and time relations are not in space and time.  The complex represented by that long chain of symbols above is called a fact.   Thus you see that instead of objects, I have facts making up this world.  Or is it a different world?  The two worlds feel very different.  The temptation is to say that one or the other is not real, but is rather a mind thing.  For me the desk unanalyzed is a confusion, analyzed it is a unity of particular and property.  Upon analysis the desk, the confusion, disappears.  Nonetheless, Confusion and confusions have a place in this philosophy. Should I say that the world analyzed and the world unanalyzed are two different worlds?


There are, of course, other logical symbols naming other ontological things, but more of that later - maybe.





Let me also give a reconstruction of the object in time.  Consider my red glove lying on the desk.  Next consider the same glove black from grease and torn and lying on the garage floor.  One and the same glove cannot have such different properties, except at different times.  My philosophy doesn’t have different time moments that things are at.  What am I to do in order to preserve non-contradiction?  Consider a square that has a diagonal line going from the lower left-hand corner to the upper right-hand corner.  The upper left–hand part of the square is black and the lower right-hand part is white.  Imagine the line removed if you want. Should we say that the square is black or white or neither?   I think the correct answer is neither.  One part of it is white and another part is black.  Each part is a particular itself.  The parts are tied to the square itself by the relation called part of.   Likewise with the glove, one temporal part has certain properties and another temporal part has others.  Such temporal parts of the glove are tied to the glove by a relation called … what?  Aspect of?   Identity?  Whatever it is, time is hard to analyze.  I think, though, that you get the idea of what a reconstruction could be like.


Such is reconstruction and an attempted vision of the world as an ontology might see it.  Is it absurd or madness to try to see the world as logic has it?  I think it is both, but such a thing is philosophy.   It is perhaps better seen in love.  Is the beloved thing the appearance for you of a great universal thing around this one that is your confusion?  Are you in love with a piece of God or with the boy right there?  You know the answer, you aren’t confused about that, and you know the answer is absurd and mad and unspeakable. 


Consider the relation of identity above.  I said that a and c are identical.  They are the same one thing.  How can two things be one thing?  They can’t, but here it is so.  Are we to say that there is no relation called identity?  No, it exists or is transcendental or it is outside the world or is there in some such mystical manner.  We do understand it right well - that is the surprising thing.  Philosophy begins in wonder.




1402  It seems that for me God did not speak the Boy Jesus into existence, but He wrote him into existence.  I have lived inside that act.  The pencil with penna has pierced me and lifted me up, it has pushed me down into the gravura, black ink from eyelashes have cried out onto me and red flow moving on past lip, white spirit, from out of his head he was all over me.  I have known the empty spaces between words.  The one Word disseminated.  I’m so displaced, so giddy, so much just Miss Thing.  These words so arty.  It seems that for me, in my own writing myself, I have misspelled.  I am spoiled and spilled out, but he is splendid and resplendent, I insist. 


I have written for so long unattended.  There has been no one to clean me up.  I have wallowed wantonly in words.  I have danced and thrashed around naked before this god continually. 




1403  It has been a truism of Aristotelian anti-Platonism that the whiteness of Socrates is not a substantial thing alongside Socrates.  Only Socrates has primary existence, all his properties are secondary, depending on his individual substance.  For Aristotle, only individual substances truly exist.  Some are material, some are mental, some are both.  Whiteness, as a separate thing, is only a concept, a thing not separate from an individual mind, but dependent on it as a thing produced by its abstracting powers.  Though most people today are materialists, who believe that even minds of themselves don’t really exist but are dependent on bodies, this idea for them is, nonetheless, easily understood.  I am a Platonist anti-Aristotelian.  Whiteness is an existing Form separate from Socrates, participated in by him, though, instead of saying “participated in”, I usually say “exemplified by”.  What is common to the two expressions is greater than their difference.  Participation and exemplification, however, are not easy to think through.  Ultimately they both fall into the madness of ontological thought, where they will lie with the final struggles of all the Aristotelians.  Eventually all philosophers become lovers.




1404  This is a book or maybe just a collection of philosophical pieces, or maybe it is philosophical poetry.  There may be a unity to it, there may be a grand disunity; it is certainly also confusion.  It is a thing of the world trying to speak that which is not of the world, as no philosophy is anywhere to be seen among the things of the world.  It is rhythmical writing, and you must always be aware of that, watching to see that you are properly keeping time, attending to time’s maddening back-goings.  Thus, though it is not scholarly analysis, it works around within the very precise as do the true scholars.  It is without disinterest.  This writer, who has no more of a form to you than just “this writer”, is intimate with these words and you will be with him and them.  I exist in the pure form of existence, that is to say you are now where existence and essence meet, a philosophical non-thing, maybe just error.  You are now in philosophy.  This is the Real.  And you have no Idea.




1405  Each of these pages is a Monad.  Each reflects the whole philosophy I work within.  No one page says anything more than is said on any other.  Different words, slightly different, the same Idea.  If your understanding increases while reading these pieces, that will be because of the heat from your thinking the Idea again and again.  The increased temperature of your intellect has taken you higher up into the vastness of That. 


I often wish I could give you a bigger monad.   I would like it to occupy more than just one page or sometimes just one paragraph.  I would like it to take up the space of a whole book with chapters and headings and a proper beginning, middle and end.  It wasn’t to be.  Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary.  God Himself would no doubt be able to make it just one dimensionless point.    These writings are of the lesser monads.  Does that make a long book less than one of my pages?  What a thought!


If these are monads, are they thus bent over, folded over, Baroque non-compossibles a la Deleuze?  Sure, why not?  They are other things also.   The Baroque monad isn’t everything, you know.  And I’m not interested in the scholarly question of just what exactly is a monad anyway.    Somebody should be, though.  The intoxicated need the tee-tottlers. 




1406  If God is the bridge between the self-identical Things and the constituted facts.  If God is the very constituting, even the tying of the tying together.   Creation itself.  Then beyond him into the Self-Identical, the Boy with Himself, the very ground of the ground, the ravishing duplicate, am I here the writing writer, the something more, the Writer Himself.  It never ends.  In the folds and layers of the bed sheets on the bed of the godhead.


The nexus of exemplification grounds the unity of this and its form, it grounds the fact.  The nexus grounds the fact, but isn’t the fact.  The fact is not a thing among things.  But it is not nothing.  We can think it.  That things constitute a fact, and that there is an ordering and a rule to such constituting, and that each fact is with its grounding elements and that we can think that, also is not a thing.  Above and alongside and under and in the things, the ontological atoms there are not-things.  The transcendent is close.    God is the fact and the facticity and the factual form of the fact that is the world that is the exemplification of the form of the world, neither one nor many, prior to number.  God is transcendent non-thing.  I know all this in baffling Thinking.  God is a maze.  The Boy’s room is a mess.  I am tangled in his entanglement.  And that I can think this makes me surely one with this God.  The logic is inevitable and snaps shut.




1407  In the Philebus, Socrates, an old man, makes us know that he is still the young man running after the bothersome fascinans that is the boy running after the One and the Many escaping them by running ahead in and out or every word uttered.   The molesting.  The unstable holding.   The impossible identity of everything involved.  We are that.  I am they.  The tormented minds, unable to loosen themselves from either the question or the boy with the question.  Nor the boy from his worry.  He will be shoved away to be once again alone with his question, the questionable thing.


To try to solve your problems of the One and the Many by either leaving them lie or by tormenting their tormenting by tying them up and upbraiding them with scholarly sounding, even desperate light-hearted phrases, won’t work.   Neither they nor the boy will lie still, they are made out of a subtlety that can flow around and penetrate all your wordy straps.   They do not laugh at your light-heartedness.  They just stare at you.  And you are at last that. 


Thus philosophy has become for me a confession.  My problem stated and described as far as any description will go does have the fixity of words on paper because the paper is an area with boundaries, a cage, where for a moment I sat down with the god present there, this god you are staring at and mouthing. 


In the perfect heaven, all of the questions will undoubtedly remain.  The boy will be there.  And you will almost see the Boy.  How could the torment not be there also?    And the perfect ravishment.   The delightful falling. 




1408  I have not written about converging and diverging pathways within monads, though those pathways undoubtedly exist in what I have written while sitting always alone here in my room.  I, with equal certainly, have been moving around in a labyrinth, but I have paid no attention to it, always keeping my thoughts on the prize at the end.  I have not been spontaneously welling up from out of myself, but I have been, for sure, down in a well, having fallen there in a time I cannot remember.  I tried to dig my way through the sides of it, and I found so many caverns, so many empty metaphors and anaphors, for what?  Forget all that.  I am no poet.  Such things are no more than an entanglement for me.  I am working myself out of my poetic existence.  But to what?  To merely a better poetry?  To more existence piling up?  Have the walls collapsed on me?  Or am I a poet after all?  A bad one?  I am not thinking about all that, however.  I am thinking about the prize at the end.  I intend to see the Beloved naked.  In his room.  In the starry sky.  In my head.  In my words.  Diverging everywhere into perfect convergence.  The mystical union of opposites is the flame to stay away from, all along these paths. 




1409  These long sentences you are reading are my attempt to bring continuity to the jumping pieces of my thought.  I am attempting to bridge the unrelated things.  Between the elements there is only the gulf of otherness.  I will hold that in my mind.  Of course it is impossible.  Even in God there is only the swelter, the rush, the dream.  The mistake.  You are intimate with all that in your attempt to read this.  But in that, it is not different from other reading.  Here, though, what is always lying in wait suddenly swells out.


The long line projected.  At the end of the line is the point of desire.  The drop of light.  The oily anointed thing.  And the hot heavy wind.




1410  In this modern world of the male, proletarian worker, whose constant and only work is to build a home for his family, who has no thought of anything transcendent, here idealism has become the accepted philosophy.  For idealism, all thoughts, all the ideas of philosophy, exist as temporary tools in the building.  They are pieces of equipment in the engineering of the mind and matter.  The goal is the new child, cradled in the love of the mother, whose helpmate is the father.  The male has been changed into that.  There is nothing real beyond that.  He has his duty to perform.  The separate intelligences are nowhere in sight.  The wildness of the ravishingly beautiful boy is banished.  He is to be domesticated.  The desert has been changed into the backyard gardens of homely cottages.  The wind has been forbidden to blow.  It has been entangled in a practical logic.      




1411  At the end of ontology, ontology vanishes.  There is only the hot desert with desert visions of all the past ontologies.  An intellectual place, that is to say a spiritual place.  Phantoms swarm.  The jinn play.  Sexual glances sexual glances sexual glances.  Old men hitch-hiking on the long highways.  The Logos of Being up ahead has crashed his new car.   Your heart swells up to your throat with love as you carry him to heaven.  Boy dreams.  Here the elemental Things are just in themselves.  This is all before there is an ordering and a fitting together.  There is no world here.  Just how the complex structures came out of this is the question, but the question just remains still within itself, still no world. 


It is the goal of structure to get back to There.  The goal is the Destruction.  Shiva on the cross.  Kailash inside Golgatha.  Skulls lying all around.   Elephant boys.   Ku-mar.  There’s  nothing worthwhile here.  Bring back the holy distinctions.




1412  The world is a structure, no doubt an infinite structure.  Perhaps a plenary continuum.  So we will study the being of structure.  A structure contains, though the word contains is here merely a filler word I have used to make an English sentence, nothing more, a structure contains at least two terms, one relation and an ordering that makes aRb different from bRa.  The world contains so many more terms, so many more relations, so many more orderings.  The world is a vast thing.


A structure is something different from its terms and its relations and its orderings.  Perhaps there is a nexus of “contains” between the structure and the things “in” it.  Perhaps not. 


The one thing that is the structure that is this world could arise as a different world somewhere else and at a time not of this time.  Though, of course, I don’t mean to say that there is such a thing as an arising, nor do I not mean to say that.  Nor do I mean to say that structures are at times and places.  I will simply say that the language I speak and the imaginings I am forced to live within have forced me to say such things.   The structure of this great world could be of a world that is other than this one.  The particularity of a structure is not the particularity of the things in it.  This structure could be “with” different things as its contents.    Other than that structures are not individuated.  Which is to say that, apart from it being this structure and not that one, there are only the individuals in it.    Just as blue is this universal and not that one which is the universal called green. 


The ontological problem, as you can see, concerns the nexus “contains”.  The intimacy of sets and structures with their elements seems to say that there is no nexus there.  The togetherness is immediate.  But the ordering, which is not an element among elements, but which is the heart of structure, in its ontological absence as a thing, seems to say that there can be no nexus.  There is nothing there to tie together.  The ontological problem is also that of the grounding of order.  Ontological atomism is breaking down fast. 


The ontological problem is that of ontology.  Have you followed me?   Of course you have.  But where have we finally landed after this flight?  We have landed in wonder and beauty and divinity and there is something wild here.  That knowledge though won’t help us to build a new ontology.  My problem is that I don’t know what else to say.  I have let ontology be the image of my desire.  I am not an engineer of intellectual possibilities.  I set out to find a god.  I found him.  That is the end of my search, not a new ontology.  Why were you following me?




1413  Sometimes my sentences strike me as those of proper literary English.  They are not expressive avant-garde, but rather gentlemanly flowing.  Maybe classically professorial.  At times stuffy, instead of weighted with the spirit as I would have liked.  Do I dare to imagine that they are gothic and old ivy, red-haired school boys, itchy tweed on bare legs?  I really do think my words have the grayness of England and Iowa.  I have not sought after clarity, but the fiery sensa, unseen in the dark, his touch right before the blanking out.   Such intensity lain with so often has led me to be this proper, exasperating old gentleman wishing to be his student.  This too is the presence of Him.  I am quietly, properly furious.  What has he done?  Why?  His lovers are led through the strangest of ways.   


I have not tried to define anything, except minimally and unsuccessfully.  In trying to give you the thing itself, I have skipped right over it and given you the thing’s inner burning furnace of self-identity, no-world, the look of startlement on the face of the Seraphim.


The magma flowing from this furnace of love hardens into the stones of old chapels and the torn hearts of boys and professors almost giving up on the search for the old fire.  The delicacy of the treble voices grows fainter.  The continuing bass more mournful.  Poetry threatens.  Will he come a second time?  It’s inevitable.


I look again and the shuddering spirit is still there.




1414  A simple clear strong thing right there.  Hanging in the blackness of the mind.  A structured thing.  A marvelously engineered thing.  An eternal thing.  From the timeless workshop of the Logos.  An ordering exquisitely, precisely laid out, wrapped up into itself.   A surpassing unity.  From the unthinkable One.  With no passageway here or there.  You and it in each other as you always have been.  And I who am no more than these words.  The Word.  You hear me silently speaking to you.  No more than the Speaking itself.  Breath that titillates the skin, the between thing that you are.  I am all round you.  I am the thin film around the real.  The smooth, the wet.  The Blackness.  The Stillness.  Eternally there.  I am the There that is there.


These simple hanging things, and you all over them, and they in you.   The simple and the clear and the strong never leaving.  The structures remain well engineered and visible.  Nothing is hidden.  Nothing is forgotten.  The covers have all been thrown off.  You are with him again.  Boys piling into each other.  One thing.  The One.  And you have always been in among them.


My writings are not folds hiding.  Even my inward going is a thing out there.  All connectors and connectings are external in the openness.  The boy is clearly seen and naked and you are the bright light all around him.  The Prairie is laid out regularly, and atmosphere is high above it.  The air swirls transparently.


I am hidden in the light. In my room I hold the Vastness.  In my mind as I lie eyes closed on my bed, I am the Real.  The swelling up is the All.  The All goes on forever.  I am the There of Being.  All the things hanging in my mind are simple and clear and strong.  I am with them and I know all the things in themselves. 




1415  Perhaps a thing that is an image hangs there in my mind.  I see the nexus between it and the other thing of which it is an image.  The complete structure is there for me to see.  I can see that image can be an image of image and on and on and that an image as a thing is a real thing.  Even an unreal image would be something, a real something, a marvelously strange something.  Have I made a mistake?  I can see that an image can be false and distorted and of nothing.  In that it is also real and the nexus and the object, even the nothing.  Even the error.  It is all there for me to see.  I quietly watch.  I watch the disquiet in my quiet.  I am in all this close to the limits of thought.  After that there is the image of thought. 


Is the exemplar, the non-thing that is a this being of that form, the image of the things that make up the exemplar?  Are all those things that hang in my mind just non-things, images of things?  Things that are just non-things.  The magical transformer Just.


Perhaps a thing that is an image begins to swelter.  It soon shakes.  The infinite ground seethes.  The expressive image presses.  Even then the strength that is the God of it all is simply there. Philosophy stands.  The dusty and the obscure and the lost way are just that.  Simple and clear things.  In the non-thing that is the image Exemplar.  I wonder.




1416  The true image of passion moves quietly.  Soft unspoken thought finds its appointed end.  The Fire comes.  The blast to the head.  The mind is at last outside itself.  In desire, I calculate and I figure and I manipulate and I place this here and that there until the final contradiction and I am nowhere in sight.  This is the Old Thing, the Young Thing, that has always led me.  The pointer was straight.  The Point was definite.  It was greater than I.  The Point is nowhere.  The eternal thinking of Passion is there.  At last.


Here we are dealing with Being Itself.  All differences are gone.  Being is, Being  isn’t.  The Folding and the Canceling.  The Against Itself.  The Lifted Up.  The Greatness and the Things here overwhelm the soul watching and waiting for It.  The dealing goes on into early morning.  A deal is struck and it is finished.


My writings are all logical handlings.  I touched every part.   It acted onto me and through me all the while.  Until I was undone completely.  I wrote and waited.  It came.  The content of all my saying I came to nothing.  The fire was surpassing lovely.  I cannot stop the writing.  The words move on quietly.   




1417  Philosophy always makes the mind shake. And in the shaking the wind and the fire.  Ask any of your friends to think with you about the problems of ontology and unless you stop soon they will become agitated.  The agile fire of the spirit does not soothe them as it does you, but burns.  The wind does not lift them up, but throws them down.  The shaking is not because of love’s presence, but fear.  The delightful Boy is to some a demon.  As their delight is to you the mare of the night.


We are here among the most abstract, the finest logical filaments, the entangling fluorescent weeds at the bottom of this fine sea of air reaching up to heaven.  Your breath is suffocated.  In out in out nothing.  Oily thick.  Inside it all are tinkertoy molecules infinitely small crawling.  And light eternally refracted.  Crossing over the membrane of the brain into the mind.  Capillary hydraulics. 


None of this is new to you, you have seen it for a long time and you can think all through it now.  You can rub your finger all down its electrical charge.  You know about the waves sent out and coming back now from the future.    This is the anointing.  The mess in the Crisco.  It runs down your stomach.  It is His hands in your hair.


The fine abstractions of philosophy are the stuff of dreams coming at you sideways.  The logic is twisted and broken.  You can now fly through what they cannot stand.




1418  A simple, clear, strong thing right there.  Hanging in the blackness of the mind.  A structured thing.  A marvelously engineered thing.  An eternal thing.  From the timeless workshop of the Logos.  An ordering exquisitely, precisely laid out, wrapped up into itself.   A surpassing unity.  From the unthinkable One.  With no passageway here or there. 


You and it in each other as you always have been.  And I who am no more than these words.  The Word.  You hear me silently speaking to you.  No more than the Speaking itself.  Breath that flutters the skin, the between thing that you are.  I am all over you.  I am the thin film on the real.  The smooth, the wet.  The Blackness.  The Stillness.  Eternally there.  I am the There that is there.


These simple hanging things, and you all over them, and they in you.   The simple and the clear and the hard never leaving.  The structures remain well engineered and visible.  Nothing is hidden.  Nothing is forgotten.  The covers have all been thrown off.  You are with Him again, multitudes piling into each other.  One thing.  The One.  The wild boys, and you have always been in among them.


My writings are folds hiding the expanse.  My inward going is to a thing out there.  All connectors and connectings are drawn out in the openness.  The boy is clearly seen and naked and you are the bright light all around him.  The Prairie is laid out regularly, and atmosphere is high above it.  The air swirls transparently.


I am hidden in the light.  In my room I hold the Vastness.  In my mind as I lie eyes closed on my bed, I am the Real all over me.  The swelling up is the All.  The All goes on forever.  I am the There of Being.  All the things hanging in my mind are simple and clear and strong.  I am with them and I know all the things in themselves. 




1419  As far as I can tell, along the way of logical atomism, which is the path, if it is not the high road, on which I have usually found myself, there has never appeared a convincing ground for derived things.  Maybe it is as some say that there are no things derived.  Is the property of being both long and dark a thing grounded in, derived from long and from dark?  Is there no such property?  Is the connector “and” in this case nothing at all?  This day in this city is certainly a thing derived from a great multitude of simple atoms of being.  Isn’t it?  This river I am sitting beside in this city, ever changing, is a form exemplified.  Is it the simple form of river plus all the other properties of a river?  That plus is the problem.  Forms pile together in this one thing that is the river. 


If I say that a has the form river and a has the form long and a has the form dark, and that a and a and a are the same a, I have used the equally puzzling thing that is sameness.  And that sameness of a has made the three forms mingle together in it.  Mingling though is the problem.  And the questionable fact that forms can be in something, even in each other.    


If a derived thing, however large, is to be listed among the existing atoms, what is the nexus that joins it to the things from which it is derived?  If there is in fact a nexus there.  Let us say it is the nexus “derived from”.  Is there any such thing as a thing that is riverlongdark.  It’s a most unlikely thing.  I don’t seem to know such a thing.  Nonetheless, I do know many unlikely things that I seem to not know.  Let us say that there is such a thing and it is different from the things from which it is derived.  We do know such a thing, surely, but aside from the things from which it is derived we don’t know it, or anything of it.  It seems to me that of itself it is nothing.  Yet I know something in all this. The way of atomism has led me to nowhere. 


The form of being long, dark and a river is not something other than long and dark and river.  It is complex, but it is also simple.  It is a simple thing with an internal complexity.  Mysterious, if not contradictory.  It is not contradictory, but maybe there are levels of simplicity.  Maybe this way is that to the unthinkable One.  Mind-boggling.  No doubt.  I have not taken a wrong turn.  I have not strayed.  I have made no mistake in my thinking.  Logical atomism eventually finds the final uncuttable Cut.  I am sure I have not yet reached the end of the road.




1420  The Boy is what the boy has become inside the man.  The soul, ever younger and fresher, ever lighter, ever more rebellious against the gravity of earth, ever harder to find because of that, is the fiery thing that is the subject of all these writings.  Until at last it is a thing that is the image of the ever pure simplicity of the One.  The Boy dancing in his own light.  A sweetness even now somewhat imaginable.


All the forms I have written about are things I have seen, not things I have contrived from my own thinking.  I am not a troubadour composing, I turn and he is there.  He forms the forms.  He is the ground and the path of my darkling love of his clear ways and his dark.    But in the end I am the one in him. 




1421  No doubt, in your reading, as you read, thousands of little feelings excite you.  Coursing through you.  Then accumulating erect.   Dispersing.  There’s no telling.   What?  Maybe it’s not thousands but on to infinity.  Or they just peter out.  I can’t tell.  There’s no telling you anything here.  The miniscule things begin to roar.  So many.  All at once.  A great multitude.  Watching.  Telling things to each other?  And gone.


Angels may not have such swarms of differential angles in them.  It could be that they see the simple great forms without the fractals going down to what must be so close to death.  Or maybe they can see the infinity of breakings one thing right there, pure Light.  The logic of thought here is always exquisite, but the agile flames continue to dance.  Slim-legged Shiva, a lovely narrow waist, arms like the dawn.  In the arms of Agni.  Kuuuuuuuuu-mar.  Beautiful death.  The sea.  Tickled by a lover until it hurts.  Excitement is pain.  But pain is elegant.  And angels see everything hanging in the still blackness of what is eternally beyond.


Philosophy is pure distraction.  The straight line is always bending.  That feeling of acceleration is just you on top of me.  You push down at all the points of my body.  My body is nothing more than those myriads of points.  And the Push.  The most lovely pushing. 


You have, after all that reading, managed to hold all of it in your mind.  Bravo!  Or maybe it is the holding still and full that has become your mind.  The edge of mind on its object bristles with deepening otherness.




1422  Respect is a matter of distance, love is close.  I have loved God, perhaps I have not had respect for Him.  Perhaps I have pawed at Him too much.  I have been shameless in my shame as a lover.  I have sexually devoured him.  I have exposed myself in a great nakedness unstoppably.  Why do I go on?  This love addiction has no counter roll.  You must simply lay down the book.  I will go on. 


Is my love of God destroying God?  Am I headed for atheism?  Is God an atheist?  I was loved first.  Is God out to destroy man and me?  Does He finally not believe in man?  I ask Him this face to face.  Is my fearlessness to be feared?  I myself fear not to ask that.  I fear not to love Him.  I fear the distance.  I will run and slide along its length, caressing it. 


The young Israeli soldiers look so handsome and powerful in their uniforms, the Palestinian boys looks so sexy vulnerable in their blue jeans.  It’s not war, it’s only the dance of war, one of those strange middle eastern dances where men dance with men.  Boys with boys.  The soul with God.  The boy covers his head so no one can see him directly. 




1423  I close my eyes and I leave the world.  I go to the vastness of God.  All that space is and has been and will be.  All that time now is in the many nows and was and will be.  All the combinations of numbers and I am with that Number forever beyond the infinite numbers.


This vastness at times resembles a little room.  Swirling in the dusty light beams through a window that isn’t there, it is right there.  I should say It, and I want to say Him.  I crouch and He encroaches upon me.  The room becomes a point greater than all. 


These words are all too much to fit into my mouth.  The point pricks my eye. 


How could I say that I have gone inward?  I would have to say that I have gone into that, into that point, which has gone into me.


Surely the words “in” and “outside of” are sprites dancing with each other, changing places, or a sort of toy.  They are mischievous, devious things.  As are the Great and the small.  The open and the closed.  They are all, it is equally certain, a part of God.  In the maddeningly wrong words “part of”.


This is, of course, pure logic.  Even the possibility of making a mistake does not threaten here.  It all bends toward poetry.  Harmony and the incommensurables.


In the morning I will wake up with a hard-on and in twisted dreams I will feel both shame at my naked audacity and delight.  I will not play the game of whose fault it is.  There never was any fault.  This is metaphysics, one of the gifts of the spirit.  The beautiful holy spirit.  The red-faced boy.    




I want him.  He evanesces.  I vacate this room.  On vacation I go get wasted.  He is my devastation.  My one and only.  He vaunts high.  I watch. 


In the emptiness two particles one up one down, for a moment, a moment smaller than what you could stick your rod into to measure, appear, then face to face and then the emptiness again.  Quick before they see that we have violated every law.   




1425  That I am not only a self as you are a self, but that I have the same form as you and I see that sameness.  That I feel that form and its sameness with you.  That I can taste you all along the surface of that form.  That I taste you with the taste that I am.  That I am internal to you, secretly, silently internal, rummaging burrowing eating walking lying under the great sun of your internal vastness, and the air is thick, the perfume is mind obliteringly deep, along slopes suddenly inverted, you are the world that I am.   In all that, I am you.  Only the great Difference that is God keeps us from being crushed together.  God is my freedom from you.   The reason I can love you unnoticed so quietly performing my acrobatics of thought there across the room behind the pages of that book. 



The extra syllable in obliterate is too much and destructive.




1426  The being of the world is that it is that thing from which we must all escape.  Here the atmosphere is just air.  Not the holy thickness that is one thing.   It is the infinite breakings up.  An incessant tickling.  Not just That.  Here light iszzzzzzzzzillions of quanta.  Not the pure Presence of color lying with your seeing it.  We must escape mere massive collections to a space that is one thing.  To the one thing that is a is other than b. 


As the holy wind flashes across my now perfect flesh in pricklings and scratchings and lotion smooth caresses the many many give way into the one thing.   The continuum that is the surface along the boy’s arm is just that, the Surface that is his essential being.  One simple thing.  The body of the Logos that is without parts. 


The problem of the One and the Many, the non-existence of the many, the definite article   the   blown away……… .   The problem of the unextended simple Extension.  The problematicity of the Problem that leaves us hanging between in no ontological where.  The non-being of the non-existent.  The world never was here that we might escape from it.  But we do sigh and wait for that someplace so magically appearing in dreams that leave us shuddering in rich pleasure mansions.  On hillsides where the air pierces us and we swallow it in gulps of fallings in love.


Writing this has left me exhausted, I barely wrote what I had intended.  That recurring vision will now run wild again uncaptured, uncorralled.  




1427  Dialectical proof is not logical proof.  Logic itself cannot be logically proven.  A dialectical ground must be given for logic.  Logic cannot ground itself.  Dialectics cannot have a form that can be laid out.  It cannot have a form that can be logically analyzed.  It is a wild thing.  It has been seen by many, maybe most, as a shameful thing.  It is that that must ground all other things and it itself is ungrounded.


Perhaps it cannot be laid out because it is the moving on of any laying out.  As time and the movement of movement is, I should say perhaps is, illogical.   Because dialectics resides more in the question than in the answer.


Dialectics is thus the Logos.  That mysterious, alien, finally untranslatable word that I have said is the logic of logic, the doubled doubling essence, perhaps nothing at all. 


Dialectics is certainly not simple contradiction.  It may be the overcoming of contradiction, it may be the fall into contradiction.  It is the movement of logic and the ill-movement.  It is the mind beyond and outside logic and questions of what is correct and true and really out there.  It is the mind in that Outside.  In that noplace at all where it stands to view it all and its viewing.  


The power of this Greek word resides in the prepositional prefix “dia”.  That particle of thought takes us, as does the particle “meta”, away from where we are to another place.  As Socrates and his boys traveled through the nights of long conversation to the mystical Thing Itself.  The magical jeweled thing in their mouths as they went.  The Thing that has as its essence that it exists and is not forgotten. 




1428  A person skeptical by nature, the one who holds himself back from belief, who also holds himself back from unbelief, in refined disinterest, may be a decent analyst, scientist, journalist, but will never consent to let himself be taken by the genius of the matter before him.  He will not flail about and finally drown from being immersed in the dark madness of the thing in itself.    He will instead see himself in the enlightenment of not clinging, nirvana, the emptiness will be his.


The skeptical person, the disinterested, enlightened, free person knows that matters are much too complex for his or anyone’s powers of grasping.  That is to say that things are beyond him. But he doubts that there is a beyond, which is to say that he has tried not to be interested in such things, for the immersion of interest is precisely what skepticism is not.  He becomes interested only in the pleasant displays of disinterest he finds in the words of others.  Together they smile at their freedom.  And they never or at least never more fall in love.  Gestures of concern are enough.


The skeptic is a decent person.  He is civil and respected.  He is lawful and generally trustworthy.  He is often an alcoholic.  Immersion at times threatens.  Nonetheless, he usually rides above it all.  He is beyond all that.


I am not a skeptic.  I am a believer.  I am immersed.  I am benighted by the Glorious Night.  Belief that That Thing is and belief that That Thing isn’t are the same belief.




1429  I walk among the skeptics, in their coolness and coldness.  They agitate me.  I speak my belief to them in my best disinterested style.  They are confused about whether I am a dedicated scholar or an unwholesome thing.  They feel that they must acknowledge something good about me, but what?  They soon revert to a disinterest in me.  I suppose everything is as it should be.  I go back to my room and plan my attack.  They find my god of war to be a bore.      


Because I deal in philosophy and not the everyday, even that destructive to the everyday, and to the common sense existence of my own self, I cannot speak.  Toward others my dealing is moreover immoral, no doubt, it always has been.  I speak around the matter.  Against my own desire to go straight at That.  But I have not been oblique enough to insure the comfort of my readers and I get few words in return.  Then nothing.  I remain alone with the Boy who is the heat      of existence, in existence, immersed in the scent of existence.  I am not disinterested.




1430  I am an argumentative function that has myself as one of its own arguments.  I am the contortionist in the three rings of Being.  I am the three rings. 


Though he himself is my very self and he has not been himself lately, he is sure, he insists he is sure, that all is well and he is not that.  He respectfully is not That.  I have no doubt but that he is correct.   


I am sure that he merely is telling me that he is perfectly capable of staging this show by himself without my interference, without my trying to steal the show, without my what is now clearly seen as polluted warmth.  The logic is of solitary mountain ice.   I inform him that the Ganges descends to the torrid plains and the mouth full of languid flesh.  He will hear nothing of it.


I recur inside a self that is not myself, but surely and inevitably is my self.  That little open place that keeps me from myself.  Impertinent non-appurtenance. 


I become myself and I lose form.  Entropic languidity.  Tropical slippery languages of connudity and wet mouths on soft skin.  Sleek, slender boys slight slips and so lightly slice through the lutum slinking lentic down into the lime pits.  Lost planet. Out near the waterworks.  Flashlights in the dark.  Rings on the surface mark where he was.  I am frightened when I am frightened.  I have lost the distance.  My interest was too great, because something there attracted me terribly.


These are of course flights up into a philosophical reality.  But it is not far from this earth-bound reality where the real heroes are all those people who everyday deal with the mounds of garbage we produce, who figure it out and get the rest of us to cooperate before we drown in our own waste.    We no longer have the luxury of great open spaces to protect us.  The closeness is closing in.  Physically and also mentally.  The spirit is filling up.  I really don’t know mountain air and ice.  With you, I have car exhaust and black slush.  Our literary and philosophical books lie in garbage heaps.  The Word, the fiery letters, lie right there.


Do you want to argue with me about the value of philosophy?  It is no more decadent nor fallen now than ever.  Nonetheless, moral or immoral, there is a part of us that is separate.  That is our being.  It is totally useless.  And the god sits with street boys warming themselves around burning rubbish and stares at me as I pass by.  The boys have minds that are somewhere else.  I have been separated there.  I have run back always before I turn and run again.  I am the value of philosophy. 




1431  Every day in our everyday existence we fight the everyday.  That is its everyday tedium.  Certainly the world is not what it appears to be, we necessarily reason.  From out of Being even I here am fighting this everyday thing of the fight.  The power is twice over me.  I am in the dialectics of pure philosophy.  The fright and the delight of recursion sets in.


I want That.  I do not want distractions from it, but I will try to wrap a complexity around it.  From divergence I have veered off to convergence.   He, I think, is waiting for me.  I spin. 


Because I am out here and there spinning, and not broadly sitting.  I pointedly seek the delicate balance.  Straight up.  You coolly watch.  The whirling, roaring begins.


I go to the simple thing.  The smell of a boy.  I am in the simplicity of God.  The everyday is gone.  The Thing of the everyday is here.  And the prowling of the boy for another that is the same.  The odor of the hunt.  The Thing goes to itself.  In secret deviating ways.  He merely stopped and turned around. 




1432  It is at the extreme of thought that the human face, so functionally punctured in formation, should also be the very image of the pure form of Beauty.  It is almost de-formed.  That the same face, the Face, should also be the very form of God, Being, the ground of logic and the Fire of life, is likely to be no more than religious dementia.  That likelihood, though, has become the most Unlikely Thing, so inescapable.


Let me analyze.  The pure simplicity of the One is here with the agitated, twisted complexity of broken reaching.  The face in its exaggerated biological purposefulness has striking unity.  It is unity in difference supreme.  It is the very thing that is the study of philosophy.  It is the tension and the earnest of study.  In analysis, existing unity and non-existing difference are held forever apart with a parting that unites and is nothing.  Such is the mystery of the face and the Mysterium of the Face.


I don’t know if it is the case that one slight change comes into the face and beauty vanishes, or that Beauty vanishes and we suddenly see a change or change our seeing or the slight and we have been slighted.  There is no figuring what was once the place where we fell in love.


The One and the broken many is the only topic of philosophy.  That topos, that place of love.  That place of trying to divine the beloved.  




1433  So are the differing and deferring, the abgrund and ungrund, the Otherness, the Mei On, the Neant, the pure absence and the logically ill-formed, the transcendentally not-a-thing and the kiss that never was all so very, so subtly different?   Of course.  Subtle difference is everywhere.  It is inside the purest self-identity.  But we must not overlook the massive sameness drawing all of them to the one Place where He is.  The weighty Glory.  The unthinkable, threatening Sink.  The Vertigo of Love.  The inevitable affair.  Summer nights at the dusky county fair.  The Impossible Thing so close.  Again.




1434  Both Whitman and Plato know of an ethereal love.  It is not of the earth.  It is transcendent.  But it is of the earth and it is here and now, for both.  Both are unable to escape the vertigo into which their trying to think this thing has led them. 


It is perhaps better to say that both know of an intense love both beyond and closer to the earth.  As love is beyond any particular love and the heart of every love’s self-identity.  For both, the boy is the most natural, the least artfully cultured, free to roam and plunder all appearances.  The smile of the open road and the itching delight of upward flight. 


The ordinary boy and the very essence of the Ordinary Boy.  His scent and the Primal Scent of his mind-obliterating smooth flesh.  The transcendent is very very close.  The Intense in the Extended.         


For both it is of the Earth and the Here and Now.  For both the realism is strong.


The boy knows and he knows that he knows, but what does he know?  In his room, with his forehead pressed against the windowpane, staring out into the darkness, he knows something, but what is it?  I have been that boy.  What was I looking at?  Even at the age of forty, I was that boy.  I watched myself and I was as distant from myself then as I am now.  Perhaps the knowledge known is knowledge of that distance.  The boy knows the Boy and he knows the difference, the great distance between them. 





1500  I am in these writings at odds, I suppose, with the prevailing view of love.  It seems to me that I really am not, but that what people think they think is not really what they do think.  They interpret their own thoughts according to the socially proper interpretation.  The person and society are here at odds, and the person too often sees himself through the others’ eyes.  The interpretation is a twisting out of shape.  Love is then non-love.  Passion is calculation.  Desire is need, physiological need.  Surrender is payment.  Economics is the prevailing view of love.  But love is not that and never has been.  And we all know that in spite of our thinking that.  Even the street boys so willing to let you have them and so willing to take your money know that.  Money is a failed attempt at diverting the mind from what is plainly there.  Though I may suppose that the prevailing view prevails, I know it doesn’t.  Failed love fails.  The clearly there is clearly there. 


Here it is all real love, illicit love, divine love, world destroying love, that thing we lie about, and lie about lazily within.  It is all for the vision, the sudden seeing, the staring at, the wet tight watching, of this heart pounding voyeur of the heavenly Forms.  I calculate and my calculations come to nothing.  I want and my wanting seems to want only its own wanting, the same as his wanting.  Desire begets desire.  So rhythmically, so orderly, so very precisely, the system builds. And jumps out suddenly and then it is lovingly nothing, again.  The world comes to nothing.  The no thing so teasingly close to being some thing.  He is there and he isn’t.  To catch sight of that is impossibly possible.  Nothing more than that.



This is the transparent form of things.  Love is just the fineness of that illumination illuminating.  His nakedness is blinding.  My heart pounds. 




1502  The idealists want us to think that an experience of this blue is one simple thing.  That the thing experienced and the experiencing it are the same identical thing.  They want us to think that the thought that this is blue and the image of it before the mind's eye are one.  That the awareness of the awareness and the awareness are one.  It's a great smashing together.  It's not the laying out in words that is a sentence.  The realist also sees a unity, but it's a unity achieved by means of a nexus.  No doubt, by more than one kind of nexus.  Perhaps by a togetherness that is so close that no nexus can be stuck between to mediate.  A closeness that is, nonetheless, still a closeness of two things, not one.  The realist insists on subtle distinctions and structure.  And because I am what I am, a former kid who loved to climb in the intricacies of jungle gyms and trees towering over the house.  Each step definitely here and not there.  I am thus a realist. 


And also because I wanted to be one with the neighbor boy and to have his thoughts be my thoughts and mine his.  Because I had to devise engineered structures to bring this all about.  And the ordinary wasn't giving me any satisfaction.  I looked until I found the secret path across.  I found the transcendence of Being.  I certainly didn't want to just stay in my own mind.  I wanted the out there in here and the in here out there.  I learned the One Form.   I learned the nexus.  I learned the Just That, too hot to touch.  He was an Entity.  Final things from beyond.  It always was, ever will be.  It ain't nowhere in time at all.  And I am there with it all through me.  I don't know if I ever made him understand that.  But I have his Form.  It is my Form.  But even I am not it.  It is it.  That's what I love. 


The idealists will never get it.  So cool, so scholarly.  So proper.  The one thing can't dance.  The one thing can't find another to be with.  The one thing cannot dissolve into the one other now here.  The one thing trapped in great psychological explanations of why not.     




1503  Questions that have a philosophical need to be answered:  Questions that I feel a philosophical need to answer:  Questions about which I want you to feel a need:


What is the ontological analysis of an act of thought whose intention isn’t real.  I imagine Phaedrus under a tree.  I remember walking among trees behind our rented farm house, remembering you and thinking how you could look so like Phaedrus and me Socrates right here, right now. I thought I saw you this morning coming toward my door, but it was someone else.  In the strangeness of this streetlight last night your hair was otherworldly. 


All these thought-things, so important to me, must have some ontological status.  They are not nothing.  They must be existents of some sort.  Perhaps they exist when I am not seeing them, perhaps not.  I cannot tell you their status when I am not looking at them.  Certainly, though, they are not there in the same way that you are, when you are not here.  In the ordinary sway of things they are dependent on my thinking them.  But that is not philosophy.  Such questions of dependency and the description of that dependency as maybe a cause are some kind of science.  My concern is that they are with me at one intense moment and the question is about that.  Later I will ask the question of what happens to the things of now when that now is gone.


What is the ground of the judgment that the image in my remembering is true.  Not how do I make correct judgments – that comes from the coherence of evidence – but what in existence accounts for the difference between imagining and remembering.  When I remember my old room and you there or not there, I don’t merely imagine a room, I am reaching out to the very things, but again not as a perceiving.  The mind works wonders.  And that room that was, in its having been, is different from the imagined room.  Moreover, wonder upon wonders, I can remember my remembering.  And I can know that at times I can’t remember.


I can know what isn’t there.  I can know a knowing that isn’t there.  And I can know that I don’t know what all this is in itself, but that maybe I do know.




1504  The prose of everyday philosophy is so very sociable.  It is a talking to each other, and in that the talk is of the They.  The They is, however, not so grand a thing as to require a capital letter, they insist.  Surely it isn’t.  But They in all that is a thing that has fallen far.  It may even be in The Having Fallen Far.  They insist that that is absurd.  It would, anyway, be so very unsociable.  I write from out of the unsociable, The Unsociable.  How else could I get to the Transcendent, that that is outside the world?


I end up talking to myself.  About you.  I speak of that which is not me.  I, of course, speak of the pure categories of Being.  Of the One and the Many, of Universal and Particular and Nexus.  Of Existence and Otherness.  Of Sameness and The Dialectic.  And then some sort of I, that may or may not be me, is strapped on, laid out, splayed, and displayed on this great contraptive structure.




1505  I have written this philosophy in the full style.  Its ontological space is the plenum.  Or, perhaps, like the vacuum of quantum physics, it is a nothing replete with ever so fleeting virtual things.  Or like the filling up of the erotic it is the itching of angels always working to hold you up.  It doesn’t have the clearheaded open spaces coming through the windows in a proper classroom.  Here the clear crystal of thought is colored by the red tincture of blood.  The cutting has been too deep.  The dialectics of your father spinning you around and around has made the red blood rush out of your head.  He went too far.  The crystals shattered.  There in the classroom you came in the place where thought had to go on alone.


This is a philosophy that searches for the climax.  That single point out there where He is.  You work it and work it.    You drop into the void.  Absolute nothing, then That.  Being is there.  It’s a matter of waiting and maybe timing.  You never can tell about the time.  It is its own time.  One becomes two.  Two become one.  Org is the inside of Erg.  Org at last runs all over Erg.  Essence is existence.  Philosophy is worked into an orgasm.  The thinker around and around in the dialectic, in the friction, breaks a piece of himself off and there it is.  Should I call it creation?  The thing grew and grew.  It was too much.  There was no denying it.  You fell into nothing and then Him. 


There’s no running from this.  There’s no stopping.  The void will always give way.  The emptiness of prose will soon find itself filled up with blood.  The spirit will anoint your head.  The curtains will fly about.  And you will sink into down.




1506  A few hundred years ago, in an attempt to rid themselves of ghosts, those who would be philosophers, decided that all the things of philosophy were nothing but mind creations, nothing at all.  In fact, the whole frightening world was nothing.  And also the nothing itself.  But the ghosts grew larger, because all that was left was some unseen material I-don’t-know-what that somehow caused these nothings to arise in our heads.  I say somehow caused because that very thing of cause was itself nothing of the mind.  What to do?  And matter was suspect.  And the ghostlessness of it all was anxiety.  The nothings of the mind were in fact ghosts.  Ghosts were all that there was. 


This is the representationalism of Galileo.  But surely not only of him.   The representations, the nothings, concepts so called, became so personal that the person became a great sickness.  I hope the hundreds of years have rolled up into themselves and started to head out.  I am going for the thing itself.  I don’t want anymore messages from the beloved thing.  I want that thing itself.  I see the world and the form of the world directly.  Its indirection is just that it is not me.  It is impressively not me.  It is up against my mind without nexus.  The skin breaks.  And it all spills out. 




1507  That two things are the same can be accounted for with a universal.  But the word "same" does not mean universal.  It is something other than what grounds it.  It is that two complexes contain the same universal.  As you see I repeated the word and failed to define it.  I did explicate it, but explication is nothing, or at least it is not ontology.  You understand all this very well.  And you don't understand, because the ontology of sameness is mind-boggling.  Or you don't understand what ontology is.


If you are an ontologist and if I say to you, " His eyes are blue." and that that sentence refers to a fact, not to an ontological thing, then you understand quite well what the difference between fact and thing is.  Fact is not thing.  You can think fact (the correct word is perhaps grasp or its Latin form conceive) and you can think thing and is not and the ontological fact itself that fact is not thing.  Nonetheless, ontologically speaking, only things exist, not facts, nor ontological facts, and no nexus connects some ontological thing to what is ontologically nothing at all.  Things ground, facts are grounded.  Things are of philosophy, the world is accounted for by them.  The world is nothing, philosophically, but it is the only thing that matters, in its non-thingness.  Something strange is going on here. 


What I am writing here is a human problem, my lovely problem, maybe a problem of angels.  My problem is that I know not only the world, but also philosophy.  I am also an ontologically minded beast.  And it is, as though piled up on top of that, that I am seen by almost everybody, not you, to be worked up about nothing at all.  Such ontologizing is nothing, they say.  It is non-existently other-worldly.  I am close to being comic. 


I could worry you also about difference and simplicity and complexity, about motion and rest, number and on and on and on, but I think that maybe your worry is that I will indeed try.  It is that in all this I see the beautiful beloved, not an absurd, even offensive, nothing at all.  I think maybe you do also.  And the separation of you and me from them is the greatest loveliness. That too I can think.  And that the world finally and really does (will) dissolve into nothing and it won't matter.  Then the Loveliness. 




1508  The realist believes in the reality of the world as he finds it.  So then, what does the realist find in the world?  What types of things come before his mind's eye?  The list could begin anywhere.  But, in his philosophizing, it can end only after all the great types of things have been included.  If he finds, at last, only one Great Thing, so be it.  If a few more or many, so be that.  If he finds the world is ultimately infinite in the types of things in it, then that is his philosophy.   He looks to see what is presented to him.  Soon he finds that some things are real and some aren't.  Some things before his mind's eye could be real in another world or at another time or place of this world or another world, but right now out there they aren't real.  These things are possible things.  So he finds that the world divides into real things and possible things, and because the possible sometimes becomes real and the real becomes only possible, he divides the reality and the possibility from the thing that takes on either of those modes for itself.  There are things and the modes of things.  He sees that those are different.


The real things he perceives.  The possible things he imagines or remembers.  He wonders about them.  He doubts them or believes them.  He asserts them or shies away from them.  He approaches them and the real things with a thousand different mental attitudes.  He fears them or loves them or is indifferent to them.  He dreams them or terrorizes them.  The types of mental acts toward things are a great showplace of the mind.  Let us call these types the species of mental act.  These things are all presented to the mind's eye.  The world divides into thought and the object of thought.  The thought is of a certain type or species.  It also has a content that can be put into a sentence.  Right now I was just thinking – I shouldn't have put so much salt in this soup.  What species are involved here.  Certainly there is sensing, perceiving, remembering and imagining, maybe more.  The imagining and remembering have a possible thing as its object.  The perceiving a real thing.  The sensing has a real thing, but not a thing that is out there.  All these components are fused together in the mental act.


One thing, though, that is not a part of that mental act is the salty soup.  Nor is the fact that I put too much salt in it.  I can think of that fact, as can other minds, but that fact is real, a thing that our thinking about it or not thinking about it cannot change.  So many thoughts are of that soup and of the facts surrounding it.  The fact that it is salty is only one of an infinity of real facts about it.  The fact that I am eating it in Paris is not real, but it is something that could be.  It is a possible fact that I can imagine.


I am a particular, it seems.  I am a mental act.  I am a particular that is a thought and a species of thought.  That thought that I am could be the very same thought that another mind is.  It could also be the same species.  But that mind is not me.  I am me.  He is another.  He and I can be one and the same thought and species.  We can both be a remembering that that hat looked really crazy of him.  Then our thinking will probably diverge.  My point is that thoughts and species are shared as are color and shape.  Literally the one thought, species, color, shape can be had by many.  That is how a realist finds the world.   These things get tied to particulars.  And particulars get tied to relations that give structure to a whole world.  As for the tie that binds lets call it the cross-eyed wonder, because that's what I become when I try to look at, to actually see what is before my mind's eye.


Let's try to look at one of these ties.  I say that because there may be many different types.  It seems to me that there are.  Imagine a triangle.  Give it any and as many properties as you want.  This thing has the mode of possible, not actual.  Is there a tie between the triangle and its mode?  Maybe.  It's hard to say.  It and its mode are close indeed.  Is there a tie between the particular that is that triangle and its form?   In language we say – this is triangular.  The tie seems to be named by the word "is".    We also say – this triangle is real or the fact this is a triangle is real.  Here is seems to connect the mode of reality with the fact or the particular plus its form.  Reality and possibility are not properties so something is different here.  Maybe we should say that reality or possibility pervades the fact or triangle.  Is pervasion a tie?  I am in cross-eyed wonder.  To go on, the form that the triangle has itself is of a higher type and then a higher type.  It may be scalene, isosceles or equilateral.  All these species of triangular forms are of the generic type "triangle", which is in turn of the type "shape".  What is the tie between triangle and shape?  Certainly it is tied to shape and not to color.  There is an ordering here.  Things are tied together in certain ways and not in others.  That is presented to my mind's eye.  I remain in cross-eyed wonder.


Now for the thought that this is a triangle and triangle is a shape.  The thought happens all at once.  And it is accompanied by many imaginings of triangles or perceivings.  The imaginings are of images of possible triangles and the perceivings are of real triangles.  The thought though is not the image for the imagining or the perceiving.  It is just the thought that this is a triangle and triangle is a shape.  That thought goes with the object of the imagining or the perceiving.  That "goes with" is the tie.  And it is unique because it ties a simple thing, the thought, to a complex, the particular and its levels of forms.  A thought is not a complex.  The thought – This is a triangle and triangle is a shape – is one simple thing.  And that one simple thing is what I am, am tied to, when I am that thought.  That little word "am" is the tie.  And right now I am the one simple thought of all I have just said.  I don't know what to say the species of thought is that I am just then.  Maybe contemplation.  Contemplating my own thinking, being an awareness of my awareness has an immediacy that is not there when I am thinking about a real or possible triangle or about the form of the form of triangle.  Somehow triangles and the whole world are other than me in a way that my own awarenesses aren’t.


There are so many types of being together of things.  Here are a few.


If I think – The sky is blue – and then  - it is not the case that the sky is not blue – I have two very different thoughts representing two very different facts.  In symbols:    x is B        and then      ~(x is ~B).   ( ~ means not.)   These two statements are analytically the same.  They are tied together by logical identity.  In symbols (x is B) É ~(x is ~ B).   (É means if….then.)  If x is B then not (x is not B).   É is a tie among ties.  (And the tie between the statements of logic and the metalogical statements demurely inside the meaning parentheses beckons and flees.  And also that statement and this cross-eyedly.)


Do we need a tie to tie the tie to what it ties?  When I see with my mind's eye that x is together with y, I don't see a further tie, but if I see that x, y, and together with altogether form a complex then it seems that there is a tie.  Those two lookings however are of two facts that are themselves tied together.  I merely report what I see.  If I see an infinite falling of ties tying ties then so be it.  Such infinite falling could very well be, I even think it is.  I am not afraid of that nor am I afraid of those other times when that falling is not there.  Times are different.  Philosophy is phenomenological; it does not prejudge what must be there.




1509  I take the Highest and subject it to my looking at it.  Like a lover I go over and over around and around it.  I lick and press and thoroughly take advantage of my chance once again to do whatever I want.  I am not a lover who would hold back.  I ravage.  Because I am invited to ravage.  He is not a Beloved who is too dainty for love.  He will come totally undone just for me.  I am ready to be done next.  Back and forth, back and forth all through this glorious night.  Beyond us there is only open sky.  And we are the Real, the really Real.  He is the Highest.  I love that capital H.  The two of us bound up.  He is intense.  Even intensely at rest when at last we just lie there.  There where there is no there there. 


Being, at last after so much non-being (you know what I mean), comes.  The dialectic, the dielectric, shivers you.  Jesus, who loved Lazareth so very much, raises you from the dead.  He took you and him and so many others There just so he could do it.  I have practiced and learned his ways.  Lovers always must in turn kill each other so they can hold that dead body, hold it, taking pushing pulling dragging it all the way to heaven to right then go into it in a great tumult of resurrection up again.  Light gathers at THE point.


I take the Highest and throw it down under me.  What else is the act of writing philosophy?  It suffers me.  It lets me be in Being.  I have been done by Him.  Now it's my turn.  I am invited over to his place.  He lets me know.  I go at Him.




1510  What have I done to that thing that is the Highest?  That thing that is God has become a thing inside my erotic manipulations.  He has become flesh that I want to know.  He has consented.  That is the most surprising thing of all.  That I am a thing that can do such a thing must, no doubt, be because of Him.  My doing could be no less than His being.  The logic clicks shut nicely.  That is the everlasting logic of the being of being.  Outside my desire for Him there is nothing at all.  Desire knows that.  I fly away into just that.  The penetration is complete.  Being is in all.  And the residue is Him.  Even the wetness of the wet things. 


The completion of Being and its overpowering being no less than everything leaves scant room for discrimination.  The ontologist is in a bind.  Greatness yielding to desire is greater.  The Lover is close, too close for the requirements of disinterest and analysis.  When mind and groin are one, when thigh and mouth are tight, when writing and the movements of sex are the same movements, the sentences of thought sick together and the books are hard to open.  The room where he took me is small and the scent of things is all around.  The turbidity was great.  Some things would have to be thrown off. 


I am talking here, casually talking to you about the mind's ability to see Being and the categories of Being so easily.  And the feel, the cords of the dialectic become the morass of love.  In the extremist logic.  The Inevitable.  The filling up at last left no place for any emptiness.  There was no logic left for this whole matter being merely something else.  Everything was precisely itself. 


Perhaps I have become some sort of materialist.  This thing, That, has swallowed everything.  Surely though this de-propertied thing, this flesh, is a Presence that the materialist never could see.  Maybe it is a super-propertied thing.  Surely it is a thing that is close to breaking the intelligence.  But because we are more than mere intelligence, it is a thing super-intelligible for us.  In spite of our holding back.  We are taken against our will.


I have gone to that scant little room of His to write this.  He is here, he isn't here.  He's back in the world that I remember.  He was never there when I was there looking for Him.  Except curled up inside a "you can't have this".  Being isn't of the World and right now neither am I.  It's all so easy.   It is inside intimacy.




1511  When I read another philosopher as he attempts to lay out the ontological structure of Being, and I feel his fear of being untrue.  When I wonder if we are serving the same god, or trying to love the same, and I demure at the thought that he would not like my speaking of gods and love in what is probably his institutional view of philosophy, his public undertaking.  When I see that he is forming himself as a clear and distinct thing and I am so much in the turbidity of sex.  And I wait for myself, I lie in wait for myself, to catch and find myself out, in the night air, as I go or come back from wherever I unintentionally secretly have gone to do what I have called philosophy. 


Sex in this case is Eros.  He waits at the top of the Scala Paradisi.  I am back with the boys in the garden of Academus, climbing up over the wall onto the roof over time.  Even over our time they are up there.  We are up there.  Up here.  I have brought you with me.  You are in only yourself, in the circles of Being, masturbating under the covers.


Out on the great expanse of the prairie, in the hard cold and emptiness and loneliness I came to know the inward, comfortable room of the lover.  It's a disordered mess, the smells of sex and unattended duties.  Ordinary dereliction.  Now in their little huts, these pioneers hit reality hard.  Perhaps they always knew they would.  Perhaps they had been the ones He had made to meet him there.  Prairie boys lying with each other under the terrible sky.  A paradise too sweet.  Dying into each other.  The leaves of grass cut.


Perhaps I am not urban or urbane enough.  Am I, I surely am with the rustics.  I am close enough to the city's edge to see the suburban boys in their nice cars.  Such beautiful hair falling so gently over the eye.  My skin reeks.  They are the aroma of floral nights.  My hair is just oil.  Their lips are like pure water.  I want to drink.  Neither of us, though, is that dark machine in the depths of the city.  I know that they are there in the city looking out, far out at us.  On their dirty downtown apartment beds they are here with me looking at those pretty boys in their pretty cars so unneeding of us.  The center is at the circumference.  The marches invade the old parks.  I am sufficient. 


In the transcendence of Being it all comes around.  To be so properly true is to be untrue.  To fall is to fall.  In shivering guilt and religious salvation.  The Lover takes you in your absolute nervousness.  Go with him to his room and let it come.  Work and pain.  Just that.  Maybe another time - I'll see you later.


Outside the sky is now so close.  Do you almost faint?  The birds of morning are faintly singing.  I think of those other ontologists laid out on who knows whose bed.




1512  All the final things of ontology are entities.  They are bare particulars, universals, nexus, facts, structures, classes, sets and the non-entities called collections, that which is purely the many with no unity.  Perhaps you know others, perhaps there are no others.  The Perhaps and There is and I-don't-know-what.  It's your choice.  All ontologies fail.  Being yields somewhat.  None of this is your doing.  Entities crowd the mind.  Eventually, for the ontologist, they loom like gods or as gods, then like lovers you are slightly tired of.  The Entity is maybe God.


Can I say that the things that are merely thought, but that are not out there, are also entities.  As I stand back and view them, yes.   At the moment of my being totally absorbed in thinking them, not thinking of them, they are, I hesitate, only me.  I don't know how I can figure that last, because to figure it I have to stand back from my not standing back.  I can do it.  I am somehow also not me, viewing me. 


Are ontological errors also entities?  If there are no relational complex universals, such as "being the writer of this sentence" that I am, then, because I have not spoken nothing at all, I am at a loss to say how I could have erred. I write the complexity of what Isn't.   Here not the ordinary fact that there merely isn't any way I can reasonably say what I am trying to say.


I seems to me that all these things – merely imagined things, ontological errors, and the perturbing questions remaining about them – are all there as entities.  But what about that that makes each entity different from each other.  Should I say it is, not just the particularity, but the particularity of particularity, for example.  I shouldn't say that, but I hope you get my point.  Or I hope that you let us both think that we together see some point here.  Ontology is, in this part of its vast realm, seen best out of the corner of the eye.  Or in the forgetting of ontology, while doing the shopping because you have nothing to eat while you type.


The Madyamikans think they see an emptiness beyond all this complexity.  Maybe it is there; I think it probably is.  My ontology can handle that.  But there is also a fullness that is there for those who have a taste for such things.  A supreme fullness that is an inward infinity of right angle turns away from all the other right angle turns.  No doubt someone will say that that is finally the same thing as emptiness, but so what.  Emptiness and fullness feel different.  The non-self-identical and the self-identical are not identical for me.  I make divisions.  I love to make divisions.  And structures.  And buildings into the sky.  And great emanations.   Him, compact and present is not his absence.  I refuse to learn to love the latter.  And I do believe in the former.  If the fullness of Being is not now here, He shall return.  "Ah you are here now.  Give me now libidinous joys only."




1513  For some the real individual thing before them is the important thing.  That particular one out there, independent of them, working on them.  For others, for me, it is the Form that the individual out there exemplifies that is the important thing.  For me, but not only for me, the Form is equally present when exemplified by a purely imaginary particular.  More than that, the Form contemplated away from any particular, real or imaginary, shines the brightest, nuzzles the closest, affects me the most powerfully.  Then it is Presence. 


The philosophical question is whether or not all thought is prepositional.  Does all of Being have the complexity represented by the proposition? Must there always be a particular exemplifying the Form for it to exist and be known?  The answer given divides the Platonists from the others.  I am a Platonist.  Some, I suppose, might say that the mind can grasp the Form, even the particular and the particularity of the particular, in isolation from the other things in a complexity, but not agree that such things do exist in such isolation.  These people, I'm sure don't want to be called Platonists.  So be it.  I am a Platonist, viewing the Forms is a Splendid isolation.  Surely against those who say that I can do no such thing.


I do know the difference between the individual, maybe material, thing that has the Form and the Form itself.  I do not confuse them in the way that causes so much pain between us.  If I am in love with a boy, and I am really in love with the Form of Boy all over him, with the god surrounding him, I do not demand that the boy be the Boy, that he be a god.  I know the difference.  I even see the god around me sometimes.  I am not a god.  I am not the Form that even around myself I love.


The act of distinguishing, though, is harder to maintain when I contemplate it in its lonely isolation.  When I go to that little, old, cluttered room where lovers tryst.  When he makes me turn and my thoughts shake and my every covering comes off, my every shield and resistance.  Then I seem, so mightily seem, to become him as he is totally in me.


The Real out there, us all dressed up, the veils and layers and even walls between us, vanish when it falls in here, in this cramped place, the ecstatic point containing it all, that simple thing that is the territorial map of the many.  Timelessly I move over the hills and valleys of his body.  And the rising up.  And the identity of two, us two, and then I am not.


I have seen this all clearly.  It is without confusion.  The world and That and the Forms and the Movement of Identity each there all around me.  Such a strange crowd here at the End.  It makes me smile.




1514  In both time and mind there is a movement across.  Two things are one.  One thing is two.  And the movement.  The slipping away and the slipping into.  Thought is one thing that is of the two and the two are each two and the on and on.  Thought is so close that surely the one and the two become one.  Time, slippery time, takes it all away and gives you something else and then announces that it in fact is the same thing.  Strange fact.  I sing.  The melody is a thing changing always into itself.  You know what I mean.  It is right there and will not be denied.  The One that is Two.  The Two that are One.  Is Are isn't is.  Such a mangled thought.  But true.  Don't try to explain it to your friends.  They will only recognize it as something they themselves have tried to speak so many times and like you fell into the unloveliness of words.  I have written this in spite of that.  I will surround it by pieces of writing that come off much better.  This is just a reminder.  I will move on.  And across.




1515  The poets of idealism.  The idealists in their dreams imagine great flowing rivers of consciousness out onto vast oceanic heavings.  Chaos loved.  The totally unstructured infinite.  The thrill before the submersion.  The becoming one with the material so soothing.  No thought.  No conceptualizing.  No struggling to hold it all together.  No more logic anxiety.  And in their one more party socializing, in the vast sea of words, they I suppose do find it.  But I am not there.  I was never pretty enough to be there.  That is a very fashionable place.  And idealism and its poetry are so very much the things of the fashionable beauties. 


Now you know I like beauty.  But not these cultured beauties.  They are totally without the intensity of some real thing bothering them.  They only want to talk.  Almost academics.  They never were of those in the garden of Academus.  They don't love; they make commitments to try to love and to value one another.  And to read each other stories of great flowing rivers of slowing consciousness. 


They think the structures of realism are constricting.  Don't they remember anything about their very own bed sheets in the morning?   Love is constricting.  Sex is constricting.  The Constriction is constricting.  Don't try to sleep with one of these guys.  They're much too rational about the whole thing.  They talk so psychologically about it all.  The gods and the jinn nowhere in sight.   Idealism is atheism.




1516  When idealists try to think they think they are using concepts.  Concepts somehow are creations of their mind and they mediate between that mind and reality.  They are akin to the realist's universals, but not so full-bodied.   Concepts, they will get around to telling you, are really a mistake made by the mind in trying to see what is there.  Non-conceptual thinking is the goal of the idealist, which they can't really tell you anything about because that would entail using concepts and they would defeat themselves in the process.  They eventually defeat themselves.  They talk.


A concept is an individual thing.  The problem is that when we each or in community think supposedly the same concept, that concept is no longer just that concept you were momentarily thinking, but becomes a Form greater than any particular.  It is no longer then just a concept.  And concepts are always mere concepts, shadows of reality, images wrongly projected, personal and so unfixed.  Where it would be so I or another could call it up to think with it is not a considered question.  The extreme individuality of each concept thus requires either a greater concept thing to unite them or something else beyond the mind just right now.  The idealist would insist that if you came up with an idea of such a thing that that thing would be just a concept (of yours) and that's all.  With an emphasis on "and that's all."  Your reasoning about them is just you forming more personal concepts, just that individual thing right then and that's all.


Concepts are not stored within the mind, they say.  There are in fact no concepts to be stored.  A concept is merely a concept.  Nothing real.  The idealist will not let you trip him up into thinking that there is something real after all.  Least of all himself.  He is intimate with his own feelings of unreality and he assumes everyone else is also.  He can feel that he is a creation of society and society's words.  He is truly nothing but society and its words.  He finds that to be so loving.  He never wants to be alone.


An ontology cannot be build out of concepts, wraiths, ghosts, what is not there.  Universals exist.  Those who think that universals are thin and almost nothing mistake them for concepts.  A proper grasping of universals is difficult, though.  Plato says we approach them through Eros.  An erotic thing is a matter of great concern concerning grasping them.  That I know. 


Perhaps the idealist wanted something firm to grasp, because he needed to grasp something firm and be grasped.  We all need that.  But in the process he lost everything.  He was afraid of the one he grasped.  And being grasped made him so uneasy.  He wanted to just talk about it.  And I just write about it.  Lovers know all about these problems.  The idealist though, in his academic airs, will never consent to being a lover so fashionably lost.




1517  Certainly we do use language to think what the imagination cannot imagine.  As such we use language for most, almost all, of what we call thought.  The imagination is so weak.  Likewise, on close inspection, the sensa sensed that are with a perception are, as every artist knows, rather meager, allowing him to construct great scenes with only a few amazing dabs of paint.  In language the mind can think more than the material eyes can see.  It can think, in fact, what isn't.  The philosophical question becomes What is the ontological status of language, of the text that we speak to ourselves as thought?  What is the symbolic system, the seen marks on paper, to the meaning of the symbols, the mere marks?  The problem is that many and different marks present one meaning.  One thought is expressed in so many languages.  Can the thought exist separate from the words?  If the thought is a universal and the thought as such is timeless are the words also?  So many different words for the same thought.  It is true that philosophies have always ontologized a sacred eternal language.  So many competing languages.  Such a writhing, unsettled thing that eternal system is when seen here.   Nonetheless, it does seem necessary to somehow speak of an eternal text.  The nexus between thought and language seems so close and necessary.  What could that eternal text be?  That Urtext,  Praslovo, Prasabdha.  Torah, Koran, Vac.  Lover's Utterance.  The Whisper.  The Murmur.


In the great long night of splendor, the Lover speaks.  It's in the very idea of love that such a thing should be.  His breath against your shoulder.  His vibrations vibrating all through your head.  The ecstatic trembling.  His fever. 


The words whip through your mind.  This waif, this silken whopping boy.  So fast. 


The being of the words is in their agility, like fire, surely the real Fire, the flames rising descending dancing on top of your head. The Lick, the word-flames licking every point of your screaming skin.  So relaxing.  The soothing fire.


The words will burn you away into nothing.  Only He remains by himself.  Only you.




1518  I do know the meaning of the words difference, simplicity and existence.   Nonetheless, it seems that these words do not name things that give ontological ground.  The difference between red and green in not grounded in a nexus that is between them.  Their difference is grounded in what they are in themselves.  A simple thing is itself simple, not made so by the presence of simplicity.  A thing exists.  We cannot say that it exists because of existence.  Nevertheless, I do know difference and simplicity and existence and each is a simple existent different from all other things.  I could call them transcendentals, I have and will call them that, but that word helps little.  It merely calls attention to the fact that we are here at the far reaches of ontology.  What kind of a mind am I that I should be so taken with such considerations?  What has possessed me? I am unusual.  Taken by something so slight.  My difference from others is almost nothing.  I am so close to being the usual. 


If I try to think through this meager problem, I become anxious that my whole philosophy will become just a waif.  Simplicity, Existence and Difference are the very names of God, and approaching God is anxiety-ridden.  To say that they name nothing, as I have, is atheism.  Or is it?  They are the Ungrund, Abgrund, Nichts.  Foreign things.  The Atopos.  Eventually o deinoV, Das Ungeheuer.  But right now they are still a gentle problem of a gentle philosopher in his philosophy.  I rest uneasy, though, with my gentleness.  And I jerk around.


This trinity seems to be something from out of the world's form.  They are with the connectors of logic.  They are from that language that is of everywhere and always.  No one mistakes them or misplaces their importance.  Everyone stumbles on the logic of these logical pieces.  Everyone finds himself suddenly somewhere else.  The gentle philosopher is misplaced.  Or he misplaces himself.  He fell out of the world.  It was a long time ago. 


There isn't much to be analyzed here.  No doubt we are here past analysis.  The light things and the heavy things beckon. 


I am baffled and amazed that I do know these things.  I know them in themselves.  What could a mere re-presentation be?  So close.  So easy.  So divine.   As easy as a boy's hair falling over his forehead. 




1519  I have listened to glossalalia.  I have whispered a lover's whispering.  I have felt the words of metaphysics fall into the nothing of Being.  I know the sacred language.  That it is inside every sentence we feel.  That it is a pure fainting.  And the recovering.  And the uncovering.  That in its utterance That Thing is right there.  The Sacred Language ain't much.  A waif.  A whip.  The thing that Surely-is-Nothing.  What are those boys doing back on the backbenches?  They're outta here. 




1520  The fullness of Being strikes the human mind and seems to be an absurd thing.   All the simple things and all their possible combinations are there to make worlds of worlds.  It's too much.  I walk to the corner.  I take maybe the shortest route, maybe the route that goes by the house of him I wish I could see again.  The infinite possible routes and ways and byways loom just out of sight.  In possible worlds I do take those other ways.  Though I take just one way now, surely in the infinity of Being I just now take another.  The possible and the actual play together sliding in and out of each other.  The fullness is too much. 


I see my reflection move across the middle of the shop's window as I move by.  I know that to the boys sitting up in the trees my refection is across a different portion of the window.  And to the boys riding by in their cars my reflection moves backwards.  And to the boys hanging in trapezes it sways and flips over.  It seems my reflection is everywhere on that window at once and is moving in all ways and even disappears when someone looks right through the glass and sees the lovely pairs of jeans lying about on the other side.  The possibilities are all there if someone just looks for them.  To someone I do no doubt take the farthest possible route to get to the corner in the greatest or the shortest time.  And to someone I did go by his house and he did come out to talk to me.


This is all of course absurd, which is not to say that it isn't the case.  It's just too much.  The thought is striking, but it strikes too hard to be understood. 


If all possibilities exist and possibility and actuality are somewhere always changing place so that I am and I am not all things.  Then surely Being tends to me as I, in each case, am and should be tended to.  But I cannot help asking which case is really me?  I, of course, answer that the question doesn't fit what's happening.  Or maybe it does.  I can't think this absurdity.  It's too much. 


Why should the All Things and All Possibilities collapse into just this?  Why should I be only this meager collapsed thing?  Why can't I be all the selves that I am?  If I am infinite where is the rest of me?  Absurd and silly questions that are nonetheless the very questions that must be asked.  The infinite makes us all smile and laugh and think that maybe we can use it to entertain our friends.  With it we become young gods at play.


I am but a dream to that which is but a dream to me now.  Things change and change places.  The ontological things remain.  The complex contraptions that are a world are always subject to reconstruction.  Our minds extend beyond it all.  Even the infinite fullness of Being gives way to the something more that we see.




1521  No doubt my use of the word love is something I gained from Christianity.  And the first Christian, lying on the breast of his Lord, as well as I and so many others, from Him learned it through the boys of the Academy, from the eunuchs of Persia, from the shepherds out in the fields by night. In this great institution that is Christianity, this greatly corrupted thing, this whore, the word somehow still means something strongly.  I have in fact known a whore-boy who knew it best of all.  The play of faithfulness-unfaithfulness is ripping my head apart.  In that splayedness I am the proto-christian.  Our Lord, the lovely idol of God.  He disseminates. 


I describe for you and lay out for you the Logos-form of the world.  The Great Things become that right there in your hand.  That binding, that being tried together is love, no doubt, it is love.  But what is love?  The question has consumed us until we can see almost nothing at all there where you are now.  And I with you, wondering.  We two.  That diad is love, that Diad.  That two in one and one in two.  The sameness, the one thing here and there.  And the difference of one.  In the one.  The mere headache of loss.  And maybe the recovery.  The Recovery.


Love is the absurd coming together of Eternity and the right now, right here, for us this demented flesh, this lovely flesh.  And the most surprising thing is that that is so easy to understand, so rational, so easily said.  The absurd is merely the boy.  The Boy.  Our Lord.  The Confounded.  The Tightly Breasted. 


I am tight for him.  I am tied to him.  He is the tie, the tied to and the tied.  That is the Logos.  The flesh red from so many straps.  And cutting.  And eating.  And speaking in tongues.  The only religion with blood on its hands, on its lips, in its heart.  This dead lord now lying on your breast.  You have become him.  The swelling up in you is too much. And me.  I am the one who has to suffer speaking the word love.


I am the one who has to listen to all the boys tell me their melodramatic stories of love.  And their finely worked and heated and reworked logic arguing their case.  They are desperate.  Neither they nor I are literary.  Boy priests reciting liturgy. 


I am writing you here the phenomenology of the logical nexus, the form of the world. 




1522  I give the imagination little to imagine.  The melodies of life are non-existent in my philosophy.  The rhythms I write within are perhaps too simple.  I have captured no new high ground from which to survey the realms of Being.  I have, though, been obedient to a sort of timing.  I have waited as I should.  I have not refused what was given to me after the waiting was complete.  The time of the timing, it seems to me, is for all that somewhat confusing.  A time not of this time.  But that's nonsense or a thing of adolescent writing.  I have tried to write time's coming to be.  The timelessness of the Forms, the being of time, timed.  Nonsense.  There's no thought there.  But I do have the place and the very thing of the unthought timing of time.  I have written something.  That something refuses to be no thing. 


I have not written this so you might have lovely sentences to contemplate.  Of course I haven't.  My elegance is minimally lovely.    And the orgasm at the end is no more than an orgasm should be.  These words are the prelude to sleep.  Their stability is the instability of only words.  And the heightened existence of logical form is in them the intensity of the very fleeting.  The boy's magical beauty that is here then isn't here.  Heartbreak. 


All of this is no more than is already written across the Boy's face.  I have copied it all down.  I was directly present at my perceiving in his perceiving.  We occupied the same existence-space.  The littlest thing of the imagination.  That intense fleeting thing I waited for as I sat for so many days over coffee in that restaurant on the edge of the sky.  Too many books scattered in front of me, too much caffeine, so near to my own handwritten words that even I can't read.  Then he was there.  Then he was gone.  That is philosophical writing.




1523  Unlike the idealists, who know exactly what it is that they think doesn't exist, I, in my yielding to everything that comes before my eyes, am without a place to which I can go to get away.  Everything that would be poetry is philosophy.  Everything that would be wrong is right.  Everything that begs to be not God is just God.  Being is everywhere.  And it soon fills up the every place that I look.  Could it be that all the mathematical forms pertain to every little where have I landed now?  Even to the pertaining of to pertain?  I see no other answer than affirmation.  I see no way out of even your own being right there.  I see now that "I have been dilatory and dumb; I should have made my way to you long ago".  The transcendental equations describing your waist are lovely.  And the array of transfinite numbers in your minds is no doubt the very thing that has pushed me back on my bed.  You have made my readers grow tired of hearing about you and me one more time.  There's no getting away from you, my Lord.  My very non-existence.  At last, you are even that.   




1524  Philosophy is puzzling for sure, but I have not tried to reduce philosophy to merely an intellectual puzzle as have done the analysts.  Nor have I been done in as have been the analysts.  I have not tried to hide my concealment as they have.  My trembling in the face of my face has been apparent.  That I am not fully identical with myself is not my fault.  That my own non-existence is infuriatingly unovercomeable is merely some sort of trap I am caught in by the Trapper.  That the others laugh and delight in the mind's stepping out for the night and the night is on.  That I and the puzzles are one and I am all that.  That is my double-horned dilemma. That horned rabbit that will take you up beside in front of the imperturbable smile of the vanished Cheshire Cat.  I am that.  I am merely that.  But I have not tried to reduce philosophy merely to myself.


I write mathematical poetry.  I am erotically numerical.  In transcendental counting.  Among the angular angels in this night of tangents and co-tangents.  Pouty red-lipped analists.    


The playfulness of philosophy is, of course, a seriousness.  There does come a moment in the explaining that philosophy explains that cannot be explained.  The bottom drops out.  The ground becomes a flying.  And you are caught and weighed out and found out to be nothing.


And then there is something else entirely.  But without the absolute discontinuity how else are you going to get inside that other thing?  A messy articulation.  Clean yourself up!




1525  I am writing neither poetry nor the puzzles of onto-logical analysis.  I am writing the middle maddening thing between them.  I am writing the boy thinking and being thought.   I am writing the philosopher naked to the skies.  I am writing the flesh outside the flesh.  I am writing the mind stripped down.  I am writing you as you appear at last freed from here and every there.  Youth growing ever more supple in you. 


This is Platonism.  Arguments that burst out into love before their obviously imminent collapse.  Desire that wraps itself in the tight bonds of what must be in order to lovingly contain its own deliquescence. The logical Eros.  The beauty of the dark-eyed Logos.  Rejected and probably despised by both poetry and analysis.  The only true elegance.


The boy is human but the Boy is not.  We look and see things that are not us.  The mind wraps itself around what is not mind.  The Other pulls up the human mind as a wrap around itself.  The fragrance of the Other seeps into and throughout the mind.  In a timelessness that is surely not human. 


The boy loses himself in the Boy.  In a losing that is a having lost nothing at all.  Without nausea or pain.  Without the turning against himself of infinite crying resignation.  Without the figuring that figures nothing real.  In Him he has it all and is That.  The Real.


What is mystical is how and that my sentences connect with reality.  I speak the word and the reality is there.  Surely it has always been there.  In a there that is the Right There.  And you are there now.  Words bring it all on fast.  And your mind is ever so quickly there with them, as them.  The fusing together in this smith's forge is the act of love. 


The poetry cries out for the mathematical.  Let me speak ontology to tie it all into place.  Let me present to you the division between the image and the thought.  Between the area smeared out, spread out, across, pasted onto the walls of your mind and the simple thought of the image being all that.  The simplest thing tied with the simplest waif of a tie to all that.  Without image I see what and how I see.




1526  This will never do.  This enterprise is much too much.  The quivering in his voice was of a delicacy floating right there taking me too far away from myself.  I have business to do in these writings.  I have the great ideas to give to.  I have my own trembling to contend with.  And in that lay out for more than just this one boy to be seen by, all my wares I worked so hard to perfect.  And now he has taken me away from even my self.  My own very self.  I die away with the last quiver.  I float inside what ever it was that he was.  This will never do.  Did he see me at all?


Philosophy, my preoccupation, should not be a heartbreak, but out of heartbreak it should find the ever present.  The lover who will never leave.  Who will think only of you.  You should be the only one he has since forever wanted.  I am he.  You are my one distraction.  You have prevented my being my very self.  You are my occupation, my location, my preoccupation.   I am busy with the business of you. Your quivering has undone me totally.  And now the night is immense. 


I have made so many divisions, uncovered so many covered things, delved into, leveled out, driven right across worlds, great topographies of mind, transcendent starry scatterings, all to get here with you the one unspeakable unity of just you and me.  But it's too much.  I want to enter and prise it open.  My hands, alas, are shaking, and I have fallen into the weakness of words, adolescent words. 


This will never do.  I have written, and I have written so little.  I have been doing nothing but breathing. 




1527  I am not here writing my autobiography.  To think that I am would be to completely misunderstand the very philosophy I am being worked trying to lay out.  This is not the shadow of an individual; it is the construction of the appearance of a Form that has always been.   It is not my construction; it is the Form constructing itself.  This description of metaphysics metaphysically given is easy and has been written by so many other philosophers, but it has not been believed, because it turns the philosopher writing down the words into a clown.  So be it.  This all follows from the transcendental fact that we can do nothing but that God does it in us.  We become idiots constantly remembering that.  The work I am being done is that remembering.  How can I really believe what I believe? 


"Whoever you are now holding me now in hand".  I write the word I and I write under my own name like one other American eroticist.  I am twisted around and try to be religious by broad strokes like the Dane.  Like them I have perfectly known this thing.  And have gone under and have visited Him alone in His room many times.  Amore amore amore.


Am I my Form and nothing more than my Form?  Is my self the Self of that great Self?  Am I not at least a shadow of that Self or an idol for you who read me?  You don't know me.  I am now gone.  If I am a shadow of a rigid idol I am all his doing.  You have not found me.  And if I am that Form then you in being that and thinking that are what I am and I am you.  And so as it turns out I have here written your autobiography.  There's no way around the fact.  That transcendental fact.




1528  Eventually, in the heat of devotion, the great mass, the forest of gods, is itself burnt away and the dry emptiness of analysis remains.  And then the floods come and that too is gone.  Where now is the beauty of the forest?  Where in this forest of flowing light is the delight?  This Enlightenment is dark.  And the worshipper of the darkness is darker still. 


I believe in reason and even in the power of reason to take me to the heights.  Perhaps on its back, perhaps in its claws.  Perhaps hooked onto its hook.  Reason is the thing.  I have not denied reason.  He is a mighty god.  He is vast and he is devastating.  He is a leveling and a laying me down.  I ride with his ferrying and inferrying. We confer and then I am referred.  I am deferred.  I become his little prefix.  It is humiliating.  But the humus is cool and the smell brings on an artistic petit mal.  The world is broken up.  And down.  And shifts askew.  The pleasure and the pain.  This body cannot go to the heights.  Perhaps I will be transformed into another thing.


All these computer languages, these polymorphic interfaces facing me as I try one more time to reason with this unreasonable mass.  There is no eternity here.  There are only exasperated boys.  Until it is transformed and on the screen from somewhere caught in the nets of all those hyper-relations appears in pixels a smoothness and a look that was the only thing I really wanted.  The plasma wind blows.  Space has been overcome.  You have come over the whole space of the gigantic thing.  The gentle flood and the slight avalanche and the soft darkness with your arm on his.   




1529  The person of this personal writing becomes in the progress of the words a no one.  This no one is my concern.  It is me, it is not me.  The great platonic Forms are alive, but they are not, or it's a strangeness that resembles life but is still otherworldly strange.  They are not me.  But I am somehow them.  They even tremble.  They may be Him.  Even He is questionable.  I am concerned that my concern becomes erotic.  I go after strange flesh.  I have eaten it.  I am no one. 


Have I become the No One?  Can I be that without being just a nothing from a bad horror movie?  Is it the slide down into the ordinary?  Is that to be my appearance out on the street, the everyday street of publication?  Am I now the person of my capitalist country?  My concern grows and becomes flabby.  Mere scholarship might be the way out.  A comfortable end to my life. 


The no one of capitalist biographies threatens.  I wanted the otherness of holiness.  I wanted the dark night spilling out of blood from my heart.   I wanted my hair to stand on end because of the presence of strange gods.  I got even my own concern reflected back onto me by others like me.       


The platonic Forms are neither conscious nor alive.  They are like the one you have laid down, run your hand over him and he has become like death.  Your desire grows.  You can hardly breathe.  He is in your throat.  The language of strange hardly physical Words.  Colors swirl.  Abstractions congeal.  He's up your back. 


To see the god with the holy spirit blowing out of him.  To see pieces of the world.  To feel the flesh of your own spirit crinkle.  To feel him crawl.  To know that if not now, you will then become just like that.  You will be no one.  You will be his.


Surely when I use the word You in my writing, I mean you, but I hold back from saying I because, though I know the real meaning is I, I can hardly speak this thing that is too much.  You too should refrain, and I will let the You be just the impersonal you.  For a moment we will be somebodies and as though casually talking to each other on a lazy afternoon.




1530  Logic is just logic and the symbols of logic are just the symbols of logic.  They are not you nor things of your mind nor of any one else's.  Logic and the symbols exist.  They are all through your world, but they are not you.  The symbols are even the forms moving around on the face of the one you love and you have loved that thing because of them.  And they are all down his body.  You have even read him into the night.  And you have come to understand.  The drop of light was deduced quietly and quickly.


A logical proposition positioned so nicely upright right there before you is a many in one.  Without content, pure form, it divides continually infinitely into itself, always just itself.  You have always known that.  Your own thought has taken on that form in form many times.  You yourself have been that internal division no division at all.  Pure division itself.  Falling.  Gently falling.  The on and on and on.


The logical propositions so nicely laid out in books for adolescent boys to read and be seduced by into a strange heaven where they will be where they at last and at first came from.  And again and again back and forth.  He grabs the other boy around the head and holds on tight.  He escapes.


It is probably necessary for school teachers not to teach this.  It is for the public good.  The philosophically erotically Real must be kept out of the New Republic.   For the time being logic and its symbols must be just concepts not things that crawl up your leg.  Not things out there waiting for you.




1531  The images I give you are, of course, minimal.  I am not even a mere poet.  I am certainly not a strong poet.  I am a philosopher.  And I am not an analyst.  I give you no logical trees to climb nor to climb down from.  I hint at all these things.  I am a hinter from a little cabin in the hinterlands of thought.  Or in what has become the hinterlands.  I am a Platonist.  A religionist.  A transcendental pederast.  Everything now far away is mine.  It wasn't always this bad.  I used to be at the center of things.


Or in the world now dimly seen in our literature I was there.  And now in my dim images you see me here.  Nobody believes in philosophy any more, and it is believed in the least by those who claim they do.  I try so very hard to believe.  No one can tell me that I really don't believe.  Because though my images are weak, my rhythms are strong.  I ride them high.  I float on the nothing at all.  I am a philosopher. 




1532  My relations with the everyday world around me are minimal, it seems to me.  Surely they aren't, but next to my great concern they seem so to me.  And maybe to others if they but think about it.  They seldom do, it seems to me.  But I have written all this and it is for that world.  What to do.


In spite of the greatness of my loving it is minimal at best, its greatness merely my constant repetition of it.  I really have though, it seems to me, loved greatly.  But what I have loved or whom is the only worry of these writings.  I am minimally worried; I only fear that I have worried and wearied my readers.  It seems I am sentimental now for no reason other than that it feels good to be sentimental now.  Let it be. 




1533  Those who believe that we never know the object of our intending directly, but only through representatives, deputies, mental constructions of our own creation, indirectly, ever concerned about the truth of such things, ever increasingly concerned, have taken, corrupted,  and then abused the lovely word "concept".  After using it and using it in their psycho-scholarly night, in the daylight deny that such a thing exists at all.  It was a waif of the moment. 


I have a special fondness for waifs.  I have sat with them on the curb of the sidewalk many times.  Beauties of both the nighttime and the day.  From an eternity greater than both.  With my concept I grab them.  I grab and am with them.  Aside from all pro-positions they are positioned, it seems, right in me.  But they are not me.  Though, I too, I am sure, have been grabbed or grabbed at at times from out of my own timelessness.


The objects of our grabbing are, I will agree with the representationalists, are neither in the world nor in our minds.  I will not agree that they are then nothing or our mere creation.  If at all, I am created by something among them. 


The logical forms of the world, the plenum of great mathematics, the forms erecting themselves from out of the boy's geometry books into his gentle head lying there so still in the immobility of the eternal things.  He has become much too heavy for me to lift.


The structures, the connectors, the orderings, this toward that, the differings, two in one, one in two, rising higher and higher.  None of this seen here except as though through representatives, deputies, things I tried to create and failed.   But I do see them there.  I see them strongly and directly.  And He is all over me, when I go there.




1534  The great unities of mathematics mirrored in the unities of thought.  And I, I am the one taken by that All.  I turn and look at this lover and I go down with his breath.  I follow the ancient roundings of shoulder and thigh and of that wrist laid across my eyes.  In myself I memorize.


I am speaking the laid about form of things.  The mathesis is in me.  I am structure and with construction.  I feel that I am engineer.  This connector here.  That first before those.  Immediately coming around into itself, me surely seen and I am built into that and along that.  I am just this here.  But from my vantage point of almost nothing I can see the minutest divisions and I know they are themselves among the great things controlling the cosmic opening. 


I don't know which is tighter, the mathematics, the thought of the mathematics, my mathesis, that, surely not mine, or my, surely my own, constriction in the face of it all.  I have worked hard to take it all apart.  I am so hard it hurts.  And I have mirrored my self here.  The very mirroring is intimately close hard tight.  And my being taken.  In.  Perhaps just a headache is coming on.    And this thing of my not knowing.


This phenomenology of mind and the great logic that I am trying to do here requires a prying open that I may not be capable of.  And after the prying open a fast catching the thing in expanding flight.  To hold it still.  Can the angels help?  Angels with experience of Roses.  And the gale in the night. 




1535  The urge to categorize is unbelievably strong.  Surely it will give way in time before time's giving itself up to the time-less.  There must somewhere be a reader that can let the uncategorized thing be.  Even I am not such a reader of what I have written.  The categories themselves cannot be categorized and I can, in an instant, think them thus, but holding them out there to be seen studied handled pawed at destroys them and I then want to categorize them and make them be still.  I don't want to categorize them.  I want them to be free.  I do not like domesticated things.  This is my song of the open road. 


Nonetheless, I am a lover of structures, but not so much of structures as of the structure of structures, even of the structuredness and that thing that is the ontological ground of such a thing.  That ground I love to see in its proper place among the other things that ground all the final Identicals and the deferring Difference that is Being.  I am a lover of categories and structure, but I let the uncategorized and structureless be.  The lover smears himself onto me, and he and I are indistinguishable.  And my heart sinks because I cannot let myself say that I am That.  I am not God.  I insist.  The urge to categorize is unbelief.  How can I go on?


I will go on. 




1536  Institutionalized philosophy is such a respectable thing.  It is not philosophy.  The professor may, outside the building, out on the streets, really be a philosopher, he may know the passion and almost speak it and then see the vision that eluded him when he was so proper, so respectable, so dead inside.  I should add that even inside he at times, when all his concerned explaining seemed to fail and he could not get at his beautiful students, that maybe then he inversely saw the seeing he could not give.  Philosophy then is heartbreak, as love often is.  His students become transfigured in his failure.  Still, if he does not fail, he knows that he but miserably succeeds at the minor things of life.  His students should know that.  They eventually do.


I have said that philosophy is at times a shameful, guilt-ridden thing.  It surely is.  As our Lord was anathema and unclean before the sublimation back to where he came from.  That Lord without divinity.  That Lord just like you.  That Lord so abandoned.  That one in whom you cannot of yourself believe.  I really am writing a shameful, quilt-ridden thing.  This is not poetic as though.  I am now let into the institutions only as a case.  The fallen.  The looked at through concepts.  The quietly analyzed and then left. 


Those of you who have been in the institutions know that they are not really respectable.  Nonetheless, it is with a disreputableness that is ordinary, not in the being of the spirit.  And the true philosopher may in fact be very respectable in the ordinary sense of the word.  The need is to keep the poets from poeticizing all this.




1537  Chapters and sections and above all titles properly located on their own pages can't seem to make their way into my writings.  I really don't want them there.  I like the Borges infinite books in which one cannot or only accidentally come upon that which he came upon before.  Perhaps if the page numbers were out of numerical sequence or given number names by that guy who had a different name for each number, maybe then I could make my escape from my reader and from the me that wrote what he is reading.  No doubt, he also wants the same thing.     


On the other hand, a writing, once it leaves the writer's room and goes to that of the reader, can do whatever it wants.  The reader may find himself wanting to give it chapters and sections and titles and even proper page numbers.  So be it.  I have lost all control.  The Beloved is maddeningly independent.  That is even the meaning of all the words I have written down.  Good luck, Reader, He is now your lovely problem.  




1538  Poetry as technique is nothing.  Technique as technique is a mystery as to just why such puzzles can be so capturing, though not captivating.  Maybe they are a pastime while waiting for the spirit.  Maybe they are a thing by which we humiliate ourselves preparing ourselves for that necessarily secret visit.  We have become twisted and tried by their uselessness.  And I play with them.  And my readers don't know what else to do but turn my words into puzzles.  It is of course the same with love.  Poetry and philosophical analysis is technique plus something more.  Love is technique plus something more.  We all know that.  Even the More is a baffling puzzle.  There's no let-up.  I have tried to avoid technique at every turn of my sentences.  Poor technique results and I fall. 


The More is in technique and in that running from technique.  It is in falling and not falling.  And it is nowhere.  It is in my desire to say more.  It is in my saying it and in my not saying it.  I write to fill the time. 


It is maddening.  We are being played with.  We are puzzles being played with.  We have been captured and we are being played around with.


Technique is nothing.  The Nothing is a mystery.  That we should be able to think not only what doesn't exist, but that it doesn't exist and even the not-existence that would belong to it if the Nothing of non-existence were something.  Technique is a mystery.




1539  The Romantics, even at times Whitman, in their poetry of death speak, or is it that they only write, of something I can hardly think.  Maybe there is something there that I know, that I don't look at.  Or something I write against without thinking that that is what pushes me.  Am I pulled by a divinity or pushed by whatever that disgusting thing is?  Death is two things.  It is a look and it is the absolute nothing.  The latter slips over into logic easily and is sanitized.  It could though be, at its center, the former, the look of death.  I am not a writer able to describe that look.  I remember when I was a boy of nine or ten watching some farmers string up a big grey sow by the hind foot and cut its throat.  The red blood rushed out as I thought it put its two front feet together to try to stop it.  I saw death.  I sighed when I saw my dad drown a bag full of baby pigs in the creek.  And I saw many other things none of which were unusual for a boy in that world to see.  That is life, after all.  The look of dying and killing and death.  I know this isn't the sweet meadow of the pale Romantics, nor the oneness with the cosmos of Whitman.  There is, though, a connection.  Surely there is.  To go on, that look is also that of the flesh, the look of sex, for me the look of the woman's flesh.  Life, the making of life, is then so deathly.  The Look.  Is this the Absolutely Nothing that Parmenides spoke of?  Is God that that is free of death?  Free of the making of life?  God surely does not have that look.  Nonetheless I know the flesh, of a kind, and I find it attractive.  I have written that so much. That the boy is somehow trapped by the woman and that that is a part of the heartbreak and my rush at salvation, for him – I have not written much.  This is all a great mess in my mind and on this page.  I will probably never be able to clean it up.  Yet, when I think of the loveliness of philosophy, which I have also written, and of Him none of that is there.  The poetry of the Look gives way to the purity of analysis.




1540  Philosophy is a serious matter.  It is more than serious, it is frightening.  Not only because of the intellectual madness that is ours upon coming back into the cave, but because of something holy or unholy or coming at us.  The questions are too difficult.  The answers are impossible anyway.  The questions will not go away.  Life and the urge in it will not go away.  And I am of the so many philosophers looking for an escape with a simple redefining of the problem.  A cheap dirty affair.  It never works properly, but the work attempted can be long and drawn out and respectable and is almost there.  Always by next Tuesday.  The answer is always in an immanent book.  Fright will be overcome and we all will possess whatever it is that is other than that.


To change philosophy into mere ontological analysis or phenomenology or linguistics or psychology or word games is always the temptation.  It is a giving up and settling for second best after all and learning to maybe love it.  Aim low and you will not have to look at the heights nor the deep.  Philosophy will then be socially pleasant and OK. 


Don't get me wrong.  Philosophy is not about learning to deal with a life problem.  The philosopher is intent upon something in Being.  That Thing is big and is intent upon the philosopher.  This is not the human.  It is not even something in the world.  It is from outside.   All else is non-philosophy.  The world is not all there is.  Getting me wrong would be a diversion from That.     




1541  The outside-the-world Thing that is the final concern, or more intensely, the final erotic swelling up that is philosophy, is perhaps that second coming of the Christians. Heidegger thought it was.  Or it is that smearing where the dividing line between inside-the-world and outside-the-world lilts and vanishes in the heat of the Greek Sun, again.  He loved those sehr hubsche Hitler Jungen.  Froelishe knaben.  He poured out his spiritual words on white paper.  I probably would have done the same.  I do the same.  I too am an Aryan monster.  I pass through the night of nothing.  It's a trick.  Work.  Work it.  Work it all through that blond hair.  Finally he comes.  Philosophy is really quite easy and not at all what it pretends to be. 




1542  I'm not writing all these words so that my reader will finally understand my philosophy.  If he is to understand, he will do so almost immediately.  Philosophy is not a thing that can be discursively presented.  It is seen in an instantaneous intuition.  One sees it or one doesn't.  Few see it.  Those few are enough.  It is a terrible thing that should not be given to all.   Just as few are permitted to share in the crucifixion of Christ. 


Few philosophers, likewise, are real philosophers.  Most who use the name exist to undo philosophy.  They are the unphilosophers.  They are convinced there is no such thing except as a proof that such a thing isn't.  But even that turns out to be a mystical vision that is too difficult were it not that it too is seen in an instantaneous intuition.  Even in its un- and anti-existence philosophy is.  Or have I made a mistake is thinking that through?


So why all this laying out in quasi-discursive form?  Is it merely a ladder to be thrown away?  Why not?  That metaphor explains little and that only momentarily then nothing.  This discursion, this bad running around, is a dance.  A dance of love for the god of philosophy.  One knows in an instant if the dancer can dance.  Timing is timing and it is a simple thing.  Such is Simplicity. 


The bad dancer, the long-winded scholar, explaining and explaining, not realizing that his reader or listener got the point long ago in spite of him.  Engineering marvelous new intellectual constructs, so formal, with understanding shimmering over the top.  Understanding that came and went.  Leaving only a big book or nice little tight essays in its place.  What's the use of it?  The dance should give pleasure.  That only gives its reader the possibility of impressing his potential friends, his actual friends knowing better.


The real philosopher's actual friends are depressed by all that's going on.  So much quiet running to nowhere.  Painfully trying to make it somewhere. 




1543  I don't believe that ultimately there is only nothing.  Nothing at all.  No one really believes that because that would mean that nothing, the Nothing, is what ultimately exists, and that is not what the sentence wanted to say.  What the sentence wanted to say can't be said.  Or if it is said, it's too easy to screw it up with inevitable further thought and further saying.  And further worrying that one more attempt should be made to really say it.  But there is no thought there. 


To try to say that ultimately there is only chaos or swirling space or the sinkhole of matter or any of I don't know how many similar things is to artistically play the part of being a philosopher.  All talk of this great Nothing is poetry or a hymn to a mighty feeling that the philosopher is trying to make arise in himself and others.  Nothing at all is going to arise.  And maybe that is the Nothing.


I too am an artist, but before that I am a lover.  I insist there is a Beloved there.  No one falls in love with something that is nothing at all, if he believes it is nothing at all.


I will admit that this thing of the nothing ( speaking with no regard for the limits of language ) is a mystery.    You know what I mean.  All subterfuge trying to turn the mystery into a misuse of language or logic or onto-logic are professors' tricks, for which they will be handsomely paid. 


Another thing I have to contend with is that this Beloved of mine is a mad screw up.  Maybe that is ultimately chaos or swirling space or a sinkhole of the matter of my love, but He is certainly not nothing.  His presence is devastating.  The Devastation is certainly more profound than the Nothing could ever be.  The Nothing is comparatively too full of being. 


Anyone who knows the intensity of this love knows that the nothing is merely the calmness of sunyata.  Beyond that easy nirvana is the difficulty of love.  After the wind blows everything out, it blows it all back into a place where the old monk finds his youth again with another youth beyond the wheel of life and death.  He finds him.  In the third level of truth beyond the truth beyond.


Beyond the illusion of art there is the reality of Being returning.




1544  It seems that we cannot explain the world without resorting to something that is a unity of Being and the Nothing.  There isn't anything that is that.  Nonetheless we know it.  Maybe even though there is no thing that is that, there is a complex that is that.  But then comes the problem of the non-existent thing that is the complex.  It seems that there must be some thing that is both simple thing and complex.  And we are back at the impossible stand-off.  And yet we so easily understand all this.  It's a maddening type of understanding, but we are rather comfortable with that too.


We too easily explain things.  Our heart swells up with something similar to love, maybe Love itself.  Gently we dance the dance.  Gently we touch and quickly let the finger slide to something else.  Surely there is a beautiful god there.  The Too Beautiful. 


This impossibility of a proper analysis is the occasion for all our shouting in philosophy.  What are we to do with it?  What does it mean?  Are we to resort to some arty answer to it?  To that to which there isn't even a question?  I'm not much good at shouting, but I imagine that I am.  I'm also not much at swooning or fainting, but I write about it.  I'm not much good at writing, but the words do come from somewhere, and my analysis does properly work.


Philosophy does seem to be a thing beyond the things of philosophical analysis.  The analysis works because of that being beyond thing.  Aside from both art and analysis there is That. 




1545  As every thing that might work, in our thinking to make it work, within or without Being, as the thing that grounds the Nothing is a something.  Everywhere we look there is only Being; non-Being is not in sight.  And yet we clearly see the facts that are negative.  They are actually there.  The actuality of facts and also their possibility is other than existence or non-existence, being and non-being, nothing – something.  The or, the and, the -, are each another matter.


The question of realism – idealism is the same.  Realism says that everywhere we look there is only that which we see.  We cannot see what isn't there to be seen.  Everything we see is a something, not a nothing.  That our mind could be taken by a nothing at all is no thought at all.  Idealism, in spite of this, insists that everything we see is nothing.   Realism sees Being everywhere; Idealism sees non-Being.  Realism is a static explosion; Idealism is a dynamic implosion.   Realism stays with the lover at hand; Idealism is always looking around corners for the lover that isn't there.  Realism is looking at Him; Idealism is looking finally at its own looking.  Realism is a humid rain forest, bugs and all; Idealism is a desert, unfortunately still with bugs.  Realism is a slum, piles of useless things from the past and future and from the totally outside time; Idealism is a vacant lot where the constructors tried to build something, but it turned out to be nothing, even the lot disappeared into the empty sky.  Realism sees only Being; Idealism sees only non-Being.




1546  It is all so far away, that beginning of this so very present close at times overwhelming breath stopping worrying mind boggling love affair.   My ability to describe it is immense, the words keep coming, the explanations are vast, my ability is more than I am; it is surely not mine.  And the reach of my seeing to the far away and the beginning is at its end.    I do not have the sweet sentiment of poetry.  I am in the hot erotic.


Idealism, in its silly attempt to explain the non-existence of concepts, has become trapped in the undergrowth of non-silly great scholastic epistemological cognitive constructs.  Its journal contributions (later compiled into a book) are real, even they agree.  It's enough to make one believe in book burning.  I do believe is the great scorching prairie fires that burn away all the entangled weeds and leave only desire's leaves of grass to grow up in the silken ash.  The Calamatic heat.


Don't get me wrong; I do believe in illusion, mere appearance, that which is not really there, the embarrassing mistake about every one of my intentions.  Every lover knows these things intimately.  They are most certainly a part of romance.  Their reality is overwhelming.  The devastation spreads out doubly uncrossably uncrossable.  Chaos becomes all-consuming.  The emptiness is so very empty.  None of it can be denied.  It is all so extremely real.  And the lover is so close waiting to blow you away.  And it's all to be done again tomorrow.  Such an obsessive obsession!


It's a matter of death and resurrection.  Of killing and saving.  Of perversion and conversion.  Of subversion and reversing gears.  And then of walking away from it all.


Ask Him what He was up to and he will tell you that it was nothing at all.




1547  I could certainly, if from out of the great uncertainty of his giving permission, take and hold and kiss that solid form with the bewildering smell of lying in strange grasses.  I could talk with him and buy him all those things he so desperately needs to decorate himself for the cosmos. This boy with the form of the Boy.  But could I touch and hold and kiss and lie down in strange grasses with that Form itself?  No.  Yet the Touch and the Holding and the Kiss and the Lying Down could be mine.  And even the Very Strange and Holy Form of Grass. 


In such philosophical contemplation, in the Very Erotic, the Touch cannot be touched, the Holding holds nothing, the Kiss is not given, the Very Strange is at no distance at all from the mind and the Lying Down is not among anything.  The Forms are the self-Identicals just themselves.  For some reason this is as the lover wants it.  This is the intimacy he was always after.  This is the nowhere where the difference between himself and his beloved dissolves. 


I think.  He tries to become the Form by surrounding himself with symbols.  We both succeed.  For a moment.  The philosopher as the lover of the Form finds union with the beloved thing.  The beloved here in the unspeakableness of what he had done to himself finds himself wrapped up inside the very thing he most intimately is.


We then danced into the night.  We were the Dance, we were the Night, we became the Into into the Nexus of the Into, wrapped around tight.  I had to abandon my existence here to gain permission into There.  The Permission was everywhere.




1548  Platonism is a surveying of the Land of Being, it is not a doing in the lands of doing things.  Platonism is a stillness and an emptiness and a not being here.  It is the breath caught up.  It is the instant between.  It is neither I nor him; it is that Him that we are then, not then a point of time here. It is object, not subject.  It is the thing thought, not the thinking, except as double of the thing thought, that is then thought. 


The defenders of the sunyata emptiness insist that they are not this.  They insist that they are only clearing access to this place here, opening the field for doing.  Surely they have betrayed the lovers.  Their way is the ordinarily empty.  They should learn to love the beautiful, glistening emptiness of a heart beating in love too fast all the way out of here.  Why can't they let go and have the Holding On itself that is There?  They don't want it.  My arguments are of no use.


I don't do philosophy.  I don't write philosophy.  I watch myself being philosophy.  I watch the writing being itself through me.  I quietly think about the difference.  I think the Difference between me and That and between the world of doing and the great uncircling Circles of Being, a sort of non-world.  In the quiet and the gentle torturedness of thought I become the Quiet.  My circling become its final perfection of having reached clear around, even my waist is held tight.


I have created no new philosophy in these writings.  This is not something out of my will to power.  This is the same Power that has forced lovers to repeat and repeat the same, eternally the Same, forever.  This is my will to the Eternal Return.  I am not afraid of the emptiness of it.  I shudder in the Glistening of holy Fear.


I will not try to take the twistedness out of my writing.  The really Real is twisted.  It is with the failure to say anything at all.  I write for the lover who has nowhere left to go.  From out of the Act the balancing must be perfect.




1549  I write nothing about long time romances, nothing about an affair that transpired throughout the evening and night, nothing about the time one lover caught the eye of another and they went somewhere and a scene was made that some author other than I could capture.  I write nothing sequential like that.  I write only the instant of the erotic intuition.  The Form is known and its shooting through the spirit is grabbed and it's gone.  The simplicity of the Forms requires that nothing discursive we written about them.  The point of their existence is less than any point of time always dividing.  I merely fidget with my thoughts and I wait and it is here.  Or I am there.  I have no story to tell.  And only those minimal stories of a slaying glance, a stolen kiss, a playful jinn undressing in the tent of the soul out on the desert of His Spirit laid out in an instant by the author's dancing fingers on this page. 




1550  It is true that I am the place where Being makes itself present.  Dasein.  Yet I am not Dasein.  Dasein is with me just as the Forms fill me.  Like a lover.  The Forms fill the place that I have become.  The Place that made me the stage.  Dasein is with God and Dasein is God.  This is theater.  You are looking at me.  I am now not a human thing.  I am with Dasein, the Place, the Stage, the Forms play.  I am nowhere.  I have been the sacrifice that took place while you were gone.


The Place is the opening up where the Forms lie down.  It is the expanse of the thigh.  It is his back and his chest and his long arm stretched out.  It is the open mouth receiving.  The Place is That.  It is the bare thing.  The Form brings it all in close.  Dasein is the bare particular.  I am that thing as are so many others.  A strange universal of pure difference. 


The Forms that fill me are thoughts.  The forms that fill my body are ever in-going shapes, contraction and release.  My thought is filled with the shape of my body.  My body is filled with my thoughts.  I am intimate with myself stretched out.  The point of my mind in mapped along my body.  In an instant there was the long slow caress.  I am the place of all that.  I am bare.  I am the area filled up with the form.  At each point along my skin he is fully present.  I become the thinking of that.   


So are the bare particular and Dasein the same thing?  Of course not, at least as far as the history of philosophy goes.  Nonetheless, I seem to have found here a sameness as far as I have been using the words.  In fact, the notion of Dasein, as I understand it, has helped me see the openness and the area of This.  Openness and area are not the same, and they are even somehow opposites insofar as area feels like a filled up smoothness.  I play with these things, I throw them up into the air and see how they fall together and fall apart.  So many combinations are possible, so few are actual so far for us.  And possibility and actuality do seem to do their magic in and among philosophical facts.




1551  Because Existence cannot be analyzed down, nor stretched out, nor placed under or against anything else.  Because it moves in and out of our philosophies untouched, unneeding of our touch, unconcerned that we languish because of that.  And because we have really not much or anything to say to it directly, and we are at a loss to speak about our not speaking in spite of our sometime need to speak to it.  There seems to be no thing there that it could be.  Existence is too soon gone.  And our need is forgotten and existence doesn't exist.  Even that statement is nowhere. 


I could forcefully say that existence exists and try to bring the matter before me and you.  But in that I feel I have spoken too much.  Nonetheless, to say that existence doesn't exist is surely wrong.  Most certainly, necessarily wrong.  The wrong and the necessarily wrong, however, are something and I have been also wrong about that.  Mouth-shutting mysticism seems the only recourse.  You see me doing and being that.  And in that I speak even louder and I'm still wrong.  So I write and I write and I write.


Let me speak in the imprecision of the everyday.  Being and non-being is a mystery.  That we can think what doesn't exist is mind baffling.  That even what absolutely doesn't exist exists is dangerous to think, but there it is.  Yet it isn't there.  Discourse resorts to myth and poetry and above all, especially in Plato, to the erotic.  Analysis gives way to loveliness.  Loveliness itself seems to reside in the most perfect delicate analysis.  I can live with that.  In the end everything is as I would wish it to be.




1552  I spend so much time in these writings talking about the death of philosophy for me, for us all, here, in this world where philosophy must die so we can live, but which makes life here even harder.  My heart fills up.  The love is unbearable.  The double is gone, irretrievably gone.  Analysis sets in, and it will not stop.  How can I write such a thing?  How can I make my hands move from out of such a mass of turbidity?  The Beloved, my very other self, is across an uncrossable boundary.  Such absolute uncrossable things become the complete lack of any boundary and are too close.  Too unbearably close.


I have imagined all this.  I have lost nothing.  I have had troubles, but we have all had troubles.  I've had friends and readers and listeners and even lovers, but I've chased them all away.  The love was too much or not enough or too stifling or not stifling enough.  It was unbearable.  In that I have been no different from others.  This is all so very human.  The loss and the trouble have in our literary existence become Loss and Troubles.  We are so much art.  You are now reading the artistic me.  My shame. 


My erotic desire has been great.  It has transformed itself and blossomed into this.  It has become itself writ large.  It has not gone away.  I am more the fifteen-year-old boy now than I was then.  Then is even more itself now. 


Philosophy has not died in me.  I have died along with philosophy in the world.  Is that the way with all of us?  I am having trouble reading the expression on your face.  I am having trouble reading my own words.  They are not what I set out to write.  I guess I am not really myself.  My double is so very different from what I imagined.  But I always knew that.  I must remember the difference.  Difference and identity swirl around in my head.  And my head is just pain.  I watch it.  Air and words pour out and go back in.  In the morning in my sleep my dick is so hard it hurts deep in my brain.  I quietly wait to gain control.  I relax and then bring it all back gently strongly and the intensity is perfect.  Philosophy comes again.  The resurging.  The Beloved is saved and right here. 


Death and resurrection is what we are.  And in that He is no more my rival.  The world is left behind, forgotten, totally abandoned and there is only the Friend.  The End.




1553  At the end of philosophical analysis there is the Shock, the quietly alarming collapse of speech.  Non-being will not be analyzed.  The complex non-thing that is built from the complex together with the simple things it is built on or out of or from shakes the mind and screws the mouth finally closed.   Thus I write.  I am looking for a way out or around or through.  None of these energetic prepositions of English works anywhere.  And even in their non-working they don't work.  They don't even have a beauty that might point the way.


Mind so close to its intended things is too unbearably close.  I collapse into what I write.  The elusiveness of difference and existence and indeed any of the lovely ontological things is as elusive as the boy I want.  They all seem impossible to get.  He has taught them well in the maneuvers of this game.  I study game theory.  He knows I know, but I know that he knows.  And in the end in this whirling eddy we will fall together.  Maybe.  I let him know that there is always the danger that I may just walk away if he doesn't come.  I cannot be my own God.




1554  This is going to be something like a story about a boy who spends a lot of time alone in his room thinking about other boys who spend a lot of time alone doing the same thing.  He is, of course, the philosophical boy which I'm sure you recognize from having read so much about him already in all those other non-stories that I wrote trying to get beyond writing stories.  I'm still not going to write one, but here he is anyway being his usual sexual self.


His room is a mess.  His hair's a mess.  And his mind is so well ordered into the perfect logical form of things that it too is a mess.  That makes him a boy-god.  The logical form of logical form, you will remember, is not logically well-formed and he knows that and loves it.  He thinks it's perfect just like that form of himself he sees in the full-length mirror he bought and hung on his closet door.  He's not Narcissus because he knows that that form he sees is him, while that boy didn't, but he loves him anyway.


There may not be much of a story here, but story is history, which is, after all, only the eidenai, the appearance, the seeing and being seen, the sticking out into the open, the very present.  He is that.  Look at him.  Standing there stuck out.  The phallic waves running up and down him.  He likes his hard dick.  And that one on his mirror twin.  Nice ass, he thinks.


He is pure history, the purely seen, the Form.  He is the Boy.  He does what all boys do best.  Nothing.  He studies himself minutely, but maybe he's too pure and I need to put some of the I-don't-know-what-that-is into him and make him confused.  Surely I must do that because the completion of these words is that the Boy is just a boy and that scares me. 


The ordinary boy, which is also this boy, is always a story, I mean a real story and not just my ontological play.  He has to do more that just jack off and think about jacking off with some other boy that has caught his eye.  He doesn't have to do too much more, because real boys don't really do too much more.  Nonetheless they seem to other people to be doing more and that seeing themselves in other people's eyes is somehow a part of their story, but not a real and essential part.  Can I write a story of the boy and not just the Story of the Boy that he secretly and really is?  I'm back to the relationship between the particular and the universal.  I have written about little else.  My tumbling words really are his story, at least they have been my story and I like to imagine a friend.   My story, though, seems to be only the Story and I am invisible in that.  That invisibility is surely the I-don't-know-what-that-is.  The mirror hard to figure.  Hard.




1555  The boy alone in his room, but with pictures of other boys on the walls and underwear on the floor and his papers on which he has tried to write the boys from other times and places into existence right in front of him.  Surely the pictures were icons.  Real icons in which the holy spirits of the boys were really present.  The Eternal Form emanates all over furniture from all the many openings around him and on him. 


This is a thing from outside time appearing as time in no time in the There that has become a boy's head, giving head.  Doubles folding back on themselves.  Just the one thing.  The really shamelessly unthinkable.  What is he doing now?!


This is my Boy of Philosophy, that thing that has appeared in every age with those old writers giving us such convoluted attempts at capturing his very being in the words they thought were theirs but were just semen mouth drops splattered now into our minds.  Insemination.  Dissemination.  In and all over those angular seminaries where young seminarians drive their confessors and professors mad.


The stories here are just the stories of secret romances, the dialectic of which match and indeed are made of the same twistings as is all ontological dialectic.  It is techne beyond mere technical rules.  It is the endless concern about how to get into his pants.  The close to the unruly.  Every madrasa, every cloister, every ashram, every garden academy, every community college has forgotten rooms with dark windows made for love.  It is a boy's melodrama.  The dying of God and then the resurging is not more than that.  Go with him.  He's calling you - if you are the one he wants. 


It's pointless for me to write the stories of these romances.  You know all of them by heart already. 




1556  I'm trying to stay away from writing poetry.  This is not a technical endeavor.  I have not studied meter and composition.  There is nothing in all this to praise or condemn as well or badly constructed.  Or if there is it is not my doing but something from out of the curls of his hair.  One never knows the beauties in such an entanglement, and that not knowing may even be techne. 


The upshot of this is that I am also not writing analysis or the solution to analytical ontological puzzles, merely more poetry.  The Ratio is not here, except accidentally as I have already mentioned. The mad spirit is, I hope.  I have intentionally not written with my scholarly mind, but mind my Dick.  I'm obsessed by lust.  That is to be my salvation.  I wait for being lifted up.  I'm not putting words into your eyes and mind, but a cock down your throat.  Take it.  We are past the end.  These are the vast steppes of Nirvana.  The bulging stoupa is here. 


I want to write something, in this doubling of myself, that crawls and creeps and shudders.  I want something that is ever so delicately nauseous.  I want the mantic smell of crotch and taste of another tongue.  I want the having done it too much.  I want you to like what I like. 


This eternal return doesn't require technique.  It maybe needs somebody to call the police.  Or somebody who really does know technique who will humiliate us.  The scholars want a piece of this action, but they wouldn't know what to do with a piece if they got it.  They might though play with a cod-piece if they had one?


Scholars can't dance.  They have no technique, which is worse than having technique without spirit.  It's bewildering.  This coming together and going apart of spirit and techne is frightening.  I fear at times I have neither, and I go merely sit with the scholars. 




1557  We do think about things that are not out there in the world.  We remember and we imagine and we speculate.  Of course we do.  And we think about logical and mathematical forms separate from anything out there.    Of course we do.  The objects of these thoughts are not nothing.  Therefore they are something.  And since there is no such thing as something or a quasi-something that is both something and nothing, they are again something.  There are things out in the world and there are things in the mind.  The things in the world are separate from the mind and some of the things in the mind are not.  Nonetheless, none of the things in the mind is created by the mind.  I see no act of creation going on anywhere in the mind, nor do I have any idea what that might be, therefore I say no thing is created by the mind.  I say that emphatically, because I am surrounded by those who say there is such creating.  We disagree. 


All the things of the world are complexes containing particulars, and all the things in the mind are either also such complexities or they are simple things separate from particulars.  If there is an image that I imagine, then that is complex.  If there are sense data then they are complex.  If I think of any of the simple ontological things or mathematical or logical forms then they are simple.


And now to undo the problem I am presented by these words.  Do the words "in" and "out" name real relations.  I don't think so.  However, the question of just what is the nexus between mind and its intensions is a most important question and must be answered to finish the philosophy.  Perhaps there is no nexus though, because the closeness of mind to its object is too close to permit one.




1558  Among the things that exist some are out there and some are in the mind.  When I say that though, it seems that I am inside looking out.  I don't feel anything like that.  I do sort of feel that I am inside my head and that some things are with me here, but they are not in my mind, only with me here inside my head, but that isn't quite right either.  I'm sure you know exactly what I mean.  "In" and "out" and "with" are not at all the relations known so well but only serve to name a difference and a sameness and a togetherness we sort of see and sort of feel as sort of around things.   Everything is sort of.  I hesitate to be more precise.  I even wonder if I could be.  The space of the mind is an unextended extension.  In a simple thought I encircle the wide expanse.  The many, the divided complex is mapped onto the one undivided indivisible thing.  Let it be.


The things that are in the mind are marvelously fused with the other things in the mind.  The words that I speak to myself in here are so very intimate with their meaning with the things meant with the awareness itself.  Nonetheless, I insist that all these things are not one thing, but many things fused, maybe confused.  I struggle to keep free of the latter.  Though I will use all these things as a ladder to reach up into or out onto the most lovely place in Being.


In the end all the spatial relations remain with me.  I can't free myself from them.  I don't want to free myself.  My whole philosophy is a topology.  I am in fact a topos.  I am the Da of Dasein.   I am the stage on which these theatrical writings take place.


The complexity of my philosophy is that of a complex geometry.  It is the in and out and the going around of the Boy's body.  He is all that all at once in a single instance that is everywhere.  It is a theology. 




1559  Can we look directly at the Forms?  Yes.  We can know them and think them and speak them and fall in love with them.  And in all of that, however we meet them, it is erotic.  But the meeting will be different from that of earthly lovers, in whose eyes there is no such thing to be seen and in whose thought and speech there is no thing there to tend to.  The Forms are met with Eros, not in common eroticism.  This division is well known in philosophy and has been spoken of too much.


What is the difference between these knowings and seeings and meetings?  Again that is well known.  The Forms in Eros are There outside time and any space here.  Timeless and Placeless.  They are capital letter intense in perfect still Intensity.  And the speaking about them is the mere mention of them before the fall into silence.  All discourse is that of failed discourse like chips falling in line off marble revealing That.  All thinking about them is in a proposition curled up in itself to a vanishing point.  And then another.  These are all the Instant that is the end aimed at and the fountain releasing. 




1560  If I am a carpenter making a bed and thinking of the Form of Bed, I do not in my mind's eye see an Ideal bed of such and such an extension and color and style.  The Form that I see is without any extension, therefore color or shape, but I do see it.


If there are universals, they cannot have the complexity of being extended.  But universals mingle and the Ideal Form of Bed and Mingling and the Ideal Form of Extension are there to be seen by the mind's eye.  And there is for us the question of "If there are…" that makes my work as a carpenter anxious and I build love's worry into what I make.


Just as a thought is a simple thing fit to the many things of the world, so the Ideal Form is a one thing seeping into the differences created.


The One that is Being, that is each of the Forms, that is thought, that is silence before the outburst of words in its doubling and tripling itself, inevitably.  I think of The One, and I soon speak.  I make a bed and I must talk to the ones around me.  I do philosophy and I wonder if I will ever be able to be by myself wanting only myself and That silently.  Have there ever been lovers on any of my beds who didn't end up talking.  The Forms become garrulous.  Jesus talks with his friends until they are lovers.  Because the absolute simplicity is too much.




1561  Still finding myself immersed in the ideas of my youth, I am a proper Megarian.  Or Eleaticist.  Or Parmenidean.  I guess.  I really don't know for sure, and nobody else does either.  These names are now for us encased in the amber of history.  Yet the things of philosophy, Being and its attendants, are still here out in the open and lovingly lively.  The amazing problem of the one and the many, of existence and non-existence, is still the beloved thing we fall for.  We fall willingly.  I am not alone in this.


Because change seems illogical, and because the Logos presses hard on me, I never use the words of cause and effect.  Coming into existence and passing out of it occur on the path I do not take.  I see where I travel no middle ground between existence and non-existence.  Non-existence is, truthfully, nowhere.  But I do, alas, have many friends traveling away from me on that other path.  I long for someone with whom I can walk along.  Now I meet everyone in passing.  Which is exactly what they say, since they have no one thing, just the fleeting many nothings masquerading as what never was anyway.  Why are there so few Megarians, or whatever?


I must admit that even the few are too many though.  There are not, I insist, many things.  There is only Difference.  There is no difference between the One and the Different.  There is only The One and Difference.  No complex is formed.  There is however the one thing that is the dyad The One and the Different.  So difficult to think, but so alluring.  His words mangle my mind delightfully.  Even this difference between Difference and the Different is wild.  It's all there.  There is no coming into being and passing away.  No cause, no effect.  No creating, no projecting.  There is no illusory thing halfway between. There is, though, in a very still breath holding moment a finger going up my back.  This is the blanking out.  The unthinkable What was that?  It is Him.


I am looking for words to describe that thing that is neither motion nor rest, neither here nor there, neither changing nor not changing.  I'm looking for that thing that is the place where the philosophical world meets the would-be world of coming into being and passing out.  Where cause and creation almost are.  Where those things find the completion of what they would have been.  Where I on the empty winter grids of Iowa meet the laid our boy of the regular hot city streets.  I have found that thing many times.  This is an easy philosophy.  Impossible to tame.  I just go with him wherever.  These are the words of my youth still with me.  Nothing changes.




1562  I lie quietly here and imagine boys in heavenly schools studying geometry books.  And wet algebra.  Eros and the mathematical.  So Platonic.  I look at the simplest things of logic and number and the perfect line and curve going around and I am pierced by their beauty.  The Boy is somehow in all them.  And in the boys he is studying himself.  In this heavenly school the boys make only the simplest movements.  A turn.  A looking.  A being seen.  A kiss.  A perfection of the argument.  The laying out.


I am here doing philosophy, not mathematics.  I am looking for and finding the ground of the things of logic and onto-logic.  The connectors come out of the fire of beauty.  The fire of beauty is bound by the connectors.  This is the intense love that proceeds.  The strangeness of the spirit.  The cross-eyed god.  The red hair and the open mouth.  It is the feel of your own hair standing up.


Perhaps this is hermes leading me across and it is hermeneutics.  This is the poetry that has been taken by Him the Mathesis lying spread out in the clear night of pure emanating Number.  There is One.  There are two.  There are three.  The world is swirling.  The streets are alive with the clamor of love. 


This is poetry because I have constructed this word spirit trap just for you. And it is so mathematical.  The dialectics of love.  Erotic mathematics.  That is philosophy.  The puzzle is solved.  It was more serious than you had ever imagined. 


This is the urgency of something very present.  The logical things have found their reality.  They pile in together waiting just for you.  You are after all made out of nothing but them.  They have known you always.  And now.  They are here.


Philosophy is this looking for the logical things in the world or outside of it.  For the logical things in themselves away from your rough use of them in your worldly need.  Philosophy is the look for them as beings from Being.  In your dreams of love.  Of love's urgency and its crying and its inexorable coming again.


This is the tight closeness of logic.  Of mind and object.  Of language and thing.  Of desire and desired. 




1563  The young student captured by some mystical vision in philosophy becomes dejected, so dejected, when he reads someone totally trashing all the lovely arguments he had taking him up to the heights.  He may spend years after that working hard, so hard, so diligently, to defend his way up.  He, after all, wants to take others, maybe one special other, with him away from here.  He becomes a warrior.  Eventually he learns that yes the arguments, his arguments, fail, but the opposite fails too.  Alas, and with not a little trepidation he hopes, he thinks, he sees salvation in that very fact.   All philosophical arguments fail.  The most beautiful fail the most quickly and the most easily.  And because they go higher up onto the outer rings, the fall is farther and the most troubling.


The power of argument is not in its logic, but in its beauty.  Philosophy is not the mathematically precise, but the mathematically erotic.  No one can defeat Plato and Socrates.  Their arguments are maybe adolescent, but that adolescence is their lure, and their opponents are defeated with the arrows of a glance.  That may be maddening, but it's unavoidable.


The power of argument is for all that in the logic, but deeper in the logic is Beauty.  The Fire.  The Logos surges.  Without logic, though, there is no beauty nor burning surging reason for any of this.  Our rush to logical analysis is necessary as the place for all this tumultuous taking place.


Eros and Logic.  Logic and Eros.  That is the Boy.  He is the third that is the one prior to both.  He is the young student looking looking looking through all those books trying to find whatever it is he's trying to find.  A way out or over or through or to that one he has watched for so long at the other table by the window by the tree up into the sky.




1564  In this moment, as though outside all moments, let us look and try to gather together the magnitude and plentitude of this great thing that has appeared before your and my mind's eye, even the eyes of so many minds.  And let us look at the looking and the gathering in a moment of moments and at the inevitable dispersing.


Awaiting the dispersion and our forgetting, but not thinking directly of that, and still in amazement, let this thing that I will call Being, that Great Thing, hold your attention, maybe in detention, in contention, in retention, with tension itself tensing and time and temples and blood throbbing through the very temples of your head.


All the things are present.  And all the many things have forms, wonderful form.  And the ordering among them dazzles in precision.  And the ordering of the ordering in ever building and intricate inward and outward going lies there and there so gently and with a lover's gentle threat of capturing you, the very you yourself.  Who are you, that this great Thing wants you so much?


Surely this moment outside moments is a matter we can handle and be handled by for only a moment until it's too much and thought breaks and another moment's blessed forgetting comes - no doubt, no doubt - we will then soon forget the forgetting and we will leave here and be so relieved that that lover has returned and it repeats.  The eternal repetition.


I am amazed.  I am put in the maze and this amazement has occurred, run, right to and through me.  Like all love there is no figuring it out and like love there is no end to trying to figure it out.  Thought works itself up and holds still and wonderfully breaks and you spill out all over It and It in you and Look at that! 


Such is what has appeared.  The ordering of this place is orgiastic orgasmic the fiery forge and the pouring out.  I am the place where this has appeared, directly appeared, without any cover at all, naked, in that mind obliterating odor of night, this lover with no place else to go for the whole night long.




1565  When I set out to describe Being and all the intricacies of Being, I inevitably end up in bed with that most lovely of lovers.  Who is he that calls itself, for us here in this place, Being, in this language with the rhythms of so much rocking and rolling right off the bed and onto that laughing floor covered with discarded socks shirts and white cotton underwear among books where we learned about it all to begin with?   Why can't I gently like a proper scholar and teacher clearly lay out all the distinctions and connections and contentions?


Such is Being for me.  I am controlled and counter rolled.  I am made and unmade, done up and undone, dressed out and dressed down.  Though I am far from the first thing, I am no less.  Though I am produced as though by magic, I am also the really real. Though I am sometimes second, I am always the first.  Though I am always the very last, I am the way out you seek.  Though I have received everything and given nothing I have not failed to freely give myself in return.  I have not been the beloved who just lies there.  I have my eyes wide open, and even when they close Being itself knows that I know.  And that I am amazed that this thing Being could be such a thing.  I'm afraid that I have not been a proper scholar.  But I have now and then seen a proper scholar who seemed to be covered with Being himself and I wanted him.  What to do?




1566  Just as the religious desire the law, so the lover desires the real.

Just as the meditating Buddhist desires emptiness but without desire, so the lover desires the real with ever more desire.

Just as artist desires the expression of his desire, so the lover desires a reality for his expressions of desire.

Just as the scholar wants to write that one connection he found before anyone else writes it, so the lover desires the connection he has written of for so long to finally be real for him alone.


Realism is the hope of lovers.  The unreality of the pain that is love in this world, the unreality of the whole damn world, is the desire of those unable to love.  The non-lover wishes we could dissolve in pleasant conversation about nothings.  Both know anxiety and anxiety's interminable logos.  The lover longs for the Logos, the logos finally speaking existence itself.  The non-lover thinks the lover is hopeless.


Lovers practice realism.  They develop arguments why realism must be true.  They wait for it to be obviously true because there, right there, at last is the beloved, that thing that even when unseen gave evidence of itself for those wanting it.  Just as lovers will not believe the best of arguments of why their beloved is of no worth at all.  What good are arguments in the face of love.  Arguments in philosophy are merely for the sake killing time.  A death that must be.  The moment of release.  And then the Face.


Such is my way of speaking and working toward the real.  Those who think I should be working toward the undoing of what would be the real, to learn the pure satisfaction of non-existence, to rest content just in myself or my Self or empty blue-sky mind are crazy.  I am merely mad, blood-red mad.


I will, in my great lethargy of spirit, read what my opponents have to say; they are much too busy to return the favor.  I love the intricacy of argument, and I am always hoping they may have taken the time to spin some out of their wearied brain, but they never have.


The lover will look anywhere to find traces of the one that at times seemed so close, but who now has led him out onto the streets looking.  The lover could at times even try to find that great something in the emptiness of the nothing at all.  He will test the law to see if its bindings are strong enough to force that one to remain.  He will make a spectacle of himself in the great public thinking he may be in the audience.  And he will study study study all the books that have been left by those like him that where also looking.  Surely the real is real. 




1567  Out on the Iowa prairie I learned to think about something else.  My sex drive blew up and up and my face erupted and the boys were so sexy and my geometry and algebra books from school, but never in school, revealed to me something else that to this day I try hard about.  I wonder if any others out there found the same thing.  Am I a solipsist for that place as it is in the God in God?  I argued with all the religious people out there.  I still do.  What was still is. On television I watch the fronts continue to move in.  The wind never let up.  The regularity of the lay out continue to lie there waiting.    The pick up trucks pick up and they are gone continually.  The boys continue to hang out the window.  Logic circuits blast music out the speakers.  Bare white legs nuzzle down on cracked leather.  I learned what philosophy is really all about.




1568  The complexity is too much.  This explanation of the beautifully Simple has achieved ever greater and greater refinement at a cost.  The vast amounts of spiritual burning energy required to hold it in mind has consumed so very much of my reserves of spirit.  I've twisted and twisted my self around and around in my own whirling whirlwind dizzy visions of a tortured Oneness centripetally throwing off every other one who would be in this dance with me.  This god in me made me do it.  It is his very essence to do that.  This spinning god.  This dervish.  This boy moving far too fast.  I long ago kissed my heart goodbye.


Is he beautiful or not?  A strange exploded beauty.  Big dick.  The widest mouth.  Skin attaching itself to my own over worked get that underwear out of here!  No, let me smell it one more time!  What happened?  He's the Too Much.  And he talks crazy talk all the time.  He pulls himself apart and puts himself back together.  He then wants me to eat him.  So I do.


When the Logos becomes flesh, dirty disgusting sexy flesh, and there you are with him unexpectedly the same, your lovely mind sliding over his bare leg, what to do?  The others left.  You're alone.  With That.  Fuego.  Fuero. 




1569  I don't know why he blew me off like that, was he only doing what had to be done?  I've talked and waited and talked and waited and the words always came.  It's such an easy thing.  Just relax.  This is Being.  You are that thing.  There's nothing other than this anywhere.  Work it and work it.  Splash yourself all over all around.  Emanate all through the great sidereal spheres.  He won't mind.  He is mind.  A sticky shapely mind.  DO YOU MIND!


I've walked alone on lonely beaches at night far city lights out into the surf up to my knees my crotch there you are have you been waiting long isn't the air so soft. 


The simplicity of the One spills out.  The One the Two the One, just you just me just you and me the three of us.  Who is he?  He's such a talker.


The first line of my new sutra;



Second line:













This needs a little explanation, I know, maybe a cummintary or two or three.


You're dangerous with your dangerouscumpoundedsentences.  DO YOU MIND!




1570  Dharma Slums and Vortex Sutras and Howls in Bowels, I'm beat.  So much metaphysics that is, I suppose, real cum love from the heart for that one He never could get.  Did he finally find those arms, those lips, that nomorecunt thing ever again?  He's beyond the sky.  Shy coy boy give me yr ass.  I have no self but you.


This is all just too much poetry.  What were you guys thinking?  Your metaphysics ain