2000  The ordering of ontological elements within Being is called The Canon, or so I shall call it.  It also could simply be called Being.  One, of course, hesitates to say that it is itself one of the elements because of the dialectical difficulties that would cause about how to join that thing up with the other things.  Being has historically, in fact, been impossible to place among the things of Being.

 

The Canon prevents us from placing the connector "element of" between bare particular and universal, from placing a universal as a connector between difference and the connective "or", from having sets exemplify bare particulars, from letting numbers have color.  Such nonsense non-facts fall out.  There is a system to things.  I write rigidly controlled by that. 

 

I write about love and I am such a formalist.  Passion is terribly constrained.  Perhaps passion is the constraint.  Nonetheless, my writings are held by a strangeness.  The form of things is, on inspection, not without an obvious unsightly crease.  There is no Canon, Being is nowhere within Being, the Ordering is without any proper grounding, the End is half way down the road. Something more should always be said.  There's nothing more to say.

 

The Form of Being is that than which there can be no greater.  It is both in and out of the mind.  It cannot be denied.  To do so is just adolescent insolence.  Even with its great beauty adolescence cannot, does not want to, succeed.

 

It is possible to write the Canon without the fullness of Being, as thin airy structure.  As fine lace curtains in the wind of intellect.  I, though, for no reason I can think of, prefer the luscious filling up of things and the extravagant wandering off into the cumulous.  The rising up and the thickness of the downward draught.

 

It is the mischievousness of Kim hanging from Zam-Zammah.

 

 

 

2001  The Madhyamika is a pure Nihilist.  He is devanam priya, the divinely mad friend.  He is at the extreme of anti-realism.  I have a certain affection for him.  He has a certain beauty.  The mad with the mad. 

 

Today many will object that he is not a nihilist but a believer in something beyond our samsaric reasoning and seeing and conceptualizing.  Nihilism is not, however, a fool's philosophy as they believe.  In its pure form it glistens luringly.  It is God.  It is Paranirvana, beyond Nirvana.  After the extinguishing, the Flame draws.

 

Surely what we see is without substance.  Even I have been this anti-substantialist.  Between the pieces of Being there is nothing at all for them to ride on.  Inwardly they are only fire and desire and error.  Love overcomes and oblivion is in an eternal return.  Nothing more.  The kiss is all there is, but what is that?

 

Those monks, in their sexless, scholastic propriety, never to be put in the madman's compound, reek of flaccidity.  Those who practice the opposite just to be put in there and be humiliated reek of old blood.  Those who really did learn that desire beyond non-desire are the smell of violets on the Boy's cheeks.  Pure Nihilism.     

 

Surely I too am devanam priya.  I am a Platonist, the One beyond existence, the boy on the night of splendor. 

 

 

 

2002  I do not negatively glorify and uphold the great institutions by praising and seeking love from rebels.  Society's ladies and gents who pawn after the street boy poet petty criminal because he so envied them and in his ways swooned for them willingly receive his worship and become gods.  This hustler is hustled.

 

The Forms of all things exist.  They are exemplified in this and that.  The Forms are eternal.  The exemplifications are as nothing.  I am a writer.  I am this naked particular showing forth that Thing that is God, by means of the tie to God that is also God, in my nakedness and particularity that also are God.  I am nowhere.  I am forced to say that I am only God.

 

That Society's darlings are praised is also a Form of God and is God.  Thus Society is just God loving God.  That I have not participated in this worship is my apostasy.  I am the Apostate.  With that rebel street thing jesus I crisscross myself onto the streets and avenues, textualized in my anathema love rhythms.  You cannot get at me in my unclean maze.  I pawn on society's darlings.  The lover is rejected in favor of the more lucrative hustling business.  That too is God.

 

Metaphysics seems to be so far from society.  I am not nearly poetic enough.  My rhythms are unpoetic.  There's too much dialectics in them.  They are difficult.  They are just syntax.  Dreams that attack.  I have attacked society and God and the power of love's words to mean anything.  I am in a dangerous place.

 

 

 

2003  This is a Pauline ontology.  Just as the Law was given that man might know sin and love's release, so logic is within the given that man might know the transfiguration of thought into a shimmering trepidation.

 

After analysis is complete and the world is gone and that brave one sees that the very project of analysis has thrown him, the one performing the analysis, into wildness not less than the divinity before which he was afraid at the beginning, he then waits and turns and sees finally that he must decide.  He decides nothing. The decision was made long ago, which is to say it never was made; he is caught up in a timeless dividing. 

 

At the end of logic and of the logic of Being, one finds oneself either struck down or sweetly taken in.  It is, of course, unclear what has happened.  Love comes or perhaps its coming was a final leaving or the fools took over or the slightest thing snapped and then failed or his shirt brushed ever so gently against the cheek of understanding and his odor lingered there or uncontrollably vanished; whatever it was, the destruction of the city was complete.  The complexity of the world gave way to the simple things and it was no more.  Analysis destroys.  The turning and the Face and then the sprinkling of pearls in the moonlight.

 

 

 

2004  Perhaps, because I am different and separated from society, or I feel myself to be so, I have developed or come to be the strong sense of that in my philosophy.  I am intimate with the Platonic separation of the Forms from the world.  I am intimate with the intimacy of love that is the bridge and secret door to that.  I know the opprobrium that burns and the way back is lost forever.

 

I dream.   I dream within words.  Because I cannot see what I want to see in my dreams I resort to words, living words, ontological words with a soul inhabiting them.  I speak to myself as I watch the disfiguring of ordinary things.  Logically and more correctly, I would have to say that that soul speaks me into a disfigurement.  The self being a thing of disinterested curiosity from another stand-offish self.  Its substance being no more than alkaline scars.

 

Professional philosophers, thinking they are pleasing to the taxpayers, see themselves upholding the world.  They are in the ground of things.  They are self-deprecating as pillars should be.  They eat and drink and marry as the others, thus proving their point.  They are wood.  Even the ordinary citizen sees their overburdening groundedness.  They have for too long rationalized lack of flight. 

 

My words are just words, but they are sacred words, real, full of other-worldliness, true.  They are already become Just words, erect, upright, potent with the closeness of this god, his pillar.

 

I am here living, propositional characters.  I am timeless burning literary figures.  I am the avoided eternal Platonic Forms.  Society has always bowed to that.  I am thus Society.  I am of a band of lovers.  The Socii.  The Self configures.  The separation disappears from view.     

 

 

 

2005  Some ontologists complain that if propositional characters exist as the form of awareness, then they must be as timeless as are all universals, and they balk at that; the facts they are of surely aren't.  Or so it seems at first blush.  Moreover, the text that speaks the idea must be eternal, as well.  It's too much for them, so far from the common sense understanding of things.  Nonetheless, such is the philosophy that is forced on the one who would do philosophy, believing in the reality of that that has impressed itself upon him.

 

Some readers, accustomed to the light emanating over their shoulders, unaccustomed to the light of day, assent to the greater reality of literary figures than to the outer world and balk at being thought mere dreamers. 

 

Spirit proceeds from the Word, inhabits wor(l)ds, inhibits deeds, mounts up steeds, wails in the reeds, worries the lords, writes in their seed, swallows the sword, …… reverts and trips.  Reams of dreams.   

 

The languid propositional beings move in and out of each other.  Everything that could be written or thought is already.  The movements have all been made.  The moving is timeless.  I bring them to the Light as they have always between brought to the Light, in the same act of bringing, in time's infinite reflection of not-time.  The New is always here as it has always newly been so.  There is, alas, no way back from analysis.  Perhaps it would have been better never to have begun, but, ah lassitude, it was begun so long ago and will begin anew again soon.  The logic cannot be broken. 

 

We cannot think without language, but in that we are speaking our thoughts into what exists without us.

 

 

 

2006  Berkley was correct; what appears to the mind is not lying in any sort of material bed.  He was not correct in saying that it is therefore lying within the mind.  Nor floating in its open spaces, nor pasted on or engraved into its translucent globular surface.  What appears hangs on or in nothing at all.  Appearances appear and then they are gone. 

 

Ontological things, Platonic Forms, separate from the fleeting appearances here and there, now and then, do not appear in the world.  They are timeless and placeless.  They are known in an intellectual intuition. 

 

There is a radical difference between the ordinary things appearing and the things of Being that ground them.  Ordinary things have no place in philosophy except as what gives way to the Other. 

 

As for the Incarnation, we have stumbled.  That the heart of Being became and becomes flesh and the sensa are intimate with it, is oblivion to intellect.  I know fleeting groundless appearances and I know the ground of appearance and I am undone by the appearance of Appearance itself.  The beauty and the terror and the vertigo leave me destitute.  The Incarnation is my only obsession.   

 

 

 

2007  The materialists say that the basic entities of ontology are the reflections of matter within the complexities of matter.  They are embedded in matter and they exist only there.  The Idealists say that the basic entities of ontology are reflections of mind within the complexities of mind.  They are aloft only there and their soaring heights exist only there.  For neither do the things of ontology exist.  Ontology is in that other.  

 

There are realists who ground ontology partly in matter and partly in mind.  For them there are two great first Things.  For these realists, the basic entities of ontology are as non-existent as they are for the materialists and the idealists.

 

For this realist, the basic entities of ontology, the great Circus of Being, all exist of themselves, in the fire of their own being, for themselves, for each other, in a magical maddening ordering. 

 

There is no great, indeterminate Material Thing that the appearing forms eerily rise up from.  There is no ineffable Mind that, in desire, hopelessly grasps at itself and gasps back at what it has done.  And I, in believing that, am said by the materialists and idealists and even cleft realists to be a nihilist.  They at least had a pseudo-creation of worlds; I have only fleeting appearances of nothing beyond.

 

To add to my troubles, there is no final resolution to the divisions within my would-be world.  I cannot get my lovely ontological contemplative things to live with me in this everyday world.  I am ultimately, I suppose, required to leave.  To have chosen to leave.  To submit to being taken beyond.  But there may be only madness waiting.  The lover that is there is wild.  Perhaps no more than the chasm between.   Erotic mistakes, dialectical dividings that are scant ground for a solid world.  He is firm in his insisting, and I am unable to say No.   Nor would I really want to.

 

 

 

2008  Berkley led us into anti-substantialism but only half way.  He successfully showed that there is no material thing that all the appearing things are held within.  He failed to show that mind as the holding pen is equally not there.  The phenomena presenting themselves to our gaze are each only of and from themselves.  Nor do we find these appearing things embedded in Time.  Nor Space.  Nor Language.  The thing is only itself.  Actuality and Potentiality, entities also existing, invade phenomena but leave us uncertain as to which.  Beauty and desire ooze about.  Divinity's command of absolute love imbues trembling.  The One and the Many expand and condense into a mathematics ever unable to hold itself and prove itself.  The Boy's attempts to grab this snake makes you know the uncrossable distance between you and the real things.  There is no substance we can become in order to embrace and possess these things. 

 

Without matter and without mind and with only phenomena coming undone into timeless ontological things nowhere in a space or Time, the world is as nothing maybe nothing.  This nihilism of striking presence is no more than the cross that the good bishop found hanging around his neck. 

 

 

 

2009  The metaphysics of the Within abounds.  The Forms of Being and the being of beings are said to be within that at the beginning of the world and in all and each of the beginnings within the world. The conditions that were necessary and sufficient for this and that contain this and that.  The seed contains the adult.  The adult contains the child.  The child contains the future of mankind.  The logic and the mathematics is ineluctable; his hair cannot be disentangled.  The Logos contained it all in its glance at nothing at all.

 

Surely from x, z followed, but in like immediacy also y and g and h and m and everything other thing that is.  There is no one thing necessary.  And if there are other things that follow in succession, then there are other chains of succession that follow from the first, even the same elements in different order, until there is no order, and succession and clear division between elements is lost and everything is contained in one big blob of indeterminacy.

 

The elements of a set are within the set.  The constituents of a fact are in that fact.  Order is in the chain.  x and y are within the diad of their difference.  Existence is away from existence within existence, or x is y. 

 

The Within is on the verge of destroying the world.  If no clear distinction is made between ontological things the structure collapses and neither Being nor the One are.  But perhaps that is the way things are supposed to be, this all being just within my supposing. 

 

I cling to order within Being as long as I can.  A clear and distinct difference.  Succumbing, at last, to his perfect Form, and my mind swoons. 

 

 

 

2010  The Within is an attempt to overcome the destructiveness of analysis.  After analysis is complete the analyzed is nowhere in sight.  It cannot be recovered from within analysis.  In the mind of God, this world is forgotten.  To stand between analysis and the everyday world is madness.  We are, of course, mad. 

 

That things fly apart in the disappearance of Being from beings and the Forms of all the beings, is no thought at all.  Thought being one, the many just as the many cannot be thought.  

 

All the many things are, not contained, but perhaps poetically, reflected in the oneness of thought and the All lures us into thinking that they are, in fact, contained there.  If containment is seen to be a nexus between the many things and the One container, then once again the unity is broken and that thought said is left unsaid. 

 

This is the limit of analysis, and from here the philosopher must project his spirit out while lying on his bed wondering how and to where.  The flesh intrudes into philosophy and its simplicity and oneness is broken.  The Absurdities come over the philosopher.

 

 

 

2011  That the universal grammar of language is contained within the structure of the brain, that the brain is contained within the simple conjunction of the genetic code and the space-time moment it is, in turn, within, that the meaning of my actions is contained in the twistings of my dreams, that I devolve into that is, at last, a thing with no meaning.  And meaning itself has no meaning.

 

All searchings for beginnings reveal no more than new roads over this pock and puck marked plain crisscrossing all the other roads found and they lead nowhere.  The journey, however, is luscious and the sideshows are full of exquisite romance.    

 

The Unity of the All cannot be maintained.  The All falls into nothing at all.  Nihilism is exuberant in its release.  Perhaps this is God, perhaps not.  It is most certainly the magic of sweet lips.  The fall is certain.

 

Language slipped by his lips so easily.  He really did speak the universals.  Everything about him was transferable to computer code.  Slipped into hyper-space and reassembled right in my hand.  The One inevitably comes back from its explodings.  It is the simple problem of the One and the many in the head of the tormented boy so close to the final answer.  Socrates talks on into the night.

 

 

 

2012  It is said by some that from out of the indeterminate, undifferenced, nondescript, perfectly symmetrical, there came this well-ordered world of everything that is or could be.  That this multifarious world is still shot through with that bland, wintery Nothing falling up into Order - from out of waiting comes this then that and then the explosion.  Then the waiting again.

 

It is highly doubtful that difference and order could come from sameness and disorder.  That something could come from nothing.  That the thrill could ever come from the bland.  Surely there is a difference and an order between these two, one of which is nothing at all.  Surely the Thrill of the falling between them is not just an appearing once again of the bland.  There is no such coming out, and to say that there is is to place the Nothing first and thus order it and destroy it.  There is the Nothing; there is something; there is their difference.  The unity of those is not to be had even in mystical silence.  Emptiness is not the all-mighty Creatrix.

 

My doubting is firm.  My disagreeing is caustic.  My stare is full of awareness.   

 

 

 

2013  Just as in physics potential energy is real, so in the phenomenal world the potential of something to be there is an existing thing.  Potential facts.  Facts with the entity Potentiality infused.  Or so comes to think the everyday mind slowly changing into the philosophical.  We are losing track of how to live outside abstract thought.  The world will soon disappear altogether. 

 

 

 

2014  Love is so out of favor today because it is so very metaphysical and neither scientific nor economic.  It is not a part of the balanced give and take of the business of need.  It is not something objective journalism can report on.  It is not efficient and amenable to corrective action.  It is a total mistake in itself.  I am of course speaking of falling in love, which is not a thing directed toward a person at all, but toward a sudden vision of the ground of Being.  I hasten to add that because the word love has been taken over by the therapists and transformed into its opposite.  The madness has been programmatically deleted.

 

What is the form of these opposites?  Metaphysical love is between the Absolute and maybe tomorrow.  It is between the full perfection of Being and nothing at all.  It is between God and the not-God.  It is a mobile with all the weights descendingly all on one side.  Metaphysical love is out of balance totally.  It is the deathly nothingness of Shakespeare before his beloved.    There is here no middle ground.  Scientific economic love, I would rather, along with Socrates, call it non-love, is the exchange of goods and services, so calculable, so much stumbling across your feet transactive dancing.  

 

 

 

2015  If God is the Ground of all things, even the evil and sinful and non-existent things, and He surely must be, then He feels my fleshy shame and my failure to understand and my inability to play cards well, being, at eternal times, the very substance of that.  I am free to go anywhere because every turn leads to God.  I am free to enter into the not-God because that too is God.  I am free in my constant erring to walk the broad plain of divine being.  The strait and narrow being the logic of the All. 

 

How can I deal with the shallowness of this God is Dead society where God and the not-God are so precisely delineated.  Surely the shallowness is God Himself. My shame and the Shame of God are so very much alike.  "If God, per impossibile, could be separated from Error, choose Error," he could as well have said.

 

Boys do jack off into the hand of God.  Or they are free to meet Him at the mall.  Or to spy Him naked in their heavy logic books.  Or to grow up and get married and settle down and wonder what the hell in going on.  God is everywhere. And your freedom in Unfreedom, to never get away from That, to have it both ways, is, I guess, something only a boy, by himself, under the sheets, could accept.

 

Mary's Fiat, that so unlutheran thing, is just the infinity of bondage.  Mathematical form comprises not only every possible form, but every impossible form.  Reality takes in unreality.  Number accounts well for the uncountable.  Error truly is. 

 

 

 

2016  The poetic beloved appears on stage and sings songs of loss.  That he is separated from us by that film of reality at the edge of the stage is the heart of his crying.  I drink him in. 

 

In my mind's eye there is stuck the mote of transcendence.  I know the presence of Presence too well.  Again it is here.  The eternal without let up.  I cannot back away.  I cannot find the separation.  The world is gone.

 

The Present Thing appeared once again in that thing present over there.  I saw it, I see it, I will see it.  Eternity gathers again.  The incarnated beginning of all things sits across from me at the table, looking for his fork.  I can be offended or I can fall into the despairing sweet love of disbelief.  Or I can simply once again fall in love with that Holy Thing, now admittedly just fumbling.  I will choose the latter one more time, my love being more ecstatic than liquor sweet.

 

I build ordered systems of ontology.  Even the unordered mess of the first things has its place.  I command it all.  I have succumb to no mistake.  The failures were planned.  The god returns.  Light is over-abundant.  

 

 

 

2017  This metaphysics of Presence is attacked all around by a wordy apophatic anti-metaphysics.  Absence swallows itself and we stand here holding the bag.  The dialectic swells marvelously and silver coins spurt out pornographically.  Dreams are cheap.  But why not?  The stand-ins stand in and stick out.  It's a touching all around.  His Presence cannot be denied, and, for sure, mere presence did come to nothing.

 

If the beings are present, then Being is Present and beings aren't.  It's either/or.  To get a world, Being must be forgotten.  At this carnival stand it's up to you, your choice – is it to be Being or beings? – place your coins into my hand and toss the ring.  You win!  The game is rigged.  You never really had a choice. 

 

There never was anything beyond Being.  But what about the Parousia?  He will come again.  He always does.  Only Being is beyond Being, but what's the point?  The wild boys need it bad.  It's a literary thing, I guess.                

 

 

 

2018  These writings are my speaking.  They not only refer to the things of Being and the world, they refer to the sound of my voice in that referring and to the feel of it in me.  You hear it with the sound of your voice and you feel it too, if you have waited for it and read it correctly.  Perhaps I should say, if you have been read into by it.

 

There was a time when to read was to read aloud and the presence of things was more with the reader.  Now that sentences are less substantial and only signs of the substantial or its absence, the mind of the reader feels little.  I'm not saying that one must read my sentences aloud, I am of my time, but the muscles of the face and neck must be close to movement and the sound must be virtually heard.  The body must somehow rise and fall along with the spirit, the spirit with the body.  Until the Rising and the Falling ingest you.  

 

I have eaten these sentences and they move in and out of me and I lie awake with that.  It's a furtive referring.  Proliferating.  A few self-pullulating peals.  Philosophy praying.   The sentence length is a serpent in me, and the sudden reversal.  I speak the sentence as I write it out.  

 

 

 

2019  Philosophers and physicists fight over just who should be doing cosmology.  Each acts somewhat like the other in the act.  The cosmos as a physical structure is that one thing.  The cosmos as independent exemplifications of universals is many.  Where does the unity lie?  For the philosopher is lies in the Eternal Form of the One.  For the physicist it is the Ether, the dizzying Breath of God, which today I think is called the Vacuum, the Nothing that generates complementary particles, the stage on which all this takes place.

 

Is the cosmos one thing or is it many?  It is the unthinkable Many. 

 

 

 

2020  Apparently for the Greeks geometry was the visible form of space.  That is not so different from the Field that is the stuff of the physical universe.  The visible form was also the thing touched in one's movement through it.  It was a fullness.  This is all so very much like the feel of the continuum of spacetime.  There is no room for the absent.  The vacuum is the Plenum.  Zero is a complete number.  As is the infinitesimal, dividing the parts from the unparted.  Being has taken over any possibility of non-being.  Even the impossible can be counted in.  My hand slides along and my arm easily goes around the waist of this god.         

 

The thickness of Being fills up the lover of the uncovered.  Sententia cover the ex-posed with minutia abounding.  The mind darts.  Standing waves shiver the body.  Aner dances.

 

The necessities that make up logic are incarnate before your eyes.  Your hand glides over its perfection.  Its fragrance fills your head.  The sound waves quiver into tiny arrows of breath.  The beauty mark is the one thing.  All the connectives become the rising and falling of breathless love.  And love's constrictions squeeze out the final drops. 

 

The Full Form of Greek uncoverings brought geometry into bloom.  Love is a wild wild Rose incommensurable in it continuing.  The fields are replete.  The dew on his cheek conceals worlds.

 

   

 

2021  It has been suggested that there is a difference between Being and Existence.  That Being belongs to the abstract Forms and existence belongs to concrete particulars in space and time.  Surely this is said by those who want to devalue the Forms to mere things, to secondary things, to the shadows of particulars.  In a fleeting mind that is itself a shadow of the material body, philosophy becomes nothing at all.  Being is nothing. 

 

It is true that if I think of Hamlet there is no one who is that in this world.  And if I imagine Hamlet that particular seems to vanish in the next instant of thought.  That there is something in this world that doesn't so vanish is, however, a matter of philosophical contention, and yet, it is agreed, there is somehow a difference between seeing the world and imagining it.  The world has a veiling distance separating it from the mind, the imagined thing is immediately there.

 

Nonetheless, when I contemplate Hamlet, which is a more appropriate thing to do with that fearful thing, I am not so much concerned with the particular in my imagination as I am with the Eternal Form that is there present.  I cannot describe it otherwise than in mystical words.  To use words that pretend it is something of the outer material world is to be untrue to that act, to that different kind of intuition.

 

The Eternal Form that is Hamlet is not a mere anything.  It is a strongly present thing.  Just as the particular in its emphatic Thatness is not a shadow of anything else.  These things exist.  If there is a lessening of intensity it is with the ordinary things of the world, but even the Ordinariness of that sometimes appears and the instant of contemplation sets in again. 

 

I have said that the world and the things of Being are separated by the Absolute of the absence of the one from the other.  The lover will not tolerate his own existence when he is in the presence of the beloved.  The world comes to nothing before God.  The one does not have a lesser or even a shadow existence then, he and his world simply aren't.

 

  

 

2022  Surely the things of this world continue through time, independent of mind.  No doubt they do; though that is a contingent fact, not a thing of necessity.  I suppose there could be, and there may be for us when we are gone from here, another world that flees from existence, dependent on the strong hand of awareness.  This is common knowledge, and yet upon philosophical examination affairs go awry, the world is easily lost and one begins to doubt such philosophy as suspect. 

 

I am a philosopher.  I suffer the difference between my ordinary life and that still form of Life that I have been given to witness.  I must say that it is all through me and I am, unlike the monophysite Christ, of two natures.  In time I am of a timeless thing, of which I cannot say I am not that. 

 

The fleetingness of time is perhaps a thing also of itself, self-identically non-self-identical.  The idea cannot be held.  It is either nothing or it is God.  That I and the things of the world go through that as through a tunnel or a dark forest or through the pupil of an evil eye, is philosophically forestalling.  I collapse.  Time and world are confusion to me.  I cling to some hope of an overcoming.

 

 

 

2023  I write about boys lovingly together.  It is a scene of safety and acceptance.  It is not real life.  It is the Transcendent Super-Real, a hair's distance from nothing at all.  I am not one who in his writings screams that the world should be like my dreams.  I do not wag my finger and my tongue at the injustice the oppressors have forced upon us.  I do not believe things could be different from what they are.  No one is to blame.  Maybe God is to blame.  The transcendent is ready to mind for those who reach for it.  Nothing has been lost. 

 

I write about boys lovingly together and I hover over the scene safe and accepted.  I become each and both and it is an easy becoming and I slip away to become another.  In the great unity everything is at love's command.  But some complain that it is only a dream.  Some are in love rather with the confusing complaint that is real life and the danger and the rejection.  Perhaps I am also that.

 

The Transcendent is not just a dream.  The pain of real life is not just dull pain, but it at times has the feel of being a holy thing itself.  I look across the anguished distance from here to There and I am crushed by the strong presence of the Real in my not having.  Surely the pain is that of possessing a thing too closely.  I do not have the safety of the veil and the otherness of the world out there.    The safety of the transcendent, it now is clear, is Safety, that violent dangerous spiritual thing.  My acceptance is that I have completely given up the last hope of existence for myself here.  There I am one of them, a stranger to me.  The transcendent is eternally still.  

 

 

 

2024  I have written the eternal into the everyday.  Perhaps I haven't.   I have known for a long time that that is the difficult thing.  I really should say that I have written the failure in trying to write the eternal into this world where we have things to do in the meanwhile.  As I young man, I knew both Kierkegaard and the early Wittgenstein.  Both clearly stated that this was something that cannot be done and they both demonstrated that fact by living the failure before our reading eyes.  I knew exactly what it was they were saying and I tried so many times to explain it to someone with whom I was in love and proved to myself that very failure again.  I learned repetition.

 

Every professional philosopher (and I include myself in that because I too would like to publish) wants to earn his money by successfully clearing some land for further construction. He really does want to be helpful.  And keep his job at the same time.  It's better if he stay away from the difficult matters and actually help built a house that will stand, a modest house, not a palace that gives way to the dream sands.

 

Nonetheless, I have not succeeded at being a modest professional helper of man, but merely one more tormented mystic trying to bring down heaven.  I really do bring down heaven, the eternal, into my words, but it is nothing but rupture and disruption.  The eternal is not what it was made out to be. 

 

 

 

2025  By the grace of God there is Salvation, the Resurrection, Bliss, the Perfect Knowing.  It is generally imagined that these things are gifts from the most Benevolent.  And it is generally imagined that these gifts are inwardly received and we become that.  We are safe, alive, happy, and knowing.  Grace is the unconditional giving that is from God.  In the end the important thing is the one receiving the gift and his state.  God gives, man enjoys the gift, and, in that moment of enjoyment, God is more or less forgotten; though, of course, we are eternally grateful and His humble servants and we will praise Him forever and on and on blah blah blah, the important thing being that we got it.  It's like the relation between a kid, his father and the new car he got from the father.  I don't know if the kid loves more his car or the newfound status he has among his friends.  The father has retired to his study and his newspaper. 

 

That picture, I hasten to say, will not stand, even if it is generally the way things are.  It isn't true religion.  God is not, cannot be, separated from the gifts, from the Grace, from the pleasure.  God Himself is the Salvation, the Resurrection, the Bliss, the Perfect Knowing.  God is also the kid loving his new car, He is the gathering of friends, and He is the glorious car that carries them all in their loving party.  In one glance, from out of the dark beauty of His eyes, all of that is seen and had and overcome in a burst of supreme enchantment.  The old man is gone.  

 

 

 

2026  There's no denying the fact that this philosophy and its abstracted logico-erotic things are far from family and business.  It is not a support for the social order.  It is not a concern for the world.  It is useless.  And yet it is a concern for the difference between the so very ordinary world and that Transcendent thing I attempt to write.  I do have a spy and a mischief-maker in the world, who is, it seems, or is said to be, from that other Place.  I do have an argumentative gadfly here corrupting the morals of the youth.  I do follow the beauties from here in a consuming unseemly passion well known to the world.  I too am worldly in my un- and anti-worldliness. 

 

Kim and Socrates and Rumi and Jesus and Whitman and Ginsberg and Soren K. and so many others are so loved by the world.  Even both the world and Nirvana denying Nagarjuna are clung to tenaciously by the world.  The world, it seems, is ready for the destruction of the world.  Let it come.  Or am I mistaken?

 

I grew up on the Iowa prairie with bookstores that offered little except the most sellable.  I easily found these world destroyers.  Didn't the buyers and sellers know what was in their hands?  Did distant experts trick them?  No, we all knew the real matters our eyes read.  We are all waiting for the strong prairie wind to carry us away.  Business and family are not what they seem.  The disgust with this place is rampant.  Tornadoes are hope and a promise of the End Time.   Everything is full of self-destruction.  The Violence will take heaven by force.  I am not mistaken.

 

 

 

2027  I am not a lover of the broken and the empty.  Cosmologically speaking, there is no cosmos.  Or rather, the number of cosmoi is uncountable; though, of course, the uncountable numbers and their uncountableness are there.  The break-up of Being is here complete.  The clear-foreheaded, light blue sky reels.  I wait for the lover not yet here. 

 

The cosmoi are the plethora of phenomenal fields.  Spaces and times are the quanticized remains.  There is no passing from one to one to one to one to ……. . Each is no doubt just the repetition of the other, there being no other.  A Cosmological Vortex.  " I saw the best minds of my generation …" 

 

I await the tight oneness of the Lover. 

 

I do not present for your inspection a unified ordered sequence of paragraphs building into a monograph.  This book is/are the remains of what was intended as, what should have been, a book.  The extreme divisions are, I suppose, necessary; though I myself have disappeared, it appears, along with the undivided.  I am no lover of the broken and the empty.  Surely, He is close.

 

 

 

2028  I imagine those I would have as students sitting, listening, waiting for me to lead them to the heights.  I lead them instead into total confusion about the possibility of such a journey.  They quickly see that they never really did know what the Heights might be.  And that only those rejected by the Heights would ever undertake such an audacious affront. 

 

I imagine one student among them willing to go on.  He will listen to what I have to say; though, I know he will probably never feel capable of responding.  He will want to say that he has already been to the Heights many times and understands the journey perfectly well, and I would reply if he told me this, that I know and that I really have nothing new to tell him, but that I do have some interesting trivia with which he can entertain himself along the way.

 

The very idea of having students is ludicrous.  I could perhaps evoke in them some intuition of the End; but one who knew nothing, but who had beauty, could evoke that better by seeming to offer himself as one who might be a student of my would-be student who would then learn the difficulty of being the leader on this journey.

 

The Heights are the depths of despair over ever speaking such a thing.  The Aporia of reasoned presentation.  That that escapes every horizon.  The first stop and the last on the journey that never really gets underway.  The philosophical intuition of the stopped and the still and the unspeakably totally free. 

 

I lead my listeners into failure.  Then the real freedom to enter.  Thus this is an orgiastic philosophy.  The Orgy, the death, then the resurrection Surge driving from within.  He dared to take what he wanted.

 

 

 

2029  The Ineffable, the Highest, descending, finally appears as the Boy.  The Real, the Striking, becomes that.  The One, the Inward Turning, is his.  Or perhaps he is higher than every category a Neo-Platonist could imagine and The Boy is the god of it all.  We always arrive at last at the Incorrigible, the Unreachable, the Too Close.  Order gives way.  Nothing is really given.  But He will not leave.  Desire will not cease.  Love will not fail to arise in the chest and the groin.  The Unlimited is too easily embraced.

 

It is in that infinitesimal instant of blanking out in love's orgasm that beyond Being is attained and then the repetition sets in.  The Meanwhile is endured and the wait for new worlds.  Glory has a steel black sheen to it. 

 

Why is that nothingness of the blanking out so attractive?  In it, with it, because of it, the real is there, and then there never was a blanking out.  There, of course, is no preposition that connects the real to that.  I merely write to bide my time.

 

In time I sit, or lie on my bed, and wait and stare and wonder about that no time of no time.  The orgasm came and went and will come again and again.  God is in it.  From out of it, I, as God, pull myself into existence.  The old philosophers knew of it; they thought about little else.  I know they often stared at their students knowingly.  Logically they tried so hard to be hard.  They did marvelously succeed and their rock hard place in history is an anchor.  Still, the Instant and a rock hard anchor are not always compatible.  The philosophy self-destructs.  And I just have thin cool air above me.    

 

Today those old Platonic Systems are seldom looked at.  Nonetheless, I have written nothing but that.  This really is Platonism.  I most certainly do not write poetry or psychology.  I move about in the stuffy musky air of languid rooms and erect standings. 

 

 

 

2030  This is an anti-substantialism, I think.  It is very difficult to think anti-substantially, and substance always creeps back in.  I want to say that there is no material substrate that geometrical forms inform.  There is no mind that mental things are in.  Nor is Time the substance of the world.  Die Zeit ist nicht das Sein des Geistes.

 

We all tend to think that things are somewhere; in God, in Being, in the One, in something.  Held by, resting on, moving within, emerging from out of.   Embraced, stilled by a lovely sexual weight.  Stilled by the thickness of Eternity.  Substance is presence.  Substance is comforting; so why would I want to be an anti-substantialist?        

 

I want my freedom.  I want to dance with a lover who can dance.  Weight too fast becomes dead weight.  And yet, at night, in my bed, after dancing, I want that presence to creep back in beside me.  Even the instant of orgasmic so-gone is a That.  Perhaps my anti-substantialism is just a boy dancing around the hoary ancient one.  Without Him he is out of control and really nothing.  Alcibiades and Socrates.  Jesus and the Beyond Remembrance.  Movement and the heavy stillness. 

 

Still, I'm sure there is no such thing as the stuff that has the forms physicists want to give to it.  Nor is there a container mind that we are looking out into.  Nor is Time the ogre that eats everything.  There is the Lover, though, who is the piercing presence.  What to do!           

 

 

 

2031  The Great philosophical gods of Neo-Platonism and Gnosticism do have their lure even today when we are more concerned with logical form, semata and signs.  The mystical ascent comes to us now in stories of near death.  The soul hovers over the body, turns to go through a tunnel and moves on toward a point of light.  Blessedness fills the soul and one sees origins.  That is how we imagine visions of the emanating Aeons and Powers and Intelligences.  And finally the divine Gloom and the Ineffable.  Silence and the Beyond-Being. 

 

Spirits descend to animate the Cosmos.   Transcendent Light interferes with faces and speech.  One is impassive and passive to what is far.  One is caught up.  It's too much.  Bursting Love obliterates everything. 

 

I am lured toward all this, but I hesitate.  There is a difference between that and these philosophical writings.  The boy sits and stares at the Thrones and the Dominions and finally get up and does something else.  There's something in all that greatness or descriptions of greatness that soon wearies me.  Why?  We no longer dwell on the sublime Being and doings of majestic royal families.  I am more taken with Kim than with Hindu Gods.  The Logos is the boy jesus becoming the paradoxes of logic.  Love is the heat from seeing beneath his listless shirt.  Power is the glance of dark eyes. 

 

The boy is a definite object before me.  Hard, independent, knowing, demanding.  And yet he is also the eternal form of that.  He has always been.  Commanding the ineffable silence.  At the end of the tunnel I want him to be waiting.  And I want to be as wild as he.  I want to be in him.  I want to be him.  The Great Spirits will have to consent.         

 

 

 

2032  Philosophy and science can be a search for truth or they can be a method for salvation.  Perhaps they will find a truth that will save or they will save because it is error and confusion that have put us in danger.  There may be one thing that causes all our thinking and perceiving to fall into order.  That order may at last bring the Light of understanding. 

 

An ordered understanding brings the delight that signals the presence of the End to the search and the going beyond.  This is the happiness that is intellect.  To finally understand is joy.  Without the arriving at the sought-for end there is no blessedness.  Ignorance is not bliss. 

 

That one thing that is the missing piece in the attempt to understand is the saving thing.  That one thing brings unity to the pieces.  That unity is the unity and the being of each thinking mind.  Therefore a god who would save must be the god that is the joining god among gods, among men, between gods and men.  Between me and me.  It is self-identity.  And it is therefore a stretching out of things onto a system.  It is the non-self-identity of all things.  It is the killing cross and the dripping and breaking of eating and drinking.  The pure Sensum on the tongue.  The laying out audacious rape.  Have I made myself understood?

 

Understanding inevitably leads to the breaking of understanding in a perfecting of understanding.  An easy to understand paradox and the death of writing, except for the genius in a writing without art.  A god that quickly disappears and leaves the writer clinging eyes closed mouth closed to what was there a moment ago.  One must learn to also stare hard at the beloved after it is over.  Then is the time of the need for salvation.  To join the Heights with the common.

 

 

 

2033  It is easy and pleasant, at least for me, to imagine the Boy lounging about in the ancient schools.  Like Kim, he is subversive and not much concerned with the great common good.  He is from the Beyond; he is the Beyond.  He is the entanglement of argument.  He is the screw-up.  Did he or did he not seduce the great thinker himself?

 

That I sit to the side with that boy and I often go off with him.  That I am often morose because he abandons even me.  That I have not participated in the collective participation, leaves me free to participate in the Unparticipated Itself.  Screw-up.  This Boy will have none of it.  I must become him if I ever am to have him.  I must be that one and that place off to the side, unattended to.  The scholars paw at their God too much. 

 

This is the Herm.  I live on the boundaries.  I am erect.  I deal in things.  In the end, I am dealt.  The nexus is such a faint thing; it is the self of the world itself. 

 

The boy is alone; therefore, he is the gathering of his unheard-of friends.  A dirty street thing.  The flesh.  Pure Intellectual matter.  Distant from you and yours and with the others.  Chora.   

 

I imagine Plotinus walking by him as he sits on the stoop, unnoticed. 

 

 

 

2034  Just as the truth of a scientific formula is revealed, embodied in the beauty of its form, so the truth of a philosophical and theological statement lies in its luring rhythms.  A pulse is set up and the world gathers.  The idea builds in the ever returning.  The seam is ready to burst.  The turning comes and the spirit pours out. 

 

I spy one ahead and I am enchanted.  That that has been in my mind's thoughts for so long longs to get out.  That one receives the intellectual seed so easily.  The thought is born.  The boy has given birth to my pregnant spirit.  Such is the life of the intellect.  Such is our abstract religion.  The refined refinements come off.  The light lights up.  I am nowhere. 

 

The things of Being are few.  The repetition repeats.  The same is here again.  The one beloved of poetry is present.  The heavy eyes look down one more time.  The same one time.  I am numb, as is the one under my caressing hand.  Things fill up.  Creases develop.  I begin to graph the chora over him.  It ends in a flash.  The distance, when it appeared, was so thick.  Separation was just my sliding away.  The world is so easily created.  It is right there.  Then sleep.    

 

It's a fact.  He really was there and it really did happen.  I held it all in one thought.  And now I try to keep apart the fact and the act of the thought.  Surely he is not my thinking about him.  Surely the distance I felt and crossed was not just the crossing that I then was.  The length of his body.  The full laid-outness of his leg.  The moving kiss.  It is true, did all enter into my mind as easily as my eye into the glistening on his teeth.  But a lover who is not an otherness against me is no lover.  The separation of Being must be guarded against the consuming unity of mind. 

 

 

 

2035  Physicists worry about how the world we see could have arisen out of the primordial nothing-at-all.  But it didn't.  There is no cause and effect nexus between the physical world and the phenomenal.  That the siren I hear is getting louder is a fact and it is actual is just that, nothing more.  Moreover, that there may be other apparent facts if I measure and record the sound of that siren with technical instruments is unimportant and irrelevant.  Facts are ontologically separate from one another. 

 

The physical world outside my view is many and varied.  It too consists of facts.  No fact arises out of another fact.  The ontological question is whether fact arises out of its simpler parts.  In acknowledged ontological consternation I will say that it doesn't.  Does the fact that this is red arise out of this and is and red?  No.  And no amount of tinkering with self-connecting connectors can bring it about and that brings ontology almost to despair.  Just as for the fatigued mathematician the continuum cannot be made from an infinite infinity of points.  The complex does not arise out of the simples.  Nor do sensa arise out of zillions of electrical firings of quanta.  There is no procession; there is no arising. 

 

Facts are ordered.  Order itself is, however, too much for me.  That one thing follows on another, that this is first and that is second, that the lesser clings onto the greater, that He is the absoluteness of Being and I am the absoluteness of non-being outside of even myself; these things baffle the clear harmonies of thought.  I arise into a fullness; the other appears from out of the intensity within me as I turn to see; and I fall back.  I am the rising and falling.  The other is arisen from me and then is separate.  Only if there is a separation between the arisen and the rising thing, between the words I raise up to release and me, between the thought and the pressed out, only if … but how could there be such a breaking off?  Surely they were two to begin with and the separation was always there.  The ordering was always there.  Two cannot come from one.  Both one and the two are primeval.  And the ordering.   That greater unity in the One is unthinkable and it is not of existence.  It is the blanking out of orgasm.         

 

 

 

2036  The bare particular is without time.  It just is.  We cannot say it is now or then and not then or now; it doesn't arise or cease; it is timelessly itself.  Nor is it necessarily connected to any Form; of itself it is unconnected.  The fact that it is my hand or that it is the moon or the words he mumbles or a boy's shadow is irrelevant to it.  It is none of these in itself and any connection it has to another thing is yet another thing.  Bare particulars are separate from facts are separate from Form separate from nexus itself neither an itself nor a bare anything at all.  Separateness, even the separateness of uniting, is a mind-obliterating god.

 

I have no time in which to describe him further.  I and you must get on with other things.  But that is always our problem when dealing with each other.  I know you are in timelessness and you have no time for me, and it is probably true that if I tried to find time for you I would never find enough, you are so vast, but we are able to forget all that for the time being.  And slip into the sheer poetry of our language. 

 

It seems that every time I set out to catch a moment in which I can speak about the timeless and the mind-obliterating and I let loose my net of words, I capture only the net in my net. 

 

So let us speak of that bare particular I previously spoke of, the very same one.  I have often been upset that in our logical symbols when we say F(a) and G(a) we automatically know or think we know what it is for one symbol to be repeated as one thing in two facts, thinking we know the meaning of being in.  Even when we say that a is identical with a we know or think we know but on examination we don't.  I suppose only a philosopher would be upset by such matters, or non-matters.  Moreover, be in love with such an ontologically lovely thing turning and walking away.

 

This bare particular one apparently cannot be captured.  Not in any fact, not in any net of words.  It escapes and sees himself reflected in a whole world of facts.  Which brings me back to the historically difficult word.  The doubling of reflecting is not a real doubling nor a real reflecting, but almost, and may be the ground of such.  There is no nexus between thing and fact, notwithstanding the nexus of reflection.  So my ontology solicitates.  I beat my drum under a blanket.  

 

 

 

2037  I spend a morning reading and trying to write philosophy.  I eat something while I drink some coffee.  In the afternoon I take a nap.  I become painful dreams and I struggle to wake up.  The twisted impossibility of ontology is too much for me.  Just as falling in love one more time quickly reminds me of jealousy and abandonment and another horrible pain.  It's all one.  I really did succeed in writing that ontology and I did go clear through the affair.  The clear cut and the blood. 

 

There are those who like to see themselves working in mines absurdly named cognitive analysis.  They deal in dreams or embodiments.  These are abstractions reduced to neural swaths.  Number for them is the feel of piling up one's things in a corner.  Negation is the pain of need.  Conjunction is the sensitive touch.  Or so these timeless abstractions might be in an everyday swoon.  I too dream, but I respect the reality of my dreams and I do not deny their being of something that exists.  These analysts do not know how to speak about these concrete bodies except in the most abstruse scholarly abstractions.  Philosophy too must be embodied, I insist, and its language must flow lusciously or sparingly, enlivened or morbidly, clearly or sullied as the god's body supplies.  When these analysts discover gods in their own writings they may begin to believe. 

 

Overseas, when I teach English syntax, I warn my students about the coming dreams and I teach them to deal with these importunate dealings.  If they go to their own religion they will find the same syntactical turnings and dream-gods.  Soothing prayers can be found.  These are real things and they should not listen to the psychologists whose only job is to try to suffocate these spirits out of existence with verbose dissertations.         

 

 

 

2038  In the East I do seem to hear the clamor of heaven more clearly around me.  Could it be more than just the press of temple gods into the throngs of people?  Could it be the beauties of youth everywhere demanding?  It could be.  It is.  It is more.  It is life itself in the rhythms of coming and going.  The boy doesn't move gracefully, but Grace moves the boy.  The Repetition is in the movement.  The Movement is eternally just that.  The Boy is their Lord.  Heaven crowds in around.

 

These words read by you so far from there in the quiet of your place contain that.  They too move and repeat and gracefully mean just him.  I speak the word Clamor and it is with you.  Timeless and placeless of itself it is in you as the somewhere of where you are. 

 

There, I forget the crowd, and in my own words I magically bring that into the circle of my thought.  The crowd transfigures into the Crowd and I walk about still as I sit and think.  The world is a weak image of my vision of That.  In the signs of words he lies and waits and thinks with me.  A mere turning of the wrist, he brings it on and he brings me on to the streets of a city, formed of distance, calling.

 

This is the meaning of class, that ontologically difficult thing.  A class of boys is certainly a clamoring and a calling and clear-eyed clairvoyance.  In the boy's hand the things of the world gather and lie in his hauling them around and around and around.  This world is surely just a temple to him.  He is the dawn.  He is the dusky down of nightfall.  I am drawn.  I am in the curves and lines of his pencil.  

 

      

 

2039

 

  1. The fact - this is blue.  Bl(a)
  2. The perfect particular thisblue.  bl1
  3. An object which we describe as a particular that is blue.  X
  4. The thought that this is blue.  [Bl(a)]
  5. The collection {this, blue, the nexus}.  {a, bl, ε}.

 

None of these can be reduced to any of the others.  The temptation the idealists accede to is to identify fact and thought.  Just as the analysts identify fact and the collection of pieces.  It seems to me that bl1 and X are nothing at all.  (Or are they Nothings-at-all?)  The problem, it seems, is with the existence of difference.  Thus there is another option.

 

6.  ε(a, bl) A Platonic Dyad that a is different from bl and that that difference is mediated by the nexus ε.  A Dyad cannot be reduced to its two elements by making difference internal to their natures.  We are still in the Problem of ontology.  The lovely incorrigible thing thrown at us. 

 

 

 

2040  The problem of Evil is something I would rather stay away from.  I imagine a child wanting to learn but denied that possibility by adults.  A soul deprived of the chance to fly is unbearably sad.  And I am intolerably sad thinking about it. 

 

I usually think of God as the cause of all things, even the non-being of non-beings.  Of sin.  Of evil.  Of pain in the soul.  It's a wild idea to think like that, but it seems true to me.  I have known all these things in my own life, as I am sure everyone else has; God pervades every spiritual place within us.  He is the cause of it all.  I do not try to justify Him, nor protect Him from abuse.  God pervades every material place within us.  All privations are Him.  My heads spins.  This philosophy comes undone in centrifugal force.  This Fugue is without harmony.  It is messy. 

 

Usually in philosophy matter and privation and error are far from God.  That cannot be, and yet how can it not be?  God away from God.  God in Hell as the Hell He is in.  There is no other philosophy possible.  I see things and I don't see things from the unworldly light of Glory.

 

That Being withdraws and the boredom of the everyday sets in is also Being.  The dark night of the soul is also the soul.  It is God that viciously comes between the boy and learning.  Why can I not think that?  Do I worship a God against God?  If worship is to fall down in fear, then I worship it all.

 

Evil and the Fall are real and they too are God. 

 

 

 

2041  Because I had God as Lover I had no lover.  Because I was agitated into the heavenly school I found no place in an earthly school.  I have nothing to say to the world and yet I write page after page.  I have nothing to teach a student to say to the world, but I do sometimes try to give him the bare form of every saying.  I'm sure he wonders why.  I am here thinking about something I saw there.  A face, a body shape, a look of knowing.  Stark striking things, sometimes dark, always glistening.  Irresistible.  The possessor of Being.  Quantity dividing and uniting.  Distance.  The solo dancing that brings it all in.  In the end, the Destroyer.  My hope of pleasant release.  The Instant.        

 

I will teach this to old men who have lived all their lives barely alone in the oil dust of the desert city.  We are no more than beggars.  Ugly monsters following after a beauty.  A horrid sight.  We shall lie prostrate under his foot.  We shall break our ears in his roaring voice.  We shall be dripping with the moisture of his breath. 

 

Away from the earth there is nothing at all.  I have written adolescent stirrings.  Dream structures every boy knows lying covered alone.  He is unteachable.  A god cannot be taught.  The end comes slowly.  The instant is repeated incessantly.  The body twists and torques like space-time itself.  He is all strung out.  Dirty dusty oily sheets.  He is wet.  His foot is heavy.   

 

 

 

2042  Philosophy begins with a question to which there is no answer.  It is a forest one cannot get through.  It is a river that cannot be crossed.  It is a journey never to be completed.  It is the skin that one can caress but one cannot enter. 

 

Philosophy begins with a sudden ending.  It is aporetic.  Your fare is refunded.  The train stops.  And you find the doors are locked.  You can't get out.  Metaphors metaphors everywhere.  There is nothing at hand with which to grab reality.  You begin to insist.

 

The journeying goes on pointlessly.  You wait for a transcendental arrival.  You try to push an answer into place, to force a way through by bending intellectual space, to step into the same river twice, to eat the flesh.  The car rumbles on into the night.  And something has grabbed you.  You do not resist.

 

Philosophy, of course, can be done right nicely.  The trick, as in all art, is to let it easily be and not try and try to touch up its sudden perfection.  As after the peak of love one simply gets dressed and goes home.  It's amazing looking back thinking that it would never happen. 

 

 

 

2043  I have a gigantic sex drive, I'm totally taken by beauty, I know exactly what I want; I would never say that life is meaningless.  I am a reductionist to that.

 

Those who would say that erotic love is love of the self only don't know the power to the Other against the mind for such a victim of this god's glances.  These are not nighttime imaginings; they are of the most separate Forms ingressing.   This love lives in the midst of the most Real.  It is the non-lover who sees it all as mere illusion and delusion.  It is he who tries to change the world to psychological maneuverings of need.  The lover is not a wanderer in emptiness but is overfull with the flames of the spear of desire.  He is pervaded by a beauty not his own. 

 

The forms of my mental acts are informed by the Forms of his particularity.  My remembering him is my perceiving him when he is a parelthentic particular.  At times when he is a critical particular I am a doubting.  Later, he is a thaumatic particular and I wonder.  Or an elpistic or a melleisic or even a prosdocetic particular and I wait thinking that maybe now.  Or an epidocetic particular and I dream.  Or … ,and I work to make my thoughts match his Doric substance.  He is the form of my every thinking that he is this or he is that.  These fringes of mind are merely his bangs of hair reverberating in thought.  And then there is desire.

 

I desire that he is this and I desire that he has become that and my desire is his Himeratic This in me.  Oh, the wonders of aphaeretic and diseuretic thought. 

 

 

 

2044  The bloodless, fleshless abstractions of materialist techno-writings try to place the reader inside a weary transcendence.  Disinterested pure considerations.  The windy vacuum of the coinciding of opposites.  The economics of zero-sum.  Everyone is satisfied and at peace.  A dreary balance.  On the point of a vanishing bedpost.  Well, yes and no. 

 

How many opposing points of view can dance on the head of your needle? 

 

Surely the music will return soon.  An ordering otherness.  A striking uniqueness.  A face that will not disappear from memory.  A direct saying of this, not that.  An ass-ertion  (whatever that is).  A heavy presence.  A forceful returning.  A cut that really cuts.  A bloody husband. 

 

Logic and mathematics class in our schools should, I insist, be placed inside the music and dance departments, which should be lit up only by fires out on the open tumescent prairie.  A still rising and falling of the separated with itself.  Recursions and embeddings in the leaves of grass.    

 

The highly sensual-eyes-d formal-eyes-d rituals of blood-lettings substantiated and transubstantiated so minutely kissed onto the corner of the mouth "He won't let go."  Being is not non-being. 

 

 

 

2045  The vision of the realist is surprising.  Perhaps it was not always so, but to the mind believing that it believes in today's science it is quite unbelievable.   I have no doubt that few of those who call themselves realists have let themselves look.  To most, realism means only that they reject the inevitable solipsism of idealism as absurd.

 

Across the river I see an old electric generating plant.  It is quite a gentle monster.   It is a bare particular exemplifying the Form of electric generating plant.  Such plants, of course, come in many shapes and sizes and moods.  They vary greatly.  Some we would argue about as to whether or not they really should be called electric generating plants.  And then there are pictures and imaginings of them.  The Form is indescribable as this or that.  Even that it is with matter.  The Form is, in fact, separate from each and every property the particular that exemplifies it might also have.  This plant has as a part of it one tall smoke stack, it is about eighty years old, it is on the Iowa river, and on and on.  Nonetheless, the fact that it is an electric generating plant is separate from the fact that it is by a river.  The Form is a simple thing without any properties of appearance, without parts.  That simple thing is with a bare particular and it is not located anywhere in space or time.   

 

I do believe that atoms and quanta and stringy fields exist, but I do not believe that that is what electric generating plants really are.  The phenomenal world does not reduce to that.  The scientific world and the phenomenal world are separate; they at times come ontologically close, though they are never identical.

 

How many realists or how many at all believe or can intellectually see, even as in a vision, such simple things?  How many can separate the Thing seen from the wild dream imaginings that accompany it in the mind's trying to think?

 

 

 

2046  I just tried to describe a realist's vision of an electric generating plant.  The heart of the description got messy.  Such an attempt always does.  And not just for me.  The same thing in scholarly journals achieves some sort of clarity by conceding to being painfully inadequate.  That is to say, by forgetting the vision and settling for the everyday.  Layered without being articulate.  Artful, but without a god's breath.  Almost giving in to the precision of abstractions.

 

I will, no doubt, try once again to speak this thing.  It isn't ineffable, just fantastic.  And the fantastic quickly becomes hacked.  Like a dream of love.

 

I'm sitting here in my messy room.  A bare particular with the Form (let me capitalize this to give myself some respectability) of a Philosopher's (not only more respectable but also romantic) Messy Room.  You may think of this as a physical room or the intellectual room of my thoughts.  You know instantly what I'm talking about, but the descriptive imagination is baffled by the possibilities.  That you know perfectly well what that Form is requires a serious ontological ground.  It is the Form.  That's all there is to philosophy.  Philosophical fingers wanting to touch up that sentence must be snapped back.

 

A lover sees his beloved suddenly coming.  He holds his breath.  That is philosophy. 

 

 

 

2047  Let me try to distinguish between a universal Form and a complex structure.  The first is named and the second is abbreviated.  The name of the Form of a satyr is Satyr. The abbreviation of the complex (M + O) is S.  M is an abbreviation for the set of all the properties of the satyr (m1 + m2 + m3 …..) and O is for the set of all operations of the satyr  (o1 + o2 + o3 ….. ) .  S = (m1 + m2 + m3 …..) +  (o1 + o2 + o3 ….. ).   We can even make S contain not only the temporal cross-section of now, but also all its temporal cross-sections.  Moreover, let's let O contain its propensities for change.  This complexity of a satyr is huge indeed.  The Form that is Satyr is one simple thing.  We humans could never be aware of the complex, except as an abbreviation.  We know the Form perfectly in a flash.  Knowing the Form is thus not the same as knowing the complex structure.  Knowledge of the Form gives me no information about that structure.  Some would say that knowledge of the Form alone is nothing at all.  Such is the lovely argument that is philosophy.

 

The Form is exemplified by particulars throughout all the worlds, real and imaginary.  The satyrs on Planet Pedron may be very different from here.  Nonetheless, satyrs are satyrs.  As for the satyrs here, does the complete complex structure S really exhaust what one of them is?  No.  When I look at a satyr I do not see that complex – I remind you of what I said only a few seconds ago.  I see that this is a satyr.  The form of my thought is 'this is a satyr'.  I am that thought; I exemplify it.  The thought mirrors or means or mauls the fact.  In symbols (which are abbreviations and St is an abbreviation for the name of the Form Satyr)  'St(a)' M  St(a).  That is Gustav Bergman.  However, my making the Form Satyr be a simple thing different from the complex structure is not something he would approve of, as far as I can figure out.  Does he or does he not say that the Form of Satyr, or even of Horse, exists?  He does admit to a long time perplexity about this, but I didn't understand is final answer.  He would ask me what the felt connection is between Form and complex.

 

So what do we know when we know the Form, not considering whether or not we also know something of the structure?  If I suddenly say "dirty socks" you understand perfectly.  Or "roadside fruit stands".  Or "lost worlds".  The intuition is there.  No doubt a fleeting vague image quickly forms, but that is something else. 

 

So what does the Form Dirty Sock do?  The only answer is that it makes this particular be a dirty sock. 

 

The Form exists and is instantly, timelessly, even eternally, known.  That is a marvelous vision that is at the far reaches of philosophy and is only for those for whom there are such visions – the philosophically mad.  I am that and that is why I can't write these chaste analyses well.           

 

 

 

2048  Philosophy, and also science, is the act of not taking things for granted.  Some things are so ever present that we never see them.  We throw a ball and it follows the curve of a perfect parabola and we never wonder why.  We have spoken of this and that and this and that and we have never wondered about the connector "and".  We have looked at this and that and countless things and never looked at our own looking and the countlessness of its repeating.  On and on.  Until we wake up.  Then we will either be amazed that these things really are there or that none of these things is really there at all.  That is to say, these somethings have become nothings. 

 

The all-pervasiveness of ontological things has become their total absence.  But like breathing we do sometimes take notice.  The thought of total absence makes us take notice of Being and its forms.  Could there really be a place and time when I never fell in love with any beloved, could the Beloved be totally missing from that place, could I ever just not know of such things?  I shudder.  That is the end of my being.  Abandonment here makes me aware.  Awareness of non-being is the sacred pain of having Being.  I cannot get away from Being.  Being is and non-being is not.  Could it be that in a world of all-pervasive love I would forget – Oh let me then be all the more denied it.  I shudder more. 

 

In this irrational world we ever build greater and greater systems of logic.  Building ever more pervasive logics we soon loose sight of just what logic is and it all seems so irrational.  Just as in these writings of logic and love they tangle.  Or come apart in the sudden jerking of the tango.  I deconstruct.  I don't want to know love only by knowing its opposite.  But if there is no God, I will have to settle for that.

 

I cannot get away from the Beloved and love.  And though I can prove to myself that I am that, I am other.  That the Beloved and love is that very otherness is the entanglement.  Distressing tresses.  I try to explain to the boy that I cannot get away from this painful Light of understanding and I fail to understand his response. 

 

I think I have been taken for granted by God.   

 

 

 

2049  In this philosophy, the particularity of the things of this world is grounded in the bare particulars, not in physical matter.  That star is that very one not because of the matter in it, but because of a just That.  Some find a That to be too great an abstraction, a thing without any substance, a pointer.  Yes, the English word is a pointer, but it points to a bare particular that is that.  Language fails because the word is a universal; nonetheless … .

 

If I think about a particular universal, say Star, the particularity of the Form is distinct from the bare particular that is connected to the Form by the nexus of exemplification.  That internal particular is also bare and the Form is just that Form.  Language doesn't here fail, but the imagination does, or rather it goes wild.

 

If I think of a particular fact – I can't think of a particular fact.  The particular in a fact particularized the Form, not the fact.  And yet … .

 

If I think of the particularity of God, the very ontological That itself, I am in the fire of philosophy.  Language becomes a true mythology, the Unhidden.        

 

 

2050 

 

The Form, when seen alone in philosophical intuition, is as nothing.  Viewed from every side, it is the same.  From any distance, after every transformation, the inside and outside are all the same.  Such perfect symmetry is totally invisible to the everyday imagining eye.  Nonetheless, if I speak any simple word, you instantly know its simple meaning, but only in overlooking it; though you can't now that I have called your attention to it and you fill up the emptiness by insisting that you could never say all there is to say about it.  You know it perfectly, as befits the perfectly simple.  Do you deny that you know such a thing?  Unqualifiedly, it is as nothing and such denial is as nothing.   

 

I spend my time writing long analyses like that instead of quietly contemplating.  I do know the simple things best out on the street in the commotion and the frustrations of boys.  The unruly, the disordered, the same and the same and the same, the vertiginous symmetry.  The burning bright.  A luring singularity. 

 

 

 

2051  Those who think numbers and all the things of mathematics are invented and not discovered do so, I think, because they imagine all existing things to be particulars somewhere and to believe in such fantastic airy things in their fine heaven is not even possible for children and the mad.  The retort that they are neither particulars nor at a place is, I suppose, impossible to imagine and imagination has replaced thinking for them. 

 

We hear so much about brain images that that is now thought.  A thought without sensual images is as nothing.  Thus, it seems to me, that it isn't numbers and mathematics that are invented but images of black symbols on virtual computer screens floating in the neurons.  It is the evanescent image of symbols superimposed on virtual piles of material objects onto the feel of the mouth speaking natural language words, counting.  It is all so kinesthetic, which is a scholarly word that gives a sacred aura and fragrance to it all.  So involutionary and evolutionary.  Even the smell of ancient carrion and game arcade boy smell.  Pheromones flash and that's that. 

 

Neither number nor thought is an image.  Numbers cannot be imagined; they can only be thought.    

 

 

 

2052  Physicists today are fond of speaking of the Nothing that is the origin of all the  universes.  The vacuum, the emptiness, the ether from beyond its intellectual grave.  This is all far from simple negation in logic.  It is rather the dissipation of all energy.  And since matter and energy are one, it is the absence of matter (or at least of any interesting matter).  And because energy, matter and spacetime are one (maybe), it is the end of that also (or it seems to be true everywhere we look).  And because …. the absolute end never comes and maybe that is even a greater nothingness and on and on and on.  Physics is stuck. It can't find the dark glory of that non-being beyond which there is no more non-being.   Maybe it should adopt Gnostic mythology.  Or Vedic.  Or even Pharaonic.  Which is to say that physicists may only find the true negation of every something when they are untrue to physics – Betrayal as the absence.  Or they bow down to the true god Plagiar, the lord of entangled nets within internets.  I suspect, however, that what is really going on here though is simple sexism.  It is an attempt to elevate the Womb where opposites come together and cancel each other out in a flash.     

 

Why doesn't physics go in the opposite direction and look for the primal Something?  For Entity.  For Being.  I think the problem is in the dominance of the idea of the Origin (aka. The Womb) and emergings or proceedings or recursive unfoldings or headings-out from it.  Perhaps we should reduce it all to Everything even including the everythingness of everything and all its separate and manifold parts.  But what the hell?  Where's the poetry in that kind of talk.  Physics knows the beauty of math, but not of its own speaking. 

 

 

 

2053  The modern world has become art and technique and that is everywhere the death of true religion.  The destruction, the hidden terror, the sudden beauty arrive late, the spoils are divided. 

 

Calm and cheerful analyses and delight, it is understood, must limit their time so the news of reality might once again intrude, and you will wonder why everyone can't just have pleasant times of artful conversation.

 

In the hind tailing off to Thailand I have seen nature idols of puny black blobs.  I have seen ugly seated night shivers.  I have seen pugged recliners.  I have seen little masses of madness.  I have seen sickness in the stomachs of boys drunken dancing.  Fire light movings.  Frightful attractions.  I have seen an area stretching out within the high philosophic God.  Severe. 

 

The Brahmans try their best to make sure everything is done properly and nothing is real; fortunately the boys come in and do it right and the super-real comes over them and they and the night vanish.             

 

The symphony had all their brochures glossy and clean, the flowers were arranged beautifully, the ushers moved efficiently, I listened learnedly, the young man next to me jacked-off under his coat and a holy smell settled around and we all left.  

 

I worry that this page be completed completely and that my sentences have no syntactical knot in them or misplaced relative pronouns.  I hope to be mistaken and fail.  I desperately lust.  I want that god of my sickness.  I want the holy.

 

 

 

2054  Scholars are the bookkeepers of the world.  To any spirit that insists it wants to fly they prove that it cannot be done.  They point to the facts of the balance sheet that show that your only true balance is a weighty thing.  One's needs come first and then a planning for future needs and anyway airplanes and space shuttles can take you where you want to go as long as someone is there to help you get off.  You have made such arrangements and provisions for the needs of your weighty flesh haven't you?  It is an extremely needful thing.  Are all the negative marks canceled out by a procured positive?  Have you thereby arrived at the virtual perfectly vacuous being?  Have you prepared to spread the sheet over you?

 

It isn't as easy as all that.  Scholars may be the comedians of the world, but they cannot be laughed off.   Flying really is proven impossible by the bookkeepers.  The spirit is body-bound.  The flesh gruels. Your white spreadsheet is ready. Logical analysis deadens only the dead. 

 

The perfect liberty of the high God must find concordance with reason.  Though I live for and with the unspeakable, I minutely obey the dictates of speakable speech to hear it.  Though I eventually find a logos beyond logic, I practice logic into its completed dialogic to get at it.  And though what I see be ever so much a private vision I must prove my vision with what we all can see.  Only then and there is reason laid aside for something other. 

 

Art must do likewise.  Only through the rule of art is art overcome.  Only through the perfect rule of dreaming is reality found.  Only analysis, at its end, breaks away from the broken up to find the one thing.  In the thin air of the art of art, of the dreaming of a dream, and of analysis analyzed, the great wide wings of philosophy unfurl and loft about.

 

Of course it can be done.  The books of the bookkeeper are themselves balanced on only the books of bookkeeping, a fine mobile suspended from skyhooks.  We are tied up only in a few spider filaments. Even the nexus of logic is as nothing.  The magic is splendid.  The concern is great. 

 

 

 

2055  Sin is failure.  It is not that one intentionally disobeys the law, but that one tries exceedingly hard and in the end sees inevitable disobedience.  Not because one willed it so, but because it was too much. 

 

The sin of reason is that at last one must speak that which is obviously wrong.  For the realist it is the sin of finding only the individual after so much talk about the universal.  It is ultimately admitting that the great important things are the creations of a confusion of words.  For the long-winded nominalist it is admitting that he can find no words to say just what concepts and universals and classes really are.  They are just there. 

 

And there is yet another kind of failure.  It is that of the realist, who in spite of his inevitable nominalism, clings ever more insistently to his realism.  He forces the principles of being into intellectual space.  He insists he sees what is before him.  It is that of the nominalist who will go all the way into extreme nihilism to avoid any hint of concept, thought or universal.  It is the unreasonableness of one's principles, of the still shining dogma, of truth.  It is that no one understood the terror of that.  It is that they only wanted to help relieve you of your philosophic burden to help you find gentler words to say almost the same thing.

 

Beware of those who want to water it down.  Of Kierkegaard's friends who learned how to turn wine into water, who used water to put out the fire of the wine.  Beware of the comforters of Job who insisted that God does not dispense undeserved punishment.  Of the preachers who would make Jesus say not that we should hate mother and father and brother and sister but rather love them in order to get into the kingdom of heaven.  Of philosophers who uphold the everyday against the metaphysical.  Our failure in all these matters is sure and our understanding is doomed.  But the Beloved is ever there in Glory.  And our trembling is holy. 

 

 

 

2056  I'm not saying that Platonic love is harmless.  It is sublime and therefore world-destroying.  It is Christian.  It is the end of time.  It is the hatred of the world.  It is all that a flagellant would want.  It is to be rejected as is the divine infinite vortex.  It is outmoded neo-Platonism.  It is the merely historical Pythagoreanism.  It is unholy idolatry.  Craven cravings.  It is false.

 

Well, what can I say?  Slimy old men who think they are the metaphysical elite.  A not-so-grand delusion and on and on with the hyperbole of decadence into the dark brilliance of a true existential Nausea.  I too can do the Negation.  I too can write the dark night of the soul ever forgetful of the arriving dawn.  In fact, I can live it.  I am that. 

 

Is the Platonic lover not worse than the Platonic non-lover.  Both Christian and Sufi saints say he is.  And that both ironically elevate him is grotesque.  Such is life.  Such is our culture.  Literature is ultimately that.

 

Somewhere in all that there is the Platonic and neo-Platonic doctrine of positive and negative matter.  If we can just keep the scholars away maybe we can make our acquaintance with it.  Maybe they are the very stuff itself.  Platonic love is not nearly so harmful as they.  I know first hand from my being that also. 

 

Platonic love is a blessing; that is to say, it is a bloody thing.  Blessè.  The Harm and a harried plundering.

 

 

 

2057  Just as the beauty of snowflakes builds around a tiny speck of duct, so all of the magnificent forms of this worldly reality lie about a wrinkled little nugget of truth.  The Truth of the thing in Being is far different from the material truth.  If it is the priesthood of our historians to search out for us the material truth of things as the reality of things, then we are in this small eternity doomed to seeing only our thinghood insignificance.

 

It is true, in its nugatory truth, that David was surely no more that a minor prince, if that, who rode off on a little laughable horse to kill someone who was no more than he.  The Truth of the Songs of David, however, is Celestial Fire.  Who is the real David – the material nobody or the one of whom the incarnate God called Himself the Son?  If we make the division, as we must, then the Truth is that these two are absurdly put together.  And that is absurd or it is the very Absurdity of the Godhead.    It is comedy or it is theology.  Mere words or reality.

 

All through these writings I have attempted to unite the High with the lowly.  But that is nothing new.  It could be said that that is the way of all art and all thought.  It is clearly all through the Christian religion.  And it has been always questionable, even damnable. 

 

When I visit the East I am told stories of their great religious and political heroes.  Of poets and philosophers.  And I know in my perhaps crooked Western knowing that none of it was as they say.  I know the true material miserableness of it all.  I know that they dream.  I know that I would also like to dream.  But I know that in my philosophy of realism I search and claim to have found or been given the Great Truth greater than that of heroes.  These wretched ones I sit with and lie with really are gods, and that I don't speak with mere hyperbole.      

 

The crystals of ice swirl and blow into a fury and the mountainous drifts melt into a dirty sludge until the next mighty cloud formation appears in the West and the Majesty begins again and then the return of the filmy smudges and then the high updrafts lift and then descent and then and then again without end.  The presence and the absence cannot be denied.    

 

 

 

2058  Nietzsche's Platonic Creativity is higher than natural truth.  Into the non-existent godhead.  Negative matter forms the world, an evil place, full of dissimulating souls.  In his pure assertion it is made glorious.  He affirms life.  He is the creator of the world.  In an eternity ever returning.

 

Nietzsche, of course, did no such thing.  But in the great creativity of the spirit I see it shining in that place beyond the truth of existence and it is done. 

 

Nietzsche was a divine megalomaniac.  He was  Krsna divana.  Hackles rose up.

 

Our artists have been captured by the psychologists, the comedians.  Trying to please the public into buying their trashy gods they fall for theories of the pure child's imagination.  They become quack doctors of the spirit.  The reality beyond reality has been lost.  The body's infirmities have pitifully eaten it all.

 

Am I just another romantic trying to find the non-exiting exit?  It is necessary that I am.  The night of the soul must be perfectly dark in order for the perfect light to shine.  I will ride the Light itself out of here.  Clinging to his back of O Phos, I will instantly pass through all of time.  Even our science says it will be so. 

 

In the vortex of Yes and No, the straight line curves wildly.  Neitzsche's beloved science falls back into myth.  The Planes of Arjuna are scattered and the corpses never were.  The infinite faces of Krishna veer off.  Artists make lurid paintings of marketplace desires.  I write of Eros lying awake, scheming on doorsteps.

 

 

 

2059  In the great middle and neo-Platonic systems, abstract things loom large, exalted Spirits, high vaults, an almost tangible Light.  The mind of the earthly contemplative arrives, perhaps through the Meta-odos,  at the foot of the Beyond.  This always reminds me of what those with near-death experiences report, but it is more in that these are the structures and ligaments of thought and reality.  In these systems, the Forms are themselves visible.  Similarity and Dissimilarity, the Limited and the Unlimited, Motion and Rest, the Same and the Other.  The One.  The Beyond the One.  Being.  The Nexus of Participation.  Separation.  Matter and the Whirlpool of Descent.  These are majestic spiritual beings.  They are in ordered procession and emanation.  They are in self-being and other-being.  They arrive at themselves from themselves from the self of another.  Those reporting all this have conflicting reports either through ignorance or perhaps because the order there is conflict.  I cannot say. 

 

In our own time the existentialists have tried to make the logical negative be a great passion of the soul that rips the veil of Being.  And I have tried to make abstract sameness in the universal things be swirling eroticism.  The mind's vortex, the tornadic tail, whips and heaven oozes.  If this then that.  This then that.  The expanse was and remains inside the glistening point.  The spirit is thick.  Light crawls over my legs. 

 

After school let out in Rome and Athens and Alexandria and far away here on the banks of the prairie rivers, the boys went and have gone to their beds and their teachers imagined and have their naked bodies moving in merological dreams of emanation and self-begetting, of potency and the taken, in the fire and the moist twilight of sleep.  And it has all seemed so real. 

 

We are circling the Cataleptic Islands.  The edge of the world is near.  And the drop-off. 

 

 

 

2060

 

The form of the book is this –

 

______________________________ à \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ à   ||||||||||| 

 

In a book the entire length is present.  It is a great gathering.  The Whole dominates, the parts give way.  It is a community effort.  It is a social affair.  It is a family matter.  That is to say, in a paper book, it is like that.  In an electronic book it is different.  There, where there is no place or there  to be called such, files disappear or have already disappeared or were no more than merely anticipated.  In an e-book the parts stand out as all there is and each element shines forth as it is, uncrowded into meaninglessness by all the so-called others. 

 

In an e-book the spacing between is complete.  It is even more than that between two physically different books.  It is the spacing of non-existence.  It is even less than that, it is virtual non-existence.  The page and the files and the flickering quanta are so uncertain, more uncertain that your own understanding of such things. 

 

And the parts then stand out hard.  The gods are present.  Each a complete thing unto himself.  The world peels off and he is revealed.  The finest quantum fire.  Frothic.  Toxic and final.        

 

 

 

2061  The very idea of cataloguing the various philosophies, of precise distensions and their ramifications, of dividing spirit from spirit, follows upon the desire of the Church Councils to capture Truth.  Even in our universities and journal offices the voting continues.  The politics is mean.  The point is pointless.  The light is bright.  Too bright. 

 

Banishment is everywhere threatened.  New religions have to be established to accommodate the heavy pendulous compendiums.  Codpieces and binding sheaths! Weighty stuff.  And along come electronic folders folding it all up into the summer-eyes of sizzling vanishing diskettes.  He is zipped and unzipped.  So easily.  A distant speaking of routers and drunken servers, web masters and cropped pages.  The virtue of your fingertips.  Exile in a gamy ozone arcade – sheer heaven.  The new gods right there, tattooed on his shoulder.  Let the bans be given.  He's about to get married.  To a Dark Lover.  The old God takes his own. 

 

The necessary first thing is to get His attention.  Signal to the search engines that you are ready.  The trip is far and fast, but you are ready.  Broken up innumerably and reassembled. Crosses and slash marks.  Stabbings and insertions.  You're ready.  Shut down!

 

The councils call; you are their call-boy.  Pederastic priests had it all over you.  A formulaic eromenos.  Precision was yours.  Homoousias.  Homoousias.  Homoousias.  You were lathraios thrown into the Aleitheia.

 

 

 

2062  The bare particular is named by the English word That.  A naming is a pointing toward and it and the name itself are thus removed.  The Act of the word That is energetically moving in the direction of.  But what of the bare particular, two words that surely won't do as an entry way into That?  It seems that the thing itself is unspeakable.  Nonetheless, though I speak merely of it, the mind does grasp it in a grasping concept and the trap closes.  I do know the bare particular That. 

 

It exists.  And yet that it is not it.  My words stay at a remove and only achieve their end mediated by a hoped for nexus.  Nominalism threatens.  Pointers to pointers.  The address on the envelope finds no one there.  And the very locus of the There is yet another pointer and another energetic act that goes nowhere.  This reasoning is wrong.

 

I do name and know the particular.  Its bareness blazes.  Its presence is undeniable.  He will not be put off so easily. 

 

The difference between the word and the thing, I insist, is strong.  The intimacy is close and the mind reels, but the two remain two until the Silent Thing comes. 

 

 

 

2063  Others see reality as something other than what I have seen.  They have gods and goddesses that are mentioned nowhere in my philosophy.  Their eyes rest on other sights.  They fall into another's arms.  They await other arrivals.  So be it.  Their vision is as true as mine, and mine is absolutely true.

 

The idealist's vision of mere, personal, not-really-existent dream structures is false.  Even they say so.  But that's their wispy lovely goddess or god or  daimon or psychological episteme and So be it.  The idealists' non-existents exist and the paradox will have to stand or fall or just sit there, whatever paradoxes do. 

 

The realist's world, with its contradictory things, is not a world; it is a shaking of this mad, dark-eyed god's tresses of old.  Or so it is from where I have perched myself to spy on things.  I shiver.  I am the minute curlings of logic symbols.

 

That others see my system as anything but a system, except of the insane and the wished for, is their joy, not mine.  That they revel in non-existence and the sick, not the philosophically erotically mad, is their business and I cannot deal in their mercurial currency.  They are from a different part of the intellectual cosmos.  And though we drink tea together, there is the unspoken knowing that we'll all soon be out of here.  I will give them their skepticism and their hoped-for soft-breasted sleep.  Or I would if I had it to give.  I do not feel the cold wind approaching.

 

I'm afraid I have not been as kind and as generous to the others as I set out to be at the beginning of this page.  I will try again later.  The god I serve is a jealous god.

         

 

 

2064  My far off friend writes what he thinks is a Zen poem.  Many times he repeats that he's simply enjoying the things around him, the stone, the wind, and that there's no conceptual thinking going on in the words.  I believe him, of course I do, he knows what he's about.  And the poem is an enjoyable piece itself for me.  But I am disturbed by it, and I think, probably conceptually, that he is too. 

 

Why can't we think about being disturbed and about our concepts and about not enjoying any of that, or enjoying it, and still be attending to things as a non-conceptualizing Zen poet?  What's wrong with concepts?  There're there to be lived with as is all the world.  I would never say that, however, to a Zen poet, because he would go on and on about how that is just exactly what he was saying or going to say and it all comes to the same thing.  And I may then move from disturbance to anger.  Is there Zen anger?  No doubt there is and it's hopeless.  The problem, here in the West, and I suspect when the Eastern ones are talking to Western ones there, is that they talk too much and the suicidal conceptualizing never finds its throat.

 

I shouldn't talk.  I too talk on and on about that that is other than talk.  It's a boring constriction.  The trick, it seems to me, is to put some music and dancing in the words and be like rock and roll, which so excitingly says nothing at all.  Or the boa constrictor back down your throat. 

 

 

 

2065  Having given my work to a publisher to be scrutinized as a possibility, I thought to read it straight through fast as I thought they might do, if in fact they decided it was worthwhile to read it straight through fast, in spite of the fact that it probably wasn't.  I had never done that before.  Paragraph rapidly after paragraph, page hurriedly after page, thoughts minimally understood but understood well enough, feelings toppling over onto feelings, the impression only the impression noticed in business-like detail.  It was different. 

 

Then it struck me as much more human.  A longish recounting of a mind's thinking about thinking and its infusive desires.  And of an accommodating body.   Everything was so socially human, and I had set out to write a god's presence.  The god that came across was just of my own thinking and my thinking's turbidity.  It was a pleasant enough writing, with interesting long sentences, but it was so very human.

 

I didn't write these pages like that or to be read like that.  Each must have its own isolation.  I have not written a book, only separate, very separate pages.  I think the book as it appears on my website is better, because there you have to work and take time to get to the next page.  It isn't waiting just around the turn.  It, in fact, doesn't exist until it is clicked. 

 

It's somewhat strange I would say all that after having spoken so much about black ink on white paper.  Maybe they knew better than to read it fast.  It is, after all, orgiastic writing and fast sex is worthless.  Merely human sex is a waste of time.  The gods must be out and about. 

 

 

 

2066  There is of course a structure to the Idea I have tried to lay out in these writings.  It may be a transcendental structure and only somewhat expressible, and it may be many and contradictory, yet without that I am left with only the Silence. 

 

In my ontological imagination I see two that are one.  Each intimately tied to the one Form, tied to the same particularity, set together as one.    My seeing and the fact of that tight complex kiss and fall through each other and the whole of the lit up night begins. 

 

As you see the structure quickly becomes a wild thing.  The ordering I have attempted is threatened.  It was surely a temptation on me.  I insist I will not abandon it as mere human invention.  I am out on the real streets dealing in existence.

 

I write and I speak to myself and now to you. The words and the sentences flow.  The pauses and the stretches of not speaking speak the mute places of Being.  The flowing is the erotic. The arrow of the glance is the nexus of meaning.  I and you and these black signs on that building in hyperspace with its unfamiliar layout of appearing and disappearing surfaces, cheek against vision, lip on words, swelling thigh through abstract thought, the no-space that space is in.

 

What's the point?  It's all just adolescent poetry.  No more than youth itself soon gone.  Substancelessness.     The boy is constantly concerned about the Boy in him.  The particular and the universal at it.  I write what I am.  If it all comes back to me, then it is that.  I am the universal.  My particularity is just the ancient fleeting That.  There is no sense to any of it.

 

I walk into the Nagarjuna restaurant and I am waited on by flashes of insubstantial gods.  Their non-existent chariots wait outside for when they get off.  I watch. 

 

Structure exists, but its existence is separate and what's left?  Still I am not tempted into the lovely despair of poetry.  His erection is present.  I am a match.  The fire is lit.  

 

 

 

2067  Though divinity itself may be the very simple, the world is immensely complex.  That divinity maps onto that complexity and Complexity itself is a simple form from out of the Simple, is apparently a simplexity too much for all the words of man.  Language breaks down.  The world falls into God or God somehow falls into the world.  Anyway you cut it, it bleeds, the beautiful god bleeds to death. 

 

Magically I have reduced everything to the problem of the very complex.  I intend to speak about that for a very long time in variegated factitiousness.  I really should lay out a map for you to follow, or at least prefatory schemata as vague outlines in the dark of my labyrinthine mind.  Fortunately, though, the complexity of the complex is not so complex as all that and I can just speak it out straight away. Or at least I should be able to.  But I really can't.  The problem is just the problem.    

 

I sigh for simplicity; I believe in complexity.  The mole is sometimes seen in the wind-blown tresses. 

 

 

 

2068  It seems that I, after analysis is complete and the beautiful god has found only himself in the pieces, am left alone almost nothing.  But how can that slightest thing remain?  A deformed worthless thing is still there as something and as an irreducible thing it must therefore be no less than God Himself or there is a god beside god.  I am irreducible to anything of God or the worthless is itself also God.  After analysis is complete nothing at all remains.  And unless the substantial nothing is what I am and it is not God, I am less than nothing.  A Lesser Nothing trans-decending Nothing.  A worthless analysis, a failed philosophy, to be overlooked.   

 

Surely I must learn to see myself as also God or I am not a philosopher.  It is an audacious act, but it is also the stuff of ordinary bookstore mysticism.  I will cling to my failure and my deformity. And to escape the tragic and the poetic, I will be no less than complete Being.  I will be sexual; I will be the giver of the sexual cut.  I will be analysis. 

 

 

 

2069  That God can change the past is no more than His giving actuality to that factual chain rather than to this.  If actuality is, in fact, a thing given by God.   That God can create a past for this fact is simply a hooking up of nexus to nexus to nexus and the dialectic of fact and actuality begins again for us in our contemplation of Being and the temporal depths of Being.  I speak the words and they gently make sense.  I imagine an ontological scene and it is chaotic.  I am close to my bad dreams.

 

I speak my ideas to a boy.  The hook is in.  Hook with hook.  The doubling doubles.  Light from Light.  God from God.  Indwellings.  Time for an atemporal instant stops.

 

I despair that he doesn't understand.  Later I dialectically reverse it all.  That it is merely a verbal illusion gives way to reality.  I am redeemed.  That past is changed.  The imagined thing never was.  My thinking did reach its mark. 

 

 

 

2070  Christian theology versus simple faith in its Lord.  There seems to be no greater antagonism in the church.  Or between the good citizens of the church and those perverted thinkers now kicked out onto the hard streets.  Surely too much thought is a Faustian thing.  And only the love of a good woman can bring him back into the fold.  I am a theologian, the streets are fine, the boys are pretty, the dance of thought on this enchanted evening, the lights, the sighs, the approaching clamor, suffice.  It do see what I want.  The good citizens hire pedagogs to protect their sons.  Such distraction. 

 

I erect a system of thought and I work it and keep it up and the god sitting on top explodes.  It's a uranian thing.  The good citizens never did have much of a feeling for the orgasmic.  The settled is not the up transcendent.  I step off the languid wheel and I become my own rapid spinning, dying, in myself returning, in an instant, in and out of God.  I play myself the dialectic of the one and the many.  I and the Boy, three in one.  High Church stuff.  Cut off cloisters.  Fiery baptisms.

 

The monk sitting in his computer screen terrorist cell, complexities flitting so easily between his fingers, thought violence, worlds within world creation and destruction, just logic manipulation, casual explosions and then the infinite inevitable regressions.  The trick is to not let it fall into the ordinary and the sensible.  Life flees from death. 

 

 

 

2071  I grew up a small town Methodist.  I knew what that really was; I knew it was an absolute thing.  I knew what the spirit was that filled the lonely prairie stopping place. I knew of the Wesley baptism by fire.  I saw the Perfection of burnt away sin.  In the wind we were pure.  I accepted it. 

 

I didn't speak of it.  The first unspeakable.  The Platonic Forms are perfect.  It's a baptismal thing and a burning.  Sin and the imperfect never were.  I longed to speak of it to one other.  A forbidden speaking in a forbidden love.  The world transforms. 

 

I belonged to the protestants who had achieved the End.  I was in Parmenidean Being.  My unity with God was complete.  The kiss of Jesus was my own mouth.  I was inside the Body.  His skin was my skin.  I felt him.  He had become me.

 

This is all up in the universals.  There are here no lost particulars merely spoken of.  The lucidity is complete.  Ontological structures are known clear through.  You have always known them.  History leaves residue over which we can argue and conjecture, but Perfection only lays you down.  His face is only his face; there is nothing more.  His hard look away shifts you out of any world.  It's all way up in the universals.

 

Every night and morning I lay me down and the Method begins.  I know the End.  The perfection arrives soon.  The Fire moves out of me.  The god has created a world.  I speak, of course, only of pure forms.  Of the great Pure Forms.  This place gives way so easily.  The prairie burns. 

 

 

2072  When the philosopher approaches philosophy and then waits and speaks a quiet this and that and reaches hesitantly and philosophy offers itself, or seems to and then pulls back, and then after a few days it repeats until soon, surprisingly soon, the intimacy is present and philosophy shimmers and the philosopher must take what he wants through the trembling and the turbid not knowing and the later wondering, then it is quickly finished.

 

I cannot lie about in languorous languor.   I cannot wait.  For philosophy not to reach its conclusion is useless.  The mere tease must be brought to bear.  This bare particular must be overcome with the timeless universal.  He must glisten with my anointing.   He must find his perfection.  He must be perfected.  Philosophy is manhandled.

 

 

 

2073  When one argues philosophy in public, with the unassuming non-philosophers, and Philosophy himself comes to your speaking, the accusations start.  You spin.  You twist.  You invert.  Your destruction of art goes unappreciated.  Your landing on your feet in the Real is unapplauded. The Lure of your holy unspeaking lures no one.  Where are the labyrinthine travelers who can go with you?

 

You long for another who understands.  You long for a dance partner.  You long for one who assumes you really do love him.  Beautiful perversions. 

 

I went after forbidden things.  The usual tack of disinterest and the unstraightforward got me nothing, so I aimed directly at what I wanted and spoke directly of it.   My spinning was an unspinning, my twisting an untwisting, my inversion was a reversion to the uninverted, my perversion was only a perversion of the perverted.  I undid and I was undone and the upright appeared.  The accusations proved my point in a fallen world. 

 

 

 

2074  I belonged to that gang of young readers playing with the received intellectual forms.  I have written for them.  I have written their erotic puzzles nuzzling down into the other side.  I have, for them, engraved the engravement.  I cut around the nut.  I licked the ooze of thought.  I laid out the read thing for them.  We strode together.  Because of them.     

 

No one can say we were nice.  We are not nice now.  Knowing is what we are.  A knowing deep into knowing.  No English word on the ledge escaped us.  Each in himself become knowledge of the other.  Homologistics and paralogisms.   Or so it seemed.  The game quickly changed.  The puzzles were puzzling.  The muzzles were tightened.  He came in my hand. 

 

   

 

2075  The philosophy of love is from out of the Realm of Command.  The lover takes what he wants.  He wants the boy's beauty revealing the Boy's Beauty revealing the Taking.  The philosopher is at last taken aback. 

 

His commands are Re-Commanded.  The Militia have arrived.  The boundaries of Being must be crossed.  Trampled here; trembling There.  Take what you want.  Take it!           

 

I have said what must be said.  I have felt no fear, nor shown fear.  But I do fear God.  And within the world I must be prudent.  And cautious.

 

Speaking straight on about what I want, I am seen by the duplicitous as duplicitous.  The boy yields, the yielding is not believed and I am as though I never was.

 

I command heaven in my yielding to heaven.  God gives way to God.  The speaking speaks out into existence the existence that has always been.  I want and take myself.  I am the merest speaking of Be by God. 

 

The commanding is easy; the not commanding is difficult.  Love is the easiest thing; the pretence of not love is the most difficult.  Here I faint in this very difficult matter.  Why love withdraws is difficult to understand.

 

 

 

2076  It is neither money nor power that controls and is the meaning of great world events; it is Eros, romance, simple mad falling in love.  This is, of course, an unspeakable truth, spoken of to the exclusion of all else effusively by all for all of our history.  Love somehow is the All in All.  It remains unspeakable.  And jealousy is the terror we fear. 

 

Wars are, much more than anything else, the stand-off of one group of the beautiful young men against another.  Sparks and tracer bullets in the night.  Blood and the waiting shoulder.  The old men, thinking they guide the affair, don't.  The god of love fills the spaces and makes demands.  The whole affair was only him playing with himself, an eternal game, so appealing, against which you cannot appeal, as you are peeled off and he lies naked on the prickled ground covered with the faithful still now transcendent within him.  He's gone.   Nothing is ever lost. 

 

Love is a closed-mouth intricacy.  It is logic turning into gods.  It is the stuff of the Real.  Without the madness of this ever-changing myth there is no comprehension.  Without the slender waist there is nothing for you to grasp.  It is the falling sigh that your money and power attempted.  Finally it all mingles and you are free of it.  It is glistening before you.

 

 

 

2076  It is the mark of the material that it endures through time.  Tomorrow morning the same table will be by the window.  My box of books will wait for me downstairs.  That boy I knew years ago, though aged, will still be around somewhere.  That same scar will be on the side of my hand.  All of this is either reassuring or stuffy.  The non-material things I think about while I lie on my material bed, though real, are not in that aging time.  The mathematics I try to understand cannot be said to endure or perdure or in any way continue, but it always is.  The Beauty, the Face, the Movement, still and hardly of any seeming consequence in the world, cling tightly to my mind, and are never just that particular one remaining after the work is done. 

 

All these things come before the mind's eye.    The temporally enduring  and the non-temporal always there.  The feel of time and matter is different from the feel of untime and the immaterial.  One is heavy; the other is light.  One is worrisome; the other certain.  One pushes; the other the reason for the push. 

 

The material world appears immaterially non-temporally within my mind.  It hangs in Being.  Its thick presence is from out of the immaterial Thickness of Eternity.  I see time lying within untime.    

 

 

 

2076  This philosophy of the most abstract things, embedded in the most concrete movements of my own heart, will surely not please those wanting a depiction of a concrete scene with seemingly real persons involved in recognizable intricacies given by a vanished author become thoroughly abstract.

 

Philosophy, though, is always abstract, and the unspoken passion of the philosopher has always been there with it.  Whether he be the writer or the reader, the thinker thinks himself into constriction and release whenever he moves through the Idea.  There is no story to tell.  Philosophy is purely sexual.  It is a pure intuition.  It is a synthetic a priori affair.  It is Dionysian.  It is orgiastic.  It is damnation and salvation.  On the stratospheric clouds of fine transcendence.  No more than that.  

 

 

 

2077  My sentences are not directed outward but inward upon themselves.  The idea grows from out of itself into itself.  It remains with itself.  That you read it, that it is somehow a part of your own idea of life, within Being, Idea within Idea, pushing, contorting, expanding more, never was my intention – how could it have been; I never knew you.  The world is real outside of us; you never knew me.  There is, though, a lord that does know both of us intimately.  In him we may be his joy in a nighttime banquet.  We may be there with him even now, even unknown to us now.  The Ideas I write are not me.  Nor you.  Nor are we ourselves ourselves.  My words, my thoughts of myself, and you of you, are always other.  I write, of course, directing this not at you, but at the Idea working itself, waiting upon itself, coming to itself, over there, drinking into itself.

 

That I have here said almost nothing, that I have approached the Apophasis itself with it, that it was little more than just itself, has taken me, and now you, close to the most bare particular in itself, empty of any inward self.  A slightly musical thing.  Minimally holding the spirit up.  A gauze over the wound of love.  Abandoned.  Invaded.  Something dreadfully unfamiliar.  That.      

 

 

     

2078  The act of teaching is the violence of impregnation.  The man, taken by the boy's beauty, places within him the seed of his thoughts.  But first the game is cornered and captured. 

 

The education is from out of the safety of the family into the shadow of heaven.  Seduction and reduction to the primal things.  A bite on the neck. 

 

Every man was once the boy and was taken, and he was ever slightly aware that the Idea was swelling up within him.  Desire becomes subliminal.  Time passes into the passing of time.  No one is there, until he is there.  It is irrevocable.  The colt breaks out of its corral and things happen.  Things wrapped in their thinghood come loose.  Happily he rushes.  Which way will matters go?  It's an anxious time. 

 

We are, of course, talking of the spirit, here, and not of matter, there.  Words are the instrument.  And a touch.  Bodies tremble.  The spiritual thing goes in.  Matter breaks and the world waits.  Something will come of it.  For good or for evil.  Pray for the good.

 

 

 

2079  I write, as you know, using few compounded words, but rather the little articulating words; I break the dependent pieces into an independency; and I repeat.  I do it all for the sake of clarity and obscurity.  The dark spirit glistens.  I am after sleek movements and empty spaces. 

 

I am after the middle ground.  Consider the word "which".  It is a nonrestrictive relative link.  It should by rights be separated by a comma or should defer to "that".  Such rights, however, and such separation which I know well yield to my knowing and become essence not to be merely shoved aside; the comma vanishes.  The semicolon being more of an affront than a comma, but more obsequious than a period.

 

The great complexity of the world loosens up.  Into its atoms. 

 

Anyway, one does not fall in love with the whole, but with the pieces.  I forget the complete look of my Beloved, if I ever knew it, but I know so well the corner of his eye.  He has never held me envelopingly, but I am suspended by a touch.  I can't remember his complete name but I know and swoon at the first explosion of air in its pronunciation.  And depending on my mood I capitalize his pronominal traces or I curl up down inside its miniscule form.  The form of my writing is not for nothing.  It yields. 

 

 

 

2080  The boy is his visible form and the possibility of my moving around in it.  Thus he is without individual personality.  He is eternal geometry.  He is shuddering wave mechanics and a questionable explosive singularity.  He is a tightly held stillness.  His vectors finally add up to nothing.  He is the lightness of theorems being deduced.  He is nothing that you are not.  He is your double negative compression.  He is weight.  He is acceleration.  He is the final cut.  He lies within the covers.  I index him.  The mathesis is without remainder.  These forms could never not have been. 

 

And there is that fragrance that slowly quickly wafts its way up into the cavities of the bones in my mind.  The calcium, the chalk dust, the angelic musk.  I am peter, the petrified, the afraid.  If I do not move the pain will not come. 

 

That all the sensa are with the fine lines of the forms is too much for the clumsiness of our philosophical analysis.  That the boy finally has personality is irreconcilable with the timeless recursions.  That all the possibilities collapse to being just this one actuality.  That the boy should at long last be bare in his particularity before me.  That time gathers and is.  And that it all then gives way. Is outside our ken.  And this rendering is just soothing music for my pounding ears.      

 

 

 

2081  It is true that I drive philosophy into constrictions that are both baleful and dire.  What to do?  A choice is called for.  But I cannot choose.  Nor can I expect my reader.  It's a choice between one thing.  The strictures have come down to that.  The hand moves across my neck and I cannot move.  The numb erotic swelling sets in and now waits for its conclusion in immovable panic.  There's no way out but the way out.  The harm has been done, the two things have welded together, the trembling trembles uncontrollably.  And then it is finished.

 

I do so want to have order in my philosophy, but I must end up with only Order itself.  Such perfection, such finality, such a complete completion in depletion was inevitable given the nature of such a love.  Order gives way.  Any Order that Order might beget is unordered.  So the choice is between this one thing or the nothingness of this one thing.  I blow up.  But at least I do not fall into the siren call of impotence.  Philosophy has been performed.  The god is there.  I will seek out the next time of his coming. 

 

 

 

2082  If seems that the world, or rather it seems that physics is telling us that the world is really not a world but a superimposition of worlds each a slight, an ever so slight variation of the one onto which it has caressingly imposed itself.  In one world I impulsively took off my shirt, in another I waited.  There's no telling about an impulse, and an impulse is merely that – a thing from nowhere.  The blood rushes inwardly only to inward places.  I did what I wanted, but I wanted it all.  And so I was and I wasn't.  I who am caresses the I who am not.  I superimpose myself onto myself.  I seem to be able to know that thing or non-thing that is both.  Physics is telling me nothing new.  But I now have become a great serpent writhing in my understanding. 

 

I think of a friend who has died, or who has died in my world, also a real world.  It really does seem to me to be true that he lives in a world, perhaps just like this world and I am there and for him nothing has changed.  Thus I cannot get upset about his death that is merely here and not there.  And in that thought I am in neither world but in a sort of meta-world, stopped.  I have truly died.  And yet I sit here thinking and writing. 

 

I, who am a philosopher, live in both the world of worlds and in the universal forms of such a thing.  And it is not that I have died but that I or a part of me exists that never lived, though perplexingly I have no parts. 

 

Physics has never been good at explaining physics.  That physics is thought and may be wrong is a mere accident of this place.  We have all fallen into non-thinking thinking.  We shall develop a mathematics for that also.  These are the cracks through which the spirit seeps.  Or the seam that is sometimes unseemly and I ooze in semiosis.  What message have I for myself today?  Being is an impulsive aseity.  I have stuck my pencil into its assemblage.  I have taken its derivatives down into stillness.  He bangs and bangs and bangs and I cannot get at him. 

 

Physics has run out of experiments to perform and its mathematics has led it everywhere.  Now what?  That new boy in class has fallen asleep on his desk, but we will not arouse him.  He already is.

 

 

 

2083  When I read the modern writers, I find few or none who, it seems to me, would appreciate, agree with, or, and much less, like what I have written.  They are so worldly sad.  The blissful Eternal Forms are worse than nothing at all to them; they are disrespectful of the dead.  The God of magnificent things lies rotting in all their living rooms.  They speak quietly at the eternal Wake.  I do not attend. 

 

I have learned all this from Nietzsche.  He explained their actions to me.  He also made me see that I am not a true follower of his.  He too finds nothing worthwhile in my words (as far as I can tell).  Nonetheless, I have learned many other things from him.  And from Kierkegaard, who, I'm sure, would also quickly put my words aside.  Or so it all seems to me.  I really don't know if I hope I'm wrong or not.  These matters are very complicated.  I do know that we have no need, out on this empyrean plain, of psychologists.

 

I suppose it's all a matter of what you're in love with.  Or of what you're afraid you're in love with.  Or of what you'll let yourself be in love with.  No one wants to play the fool, but the real lover will consent to it.  It's impossible to be loved by society and be their fool.  The proponent of love will not be tolerated.  But the one who offends this high god will be tolerated even less by heaven.  Choose whom you will please.  The Wake, in its own way, is darkly magnificent.  Perhaps the gods of caverns and fissure fumes are present.

 

I accept the fact that there is a Battle going on.

 

Don't misunderstand me.  The modern world is not at war with love.  Speaking of love occupies all our time.  We accuse each other continually of lacking in love.  It is even the most sought after commodity in the market.  The reason I am not given my time on the writers' podium is that I am speaking of what is considered the most unloving thing – metaphysical, ontological Uranian Love - a bewilderment in anyone's estimation – an entrapment of boys.  Women will not tolerate such competition within the confines of what is by all accounts their territory.  Philosophical lovers must go and live in another world. 

 

There is one more reason I don't find a place here.  Writers write of the emptiness of love, its final calamity, and they write of the emptiness of writing.  No doubt, the moral to draw from that writing is that writing and its emptiness should be given up (for whose sake?).  I too write of the empty and the nothing.  Still, there's emptiness and then there's emptiness.  There is the emptiness that is filled up with a god.  And then there is that which isn't.   If the god is not allowed to come in because of her jealousy as an escape from her incessant mere need then he doesn't.  I have no such signs posted around. And he readily finds an open path to me.  The analysis is complicated and the accusations fly.               

 

 

 

2084  If x has the property of being just out of my sight and properties exist then what is the ontological place of my very sight in that property and is it really also a property of x?  In everyday talk, What is the relation between my sight and the property of being just out of my sight?  There is no relation.  There is no property of being just out of my or anyone's sight.  Such a complex thing is just that – a complex thing and it suffers the analysis of all complex things, which as you know is anything but a simple matter.

 

Such complex properties exist just as much as skewed noses and the waltz but in ontological magic they all disappear and only all those things from out of forever remain.  You know exactly what I mean even if you have no idea exactly what any of that means.  The spirit whispers itself right into you.  If you but let it.  On the other hand, the spirit never did matriculate and has no place in a proper university.  Nor do you then and there.

 

Thus we do understand what Russell meant by propositional  functions.   We can put parentheses around anything as well as anyone else.  It does seem that the mind has the power to combine and separate anything.  It doesn't – it sees what is already there.  I don't here and now create the world.  Being imposes itself gently onto the willing me. 

 

The property of being just out of my sight is ontologically tricky and like ontologically non-existent facts in a world made up of nothing but facts containing non-existent complex properties they put me somewhat in the same corral as the nominalists, but no.  I gambol at the thought of philosophy's teasing love affair with me.  It's not as it at first appears. ( Or is it? )  His things are everywhere just out of my sight.

 

 

 

2085  In school it was always impossible for me to write sensibly and academically about philosophical theses.  I doubt if Van Gough could have written sensibly and academically about sunflowers and the starry night.  I walked out into the evening woods and the ideas exploded out there in ontological wonder.  I had no distance; I was under them.  How others framed and explained the idea was of no interest to me.  Only the thing itself captured so tentatively in the hesitating words I muttered mattered.  I stumbled through final tests giddy. 

 

I would think about the ability of the intentional nexus to connect only one thing, if need be, because the object of thought didn't exist.  I wandered through the twilight light and through the idea and was left amazed, limpidly stunned.  But I know the idea well and clear through, and the words I used to speak it were no less than the lucid stammerings of the comprehending spirit.  I always nearly failed the test.  The teacher was never sure if it was he or I that was to blame for his not understanding just what I had managed to write down.  Philosophy is a mind mangling thing for those in love with it. 

 

I think about the rule or the canon that the naked particular exemplifies relations, but relations do not exemplify bare particulars.  I marvel at the ordering in this deepest place of Being.  I stare at Order and the Rule and my knowing them and the thought that is that knowing and I am that and I am done in.  There's no way calm speech can contain that and the fixedness of words is only a pillow under which to keep this unsettling philosophical dream.             

 

Present absences, actual possibilities, the formless form of error, that all of this is in a timeless Now, that analysis can never recover the world it destroyed, that with Existence and Difference we are at ontological rock bottom.  That consciousness is so very conscious of itself.  That the curve of his neck contained all of Being's Power.  That his smell could waft through my mind.  That I can group all these together and leave them for another time resting on my table is more than I can calmly live with. 

 

 

 

2086  So much of Eastern philosophy is a search for certainty.  For the pramana and the prameya.  Direct perception, constant association with no counter examples, deference to trusted authority, inference from out of good logic, a god's words – all employed in the search.  Paid in a currency struck in the heat of the spirit.  In the night the hard diamond head searches for rock bottom.  A great attempt to overcome illusion, the maya of an amorous god. 

 

Lovers always search for certainty.  It isn't there to be found.  Doubt is the stuff of love.  Giving up love is the only course down to the real.  Or so the pain and illusion of love would have you believe.  Paradox and backward turnings abound and bound and you are bound and it is bound to turn out bad.  Worthless mantras.  So much time wasted in mouthing words.  Down to his waist.  His rocks have bottomed out.

 

I am not one of those who moan and bemoan the fact that love is merely so-called and comes to nothing.  I knew love directly and it was real.  That is to say love exists in a timelessness.  But maybe timelessness is non-existent for you.  As you wish.  We do not all think alike.  I know love like-timeless-wise.  Surely the logic here is not too much for you and bespeaks of certainty – if indeed I did and do really know with knowing such things of which it is meaningless to speak of their time.  But can I be certain?  Only paradoxically, but paradox is from out of love and the argument ends.  His sugar bottom rocks.  I am doubled up in a certain Cartesian doubt.  And he sprouts an artesian well.  The shikshak has shacked up. 

 

Eastern philosophy tries to find certainty by abandoning love, and, of course, sex.   But then there are the boys.  Love and sex has come right inside the brahmanic fence.  The Flames flare up even after one wakes up.  The morning blazes.  A higher unity beyond the separation.  The saddhu is a boy again.  Boys need it bad.

 

  

 

2087  Ontological intuition is a tricky thing.  Such distinguishings and other separatings of the inseparables are the workings of violent spirits.  The attempt to see becomes a slaughter and an ingesting.  The many things abound.  Little, if anything, is left of the original object.  Otherworldly things come and take its place.  Surely a strenuous act of belief is required to continue.  But the continuing itself is transposed and becomes a still thing from out of no time.  And the self acting is no less than the eternal Self acting with the non-acting of what has always been.  The world is left behind.  There never really was a world. 

 

Ontology has been the only thing on your mind from this eternal beginning that is also just now beginning.  Your thought having dissolved into just the existing thought.  You knew it all along.  And you know that such eternity and such existing are real tricky notions.

 

Analytically professorial, to be eternal is to be merely unrelated by time relations to other things and such eternal things abound.  All universals and nexus are such unrelated things.  Only particulars are related by time relations to each other, which, of course, and also is not to say that these particulars are in or at moments, there being none.  No ontological thing is of itself temporal, not even the very time relations themselves.  Time, the very substance of our world, disappears and the professor finds himself analytically blowing in the mystical wind.

 

Classically professorial, to be eternal is to be more than a mere non-timed and non-temporally located entity.  Eternity is a high intellectual grandness.  Or so the mind surmises it must be as it falls helplessly into trying to think the merely analytical presentation.  Shouting, Real Existence.  A vertigo demanding belief, but giving a perfection of knowing to which we are woefully unaccustomed.    

 

 

 

2088  I do feel, though I don't know why I feel, that my words are not to be received easily or without hesitation by my readers.  Perhaps I have read too much Kierkegaard and, because I write the true faith, I expect them to be offended.  But what is that and by what?  I do know that the lover does not search for evidence and that I have given none.  I do know that the lover is not received easily nor without hesitation.  I fear being unloved by being loved.  So, I do know why after all.  Nor have I really hesitated. 

 

There is no choice.  That you love me has been fore-ordained.  Such love is, of course and of necessity, a divine unlove.  And I will be left here alone.  Soon He will come. 

 

 

 

2089  This is not mind fighting against the evils of matter.  There is no such other-sexuality present here.  This is not Being against non-being.  I do not engage in the politics of metaphysical control.  This is a philosophy without time, without emergings, without the birth pangs of creation.  No system of opposites arises out of the unstable passions of the void.  There is no airless vacuum suffocating the new.  The other is the same and with him there is here no need to prove a point.  The war is over.  The world never really was.  It is understood.       

 

Perhaps this is a form of nihilism, perhaps the complete parousia.  The middle ground could not be struck.  Each path led to somewhere else.  The final thing was just the final thing.  Anyway, I've never had a problem reaching the exquisite point.

 

 

 

2090  These writings are a completion of twentieth century ontological realism.  That is to say, they are a violation of almost every principle from which that philosophy hoped to proceed.  Nonetheless, the historical truth of realism is here, as it must be; nothing has been lost; the hope itself is not without force.    Universals, logical connectors, bare particulars, the tying nexus, ephemeral fact, all give way again to the Eternal Forms and the Logos, to the biting, baiting gods and to That.  The Cupbearer intoxicates with his beauty and Beauty itself is revealed.  Nothing has changed.  The dialectic will always turn your glance into other ways.  The mind analyzes itself vividly.  Being swells up and it is out there.   

 

 

 

2091  The mathematical glistens with existence.  It is a music that is everywhere present.  It performs the final counter-rolling of all things.  It cannot not be. 

 

I try to imagine a place without mathematical form.  I cannot.  But if there is such a place and it is within Being, it must be a secret leaking in of the godhead.  Only the super-formlessness of That or what would have been such.  It speaks itself too easily too fluidly.  The imagination slips.  I only know that I was thinking of something else, but what? 

 

In him I can see my own ideas grow large.  He speaks and moves and they slither down has arms, down his thighs, down into down.  The spirit entered him; another virgin conception, another virgin birth.  The forms ooze without breaking the puerile skin.  The unspeakable oozing, throughout, along, uneventful. 

 

Untouched, therefore not a contingent thing.  Therefore an eternal necessity.  There before anything else.

 

The presence of the mathematical is itself formless, shy, pure, and without recourse, of course.

 

Tiptoe out of here.  Turn off the music.  Go.

 

 

 

2092  There is of course no reason at all why anyone should have to do philosophy the way I do it.  No one does have to.  Except me.  And so expect me.  It's in me. 

 

He lay with me at night.  The spirit entered me.  Jesus going through walls unscathed.  Being is in the world and pour it out into these English sentences.  Into pure abstractions.  My caught-up breath.  His flashes along my skin.  No harm is being done to either you or me, read on.

 

The things of Being enter silently and make a world.  They are the entering and the entered and that that enters.  What's left?  Only Being is.  The world vanished long before it was.  I think you understand.  He's been doing this forever in his forever.  Die in his arms.  Destruction in the city.  The night glistens. 

 

The school's philosophy is so boring without him.  It's Plato without the boys.  It's Michelangelo fuori i nudi.  It's Shakespeare with real women playing the parts of women.  It's the classroom without the street lapping at its door.  I just couldn't take it any longer.  I learned philosophy in my dorm room, under the covers, dreaming.  Dreams which I took on long walks along the Volga.  I knew where the scholars all wanted to get back to. 

 

It read all those boring writings and I tried to write like that because I really did love something in there, but it was only an image of something out here.  Speculation must give way to the head on.  It was in me wanting out bad.  The times made the magic intellectualization necessary.  I caught him up. 

 

 

 

2093  In this philosophy, the relation and the nexus are external to that which they unite.  That a shirt over the back of a chair indicates to me that he is here is a fact in which the nexus of indication (or meaning or sign, call it what you will) is of neither the shirt being over the chair nor of him being here nor of me nor of them all together.  The nexus is between and outside the facts and things joined, which leaves the facts and things joined to be quietly just what they are and no more. 

 

A thing is what it is, a fact is what it is, each rests complete in itself; not one depends on the rest of the world for its being.  This independence is the great simplicity and beauty of Being.  Because of which I can walk away from everything I have ever written and lived. 

 

The relation of ownership is of neither me nor these words and the nexus of exemplification has only momentarily made these words mine and that fact, which I now see, is momentarily mine because of the nexus of seeing which I also now momentarily see – and it is all gone.  Without independence no new thing or fact could come to be, but everything else would be dragged along.  As it is, in the simplicity and independence of Being, when those other things are gone, they're gone.  A clean break. 

 

So now he's here, back again.  Oh well, one more time.  But wait – I remember now – he left last time without his shirt and so he's really not here at all.  Things remain just as they are.  That shirt is still over the back of the chair.            

 

 

 

2094  After all the analyses have been completed, after they have been folded up rounded off and placed on their proper pedestal to be admired, there's still something not quite right in the philosopher's world.  The great intertwining complexity, the cramped maze, the tight knot, the fitful acrobatic balance, the ballerina on one toe, his hair in your mouth, his mouth full of murmurings signifying nothing at all, all conspire inspiringly with that spire of yours waiting no more than the simplicity of sleep.

 

That we should be able to think these things.  That we know the difference between all the categories of Being, that they stand there beautifully naked for us to see in a brilliant seeing, itself seen.  The awareness of awareness.  The awareness that these are the final things, rock bottom, the heavenly heights, that thing in itself just as itself.  There's nothing left.  The heart breaks.  Such a great necessity of longing for longing.  He and he and he and he dissolve. 

 

Perhaps if this or that were changed just a little the spirit would emanate.  Just don't stop.  Keep going. 

 

 

 

2095  Time is a sheer bafflement for me.  That now is now and not then or never reverberates.  A lengthy rod of a sentence transverberating my fleshy mind.  Actuality comes to facts and departs leaving only possibility.  Or so it seems.  It all depends.  It's a now and then thing.  It makes no sense at all even if it is the easiest to think.  Time's encasement.  Time's supporting hand.  Awaiting time's release.  From time.  From time's too much.

 

And so I work my way around time.  I write and leave it.  Presence is presence and absence, though perfectly well thought out, is totally absent.  That this and that are identical and only one and therefore not a this and a that equally baffles, but it is somehow a friendly thought and not of time's Threat.  Will time give me time to think it through?  Will I be lost in sad nostalgia for what never could have been?  Will poetry be vanquished at last?  At the last of what?  There's no doubt about doubt.  I will work until it's time to leave time.  It's all the same. 

 

But he is something else.  That glance, lasting less than a moment, is the one eternal glance.  Eternity is within the briefest briefs.  Bereft, I continue.  One more time – the same one identical time again.  A sheer encaging bafflement.  And that rod. 

 

It seems the philosophical answer to time's engaging question is to go to the instant.  The Flash.  And then the lasting fading aura.  He is in his withdrawing.  And with my drawing the drawstring out and out and out. 

 

 

 

2096  To be present before the mind is to be.  I think the most abstract things of ontology, and, if I really do think them, they are there existing.  It is questionable, to some, whether or not I do think them, whether or not anything is present before my mind except wishful thinking.  I concede the questionableness, but argue that such questionableness is of those things as is the certainty of that.  They screw up their thousands of eyes at me and I just go on.

 

I do think ontology and I am not thinking just mind fumes.  I do also think the unthinkable and speak and write the ineffable and I insist on the necessity of certain non-existent things.  So what?  I know color separate from its existence.  I know that the very simplicity of color makes it a complexity.  And that complexity is a non-existent within complexities.  And that, color not as any particular color, is as colorless as my thought of it and that it is different from all colors because of difference itself seeping into the space between it and them where there is no space at all.  Poetry, sheer poetry, you say, the stuff of wishes and bad dreams later.  There's no thought there.  But of course there is and I go on.

 

With what do I think simple ontological things or what am I become when I am the thinking of such things?  I grasp at them and I am a grasping, concapiendum.  I grasp myself red handed and I am conceptus.    The nexus and the concept of the nexus, though intimate through another nexus or what would have been such if the intimacy were not quite so tight, are two and only in the dialectical considerations of number and its difference from the numbered are they not, but rather one, but again not so numerically.  If you get my gist.  If you can hear the tenor of my voice.  I have been taken by all this.  And taken up.

 

Nonetheless, there remains the eternal question of whether or not I have written any real philosophy or just my longing love for it.  But then that's what philosophy really is.  The lovers will have their say.

 

 

 

2097  High art is not hard-core adult anything.  It's questionable whether high art is for adults.  It's more likely that it's a pre-Adamic thing.  It's of the innocence that even our children have lost.  It's from before the law and our deadly, necessary knowledge of the law.  All hard-core things deal in the law and our ultimately being seen and then caught up by the law.  From the hard-core there is no escape.  It is something about which we must accept responsibility.  We are here born adults.  The high artist is despicable for not accepting his in-bred duty.  The high artist is no more that a freak.  Pre-Adamic-shmamic nonsense.  We must accept this hard-core reality, the only reality. 

 

There is no middle ground between here and There.  Here there is no There.  Those who really get it on know that literary hard core is laughable.  The artist will not get their money for a second look.  A philosophy of the world is less than childish; it is unmarketable.  I have been forced to remain pure.  The world is gone.   

 

 

 

2098  I didn't step out of ontology into boy love, but I brought love's things into ontology.  Love's trembling is the solicitation of Being.  The final and sure thing, so obliteratingly real, his sudden come on, you take as you took it straining through all the starry-eyed emanations right from the beginning.  You know the real and the necessary and the sticking out right there of Being as well as anyone and there's no way you're going to forget it.  Being is.  All seduction, all those times you were being so gently waylaid, brought you nowhere you hadn't already been.  You know the timelessness of things as well as anyone.  You'll be back.  And back.  And his back is so smooth and broad.

 

I do start off with a kind of academic distance and quiet, but then the clamorers arrive and I'm off.  It's criminal.  It's just criminal.  Are you coming along or not?  The night is on.  The flowers in this garden of Academus have become downright paradisiacal.  Cheeks aflame.  Being calls.  Love's table is set.  The beloved's blood is there for you to drink.  What's about to happen to you, Honey, is unspeakable.  Never will never be. 

 

 

 

2099  There are those, I suppose, who might or may write or who have written books on the twin topics of philosophy and homosexuality.  It seems to me that I in these pages haven't.  And I haven't paid much attention to those others, though I always remember Sartre's remark that the natural bent of the homosexual mind is toward a centripetal, Platonic essentialism.  Sartre knew little of the homosexual mind.  He could characterize it no better than any of the rest of us, and the rest of us, if we dare but look, are overwhelmed by the complexity of such an undertaking.  I am writing from out of that centripetal Platonic essentialism, but that is no more than to say that I am of the other great branch of the philosophical stream, the one Sartre refused to step into, much less wallow in.

 

Rather than homosexuality as my topic, I think I have merely hit upon the topos of the Platonic otherworld.  Which, for us, is now a great Christian idea.  I have both its dialectical nastiness and its wiltingness.  I am an Oxford and an Andalusian Don in bed with my dreams.  I tremble before the Duende.  Adonis has laid me out.  Modern day homosexuals find little here of value.  High flying abstractions are not in vogue.  Boys giving birth to intellectual patterns are nowhere in sight.  Socrates is biting only the air.  The sighing Uranian finds it all rather tedious.  I am writing the great difficulty of ontology.  That it becomes theology and a god is with me is of no concern to anyone here.

 

As in Islamic poetry the boy and his spinning lover are only idealized forms.  They are the dikr of paradise.  They evaporate in the dry desert air.  The earthly fleshly family is much too solid.  They are, though, somewhat akin to the frail beings of homosexual real life.  I don't know, perhaps I have written the topic of homosexuality in spite of the contrary insistence of homosexuals that I have merely imagined.  But Platonic paederastia is too hot to handle, and no one in the schools knows how or where to put it in the syllabus, even if it is at the center of the Great Works.

 

 

 

2100 

 

My understanding of Christianity is Pauline.  We cannot save ourselves from destruction.  No amount of following any law, no amount of being good is of any avail.  No amount of penance, no correctness of belief, no public confessing of one's faith in any god or God is the slightest bit adequate to the task of salvation.  There is no contract or covenant or deal one can make that is any more than fleeting breath.  There is nothing you can do to stop your final failure and oblivion.  It will be done to you if it is to be done. 

 

 The Christian religion states that because of the sacrifice of God to God your salvation will be accomplished.  Trust in God to have done it and don't despair.  Also, and this is so important, don't turn trust and not despairing into an act of yours that you will have done to accomplish your salvation.    Those who trust in God, that is to say, those who have given up on their own ability to bring about their salvation will find it already present.  Even in the intensity of not believing and in mighty despair.  In the vision of failing it is there to be taken.  Your hand will be made to take it.

 

I was raised among a people who called themselves Christian and I do the same.  If I had been raised among Hindus, by the grace of God, I would have called myself a Hindu and I would have worshipped Brahma God and the Great Entourage and it still would have been true that I could have done nothing to effect my salvation and that, by abandoning my own effort and trusting in God, I, by the grace of God, would have found salvation – because of the sacrifice of God to God for me.  In other words, in my Christian words, by the act of Jesus, all who trust in God, however He is seen, are saved.  It is not necessary to be a Christian nor even to know of Jesus.  Pray for that trust to be given.     For God so loved the world ….. that whosoever believeth in Him… (this "Him" refers to God, not to Jesus as many Christians mistakenly think). 

 

Christianity as I see it is a vision of a lover God.  It matches the feelings running through my body and perhaps yours – no doubt through yours also.  I and you are made as we are.  I love the way both I and you were made.   Don't worry about our being alone when in church, I have found many references to others who felt as we do.  It is a great romance and an intoxicating erotics.  I flow with the pure abstractions around your delightful form.  It is good that I am as I am.  You are God.

 

Because we know love so well we know the failure of love to love, and thus we know the necessity of the love to lift us up or we are lost.   All of love is outside the law.  It is a vision of the Beloved directly without such an intermediary.  He is naked in his nakedness.  Strikingly.  A strange thing is in us.  I have my hand around it.  Thus Christianity is the lover's love.  It is a holy shudder.  It is the desire for the strangeness of flesh. 

 

 

 

2101  Bergmann kept his distance from all mystical and religious statements, he says, more or less, not because of his empirical-scientific desires, but because he finds all of them to be a form of nominalism, the land of non-existing shadows, the land of forgotten distinctions.  A mysticism of sunlight, differences and Existence eluded him.  The poetry of Romanticism finding a home in the deadly Aryian light of Nazism, I am sure, left him cold.  He was sure that any momentary attractiveness hid an ontological absurdity.  But then trouble entered into his thinking when he tried to retain good commonsense, because, as he admitted, all philosophical statements are absurd and, to make matters worse, nominalism seems to be the natural bent of the human mind.  He felt he could easily lift out the commonsense element within the seeming absurdity of his philosophy of existence and overcome its unnaturalness.  Mankind goes, of himself, toward the darkness, not toward the light.  I think Bergmann fell into confusion on this matter of commonsense and religion.  I am one with him in his desire for Light and Existence and to find a way against the prevailing wind, but I obviously tack differently.  

 

It seems to me that in the end Bergmann let the world be more important than his philosophy.  He wanted philosophy to serve the world and he was willing to let himself be the clown reciting absurdities.  Scientific materialism ate him up.  He hated scientific materialism as a philosophy, but he hated also the idea that philosophy could usurp the proper place of science.  He was too deferential to a science that did not understand science.  The swirling vortices of primal matter are lovely things from nominalism.  Maybe he also felt the dark love.  I cannot judge.  Did he really believe in the things he had so laboriously found?  It really is a difficult thing.

 

 

 

2102  Kierkegaard announced that, while the many writers were busy about making matters easier for their readers, he would instead make them all more difficult.  I have done the same, not because I had intended to do so, I had in fact intended to be one of the many, but because the simplicity of the subject matter is the stuff of transcendental airiness.  Or rather the final lack of air in the transcendental realms makes it so hard for the reader to take flight with any of these ideas.  For example, this philosophy considers such a thing as "and".  It is a thing so simple and easy that it seems that any sustained consideration of it is, not only unnecessary, but madness.  And so I hide the madness in these, what I hope are attractively distracting, complicated paragraphs. 

 

The work must be lovingly done.  Both reader and writer must be at each other.

 

 

 

2103  Today Everyone wants to get away from the untruth and the unfairness of pre-conceived ideas and get to the thing itself, which usually and eventually changes into a simple getting away from ideas into a direct feel for the something.  It would be an anti-intellectualism except that there is a very heady amount of dreary intellectualizing about the whole enterprise.  Directly feeling your feelings, your sensings, your intuitive knowing is not easy to maintain and so we council each other excessively.  There's a lot of sitting, but little dancing.  No one seems to feel the beat yet, and thus the need for more talk.  What to do?

 

The fiery sensum of the sensualists seems to be the thing to find.  Or the lush quiet.  Or the soothing emptiness.  Or the happy gathering.  It all seems a long ways from the dematerialized spirits of Platonic emanations.  Or Peter's up-side-down martyrdom.  Or the tortures of the Ontological Argument.  Or my worry about the existence of the bare particular.  And the fact that I want to argue about the existence of Difference gets me excommunicated from among the blest.  I am pushy, intellectually.  But my rhythms and images are the most fiery.  Still and perhaps I am Icarus.  I am trying to get to the intellectual thing itself.  I want to be intimate with Idea.  I relish thought, not learning how not to think.  My solitude and the movements of the Form of Form in my mind and down my back are enough.  Am I among the Everyone or not?      

 

 

 

2104  Those who reject the presence of any eternal form in the world, who find all things transient and meaningless, do have the lurid beauties of poetic sadness; but it has to end.  To speak of forgetting eternity in favor of the sensuousness at hand does present a lure by which one can catch up oneself in that forgetfulness.  Sad philosophies are eternally beautiful.  Ah, to stay right there.  But death comes, or so the philosophy says and to deny that would be to lose the sensuousness of coming loss.   Unbeauty transformed thus into beauty is illusory and in need of transformation and it is soon accomplished.  Then at last the knot of rejection rejected accepted. 

 

Nominalism wanted to be true to the world as it presents itself.  As it is before the mind performs a shift in set and analysis sets in.  The nominalist mind hates the mind.  Or so I deduce while it protests at any such thing.  He repeats that he believes it is necessary to stop impotent incessant thinking and just be.  To get outside one's thoughts into the world.  To let the world be and then to accept it.  To give oneself over to the loving arms of the flow of time and life.  To wheel around with the wheel.  And I wonder why he always speaks in such an ethereal impersonal third person.  I agree with everything he has said, for his sake, and I wonder why he doesn't take his own advice, because I see no real self in his words.  Nominalists are nominalists because they must be.  Nothing, it seems, strikes them except themselves speaking to themselves.  Or have I been too harsh?  He will, of course, agree with me, but only because he always agrees and then, but dialectically, he again says he agrees with me and I think he doesn't want to at all, but he disagrees agreeably with everything.  Or I am just baffled by him.  It's impossible to argue with someone who sees no real order to things.  I should never venture out into these analyses.  Does he read sad poetry also?

 

 

 

2105  Perhaps the realist and the nominalist are striving for the same thing.  If I feel lonely, I feel the loneliness and I am aware of my feeling lonely and on and on, the thinking is relentless.  I, as a realist, want to say that what I am feeling is loneliness and the thoughts of that are thoughts of that, none of it can be explained away as anything else.  I fear the nominalist will try to explain it away as biological ooze or a social effect or a soliloquy of empty words.  Perhaps he will say it is really fear or self-love or a political loss of control – anything but loneliness.  It seems to me that everything is always something else for the nominalist.  Nothing really is.  He's such a rationalizer of ubiquitous dissimulation.  I want to say loneliness is really loneliness, a thing that I didn't create in my thinking, but that real thing that others have felt exactly as I and have done so for as long as there has been any kind of consciousness to be aware of that thing there exemplified.  I don't explain anything away.  I let it be as it appears and presents itself.  Isn't that what the nominalist said he too wanted before he started all his psychological verboseness?  Words are only words and they have meaning beyond themselves.  Great masses of words neither explain nor create anything.  They point.  Even if they are intimate with the pointed at. 

 

Knowing that the world must have form and believing that form exists only in the mental word, the nominalist tries to build a world with proper form by writing academic papers or by talking talking talking at endless social get-togethers, which if he is lucky are memorable sentimental drunken lovefests. 

 

For me the Forms about are beautiful beloved.  I think the nominalist is jealous.  Beloveds will tolerate no other.  Only he is to be loved, only he is to be god, only he is the all in all, only he can be watched.  His words have power to make happen, he insists.  And if I had not been the lover of Being, but the beloved, I too would probably have been a nominalist and thought all my thoughts were the beauty of the nighttime Nothing, which I could command right well.

 

 

 

2106  Realism tries to be true to the reality that is directly before the mind's eye.  It sees a blue ball and says that here is an instance of first and second order universals (among other things).  The analysis continues on to bare particulars and nexus of various sorts and sets and classes and structures and more orderings and even absences and it quickly becomes apparent that in this great circus that has suddenly come to town the little blue ball has been totally lost. 

 

The reality of realism is the clamoring emanating heavenly Circus.  Soon a slum.  Broadway in the morning.  Academic screw-ups.  The boy moved in unexpectedly. 

 

I guess that is the real world after all.  The analysis seems to be faultless.  The blue ball was just a come-on.  Truth is the freedom to go on.  But not to go back home.

 

 

 

2107  Have I left the door open and now the wind of non-existence will come and take the reality away from my realism?  Have I let in nominalism – the chanting?  The Continuum Hypothesis has been mouthed by so many mathematicians that by now it's hardly worth tasting.  These same ones are always telling us just what a Platonist would have to say not being a formalist.  And I wonder if they ever knew the smooth thigh of a boy come surprisingly and just continually.  Now that's a hypo-thesis.  Real, unreal, transcendental, what a number!  And the wind blows deep down along the hillocks.  What the fuck is going on here?!  We must be discrete.  But it was so unrelentingly smooth. 

 

One thing is just one thing.  That it is very discretely many is another thing all together.  And then each goes off by itself.  Pop!

 

There's no way the humpty-dumpty of the continuum is ever going to be put back together once broken.  There's no way the broadway boy can more than just visit the farm again.  The world is gone.  The Really Real is here.  Super-Being has found Super-Boy.  Red cape and all.  Now clean up all those messy axioms lying about everywhere.  It's hopeless.  The morning came.

 

Om, mani padme Om    Oh Man, he put me on!  So fine.

 

 

 

2108  I do not write out of consideration of all the possible rhythm structures.  I consider the Idea.  And then the idea considers me and I am led about.  I am its starry-eyed thrall.  I am become that.  It's repetition, mere repetition, nothing more.   Participles, infinites, relative clauses, stretch out, turn and close in upon themselves.  Prepositions pre-positioning themselves right at the front of my mind create the space.  Complements complete.  Paratactic, syntactic, whatever, it ends and then begins again.  Time is the coming around of time.  Eternity is the total pointlessness of it all.  But then this god's pointer points one more time and I am off to his great big nowhere at all.  Stars fall. 

 

The reason for all the non-finite verb forms in philosophy, though not in philosophical history writing, is that the god is present and he insists on being neither here nor there, not this or that, just a nowhere, nothing at all.  Leaving you desperate for definition.  For boundaries.  For simple bondage.  He breaks the sentences.  The wind of heaven blows through and around and, unless you had somewhere else to go, there you are cruising like a missile only a few feet above the ground.

 

         

 

2109  The scientific and the philosophical must be kept apart, laboriously kept, absolutely apart.  But let's be clear about that absoluteness.  There are not two scientific or two philosophical realms.  One does not scientifically study philosophical things.  And one does not philosophically write of the things of science.  One does not let the other invade.  There is no commerce between.  There is in fact no battle for territory.  Among all the facts of the way things are there is no philosophical thing. 

 

Consider a blue thing traveling at the speed of light.  Or consider a sad boy studying the rust on an old hubcap.  Scientifically there is so much to be said.  So many relations to be established.  A swelter of hypotheses to be defended.  A rush of emotions to be abated, and institutions to be established for more study on these dreadful consequences of thing on thing.  Science is a busy time.  Philosophy, though so very human, is off by itself, somewhat interested, but mostly oblivious.  Philosophy wonders if relations really exist and if so are they external to and separate from the relata, and science stops, and wonders through what door, forgotten and left open, did that question enter.

 

Consider three electrons spinning or vaguely diffusing around a nucleus.  Are numbers things by themselves and separate from the things numbered?  Is there some sort of nexus uniting number to the numbered?  Is Number (divine and timeless) or number (just number) one thing and thus a thing united to number or Number by a nexus itself unnumbered?  Do nexus fall into sorts and what is the falling?  Consider how these considerations are worthless to science.  Number is not a thing that enters into any causal relation with all the many and numerically ordered things of the world.  The Nexus or nexus is to be completely overlooked as obvious and like the street urchin almost nothing.  Science only begrudgingly gives a glance at him, maybe just an it. 

 

The things of philosophy are obvious and not really there.  Just why the human mind so often gets caught up on their flimsy non-existence is becoming of interest only to the police.  And the great majority of those who call themselves philosophers, lovers, are only narcs.  Former scared delinquents now informants, which, I guess, makes them a proper study for the science of criminology.  So, if philosophy is a part of science at all it is of criminology.  And thus, because of the obvious virulence recently and ever aroused, in divine science, canonically and curatively speaking, it is the sin (but not the Sin) of sin. 

 

Science thinks that classical philosophy leads to bad things.  State sanctioned philosophy today has become the undoing of philosophy.  There is in fact no other world, no transcendent anything, no eternal heart's desire, no love to die for, no sufi Tavern, just an ordinary drunkenness.  To lead a young student into philosophy was and still is a matter for capital punishment.  Athens continues in its ways.  Let him soak his desires for transcendence in ordinary alcohol. 

 

I write only somewhat as a classical Platonist.  Those guys were proto-scientists.  I write from out of the no-time past the death of their great God.  I write the twisting in the heart and the groin.  I write the people's obvious desire to be rid of science.  I write the completed passion. 

 

 

 

2110  Nonetheless, the positivists were right about one thing – philosophical statements are absurd.  But there's absurdity and then there's the Absurd.  And then there's the absurd leap into the intellectual Sun.  And that absurd thing you do to me in bed.  And the total craziness of falling in love, but that's another matter all together.  And the absurd apulse that there is something rather than nothing at all.  And that you are such a sheer awareness of it and what did he mean by that anyway?.  All in all, the absurdity of a thing never stopped anyone from grabbing it and sticking it right in his back pocket.  Philosophy is loved.  Prudish non-philosophy isn’t.

 

The positivists tried to explicate the absurd into commonsense science.  It didn't work.  It was only a promise.  A lover's promise.  Not much.  Their students wouldn't stand for it.  No one believes one who feigns non-love.  The screw up hurt too much.  Philosophy had to be taken seriously or it had to be blown up.  Explosions are everywhere.  And I'm back here taking it seriously.  The god's finger is up my back.  A positively delicious thing.

 

 

 

2111  I suppose I really am a writer and a philosopher, though it is eternally fashionable to humbly deny that.  Or to make each a humble thing to be, and thus to be doubly humble because I am both.  Humility is really not involved here, nor humbleness (English being somewhat awkward about that latter thing).  And my merely supposing it is no more than polite and necessary hesitation.  I am a writer and a philosopher.  But because of what I write I am a Writer and a Philosopher, and I am neither.  I write the received Writings of Philosophy. 

All writers, if they are real writers, write only the received word.  Just as beauties, if they are real beauties, reveal only the beauty they have naturally, but also divinely, received.  Or singers or dancers or mathematicians.  What we have is given.  No manual can help concoct a presence from out of an absence.  Thus a beauty, eventually, will have to admit he is a beauty and let it be and live with it.     

 

 

 

2112  The point of religion is not to promote the Law but to overcome it.  It lifts man above the Law.  Without religion we are subject to the ravages of what inexorably must be.  Without religion we are soon destroyed.  Without religion we have only science and its going from nothingness to nothingness.  In science man is a little thing, even if he does know that.  In science man is a part of the rising up and going under of the species.  In religion man is bound back into an original grandeur.   Only religion gives man direct awareness of Being itself.  Only in religion can he find his imperial sovereign self.  Beyond the law, outside the law, the Lawless one.  The immoral Greatness.  He knows.  Resentment and loss vanquished.  The lover's acceptance accepted.   

 

The merciful God of Islam lets you forget about all that happened in the world now lifted up into his transcendence.  The perfect God of Christianity finds a way out for you through himself.  The East gently lifts you off the wheel of impossible karma.  And the Israelites, knowing the ways of love, were always able to talk their way back to their jealous lover.   God bends.  Man has captured his heart. 

 

Only the damned materialists insist there is no way out.  Only they accept doom and oblivion.  Only they can stomach the bitter food.  Fortunately logic and the obvious are not on their side.  These poet lovers of pain and despair are in love with that that they hate.  A strange love.  La belle dame sans merci.

 

I simply believe.  Could it be that I understand because I believe or that I believe in order to understand or is it that this is only the barb of love that is dragging me along?  Love crashes.  The beloved is rejected.  The Fire settles in right behind the eyelids.  Angels flame.  Your boyfriend is sitting with another.  "You suffer everything because you are poor."  You know and feel and have perfect explanations for the Cut of Being.  The red reeling real is with you and it is now yours.  A god has taken you for himself and has given you a love greater than you wanted and now you have no choice but to go with him.  Divinity has infused you and fused with you and there is neither refusing nor confusing what has happened with mere dreams.  Beyond the emptiness there is the Plenum.

 

 

 

2113  Though my sexual desires are directed differently, though only in comparison with my immediate fellows, they are not so when I am seen among those fellows more intimate with the inner doings of our civilization.  Here I have been directed out onto the grassy margins.  There I walk up the steps of the temple above the agora.  The truth is that I have never felt marginalized out here on the Iowa prairie because I know the informing nexus between the forms here and the Forms there.  This broad open place is tornadicly forced back.  I spin at the center.  I am directed to the self of my self.  The other is in me. 

 

My directedness is the direct erection.  This nexus is his gentle neck I cling around.  Sweet breath, wet kisses, tempestuous curls.  Commander.  I meander among the hills of your rising and falling going around never without the final moment Moment.  Nothing has changed.  This is the center that has always ruled this heavenly city.  So civilized.  The merging margins ever emerging again.  Right up here in the Cumulous clouds. 

 

Corrected.  Connected.  Perplexed rectangles.  And tangles.  In the fields.  And bangles.  He bangs.  It's all one to me.  We repair off for more comparisons later. 

 

 

 

2114  I think you get the point of what I'm trying to say.  Philosophy cannot be said perfectly, but in it's perfect imperfection it does have that perfection that is the expression of the Perfect.  Surely you get my point, though such a point is pointless.  As Form is formless and Time is timeless.  As surely as the Certain is uncertain.  And this saying says nothing that can be said well or badly or at all.

 

The logic is impeccable.  My sin is somewhere else.  I have not written ordinary things that are the necessities of life and life is necessary for now.  Any delight is only a flash and life is the happiness of enduring substance or nothing.  And the sexual itch of pubescent wings is only the scratching of the blush of dawn along the ground of night.  Worthless metaphors.  Gored matadors.  The bull of the day rushes at me. 

 

That I use boys to explain ontology is laughable.  But it's the Great Tradition.  Maidens are useful only for laughing at the ontologist as he falls in the great pothole plainly in the road unseen as he looks up to see the face of that Boy stretched across the heavens.  It's a matter of competition as the beloveds vie.   

 

I really do know the last things.  I know Actuality and the Light of ontological truth.  I know Certainty.  I know Divinity and Presence and Pure Difference.  I know Knowing.  But I do not know if this before my mind is actual or if this ontological fact is true and thus really a transcendent fact.  Or if the god I think of is the divinity itself or if he is present and if there really is a difference between him and me.  Of the simple things in themselves I have perfect awareness.  Of their complicity and complexity and is this that or otherwise I can only make an educated guess which is nothing that would lead me out into the open and true Light.  The boy may be mine and then again I may have only wished it.  I know Number and times and is perfectly but whether or not 16 times 437 really is 6992, I cannot tell you with any perfection of knowing.  I know Actuality but whether or not I will ever see that this world was only an imagined possibility, I cannot tell.  Illusions abound, lovers present themselves, death comes close and I see none of it, my reality being only the everyday uneventful.  These are the next to the last things and I know them weakly if at all.  But I really do know the last things.

 

 

 

2115  The writings of an enfant terrible are usually too sweet and comfortable for me.  They avoid mentioning the intellectually difficult things.  Only the loose things of the flesh and our dealings with the flesh are hung out and then lovingly.  It's as though we are supposed to be upset but we end up thinking about what a pitiful and delicate thing a human being is and he should find someone to hold him all night long. 

 

It's the same with materialism and materialists.  The final liquor sweet slide into oblivion, the final alzheimers, the final incontinence, the desperation is somehow the only truth and lucid acceptance of it is wisdom itself.  It's an old man with his lovely gadgets.  It's the old woman worrying about her grandchildren, if she has any.  It's the old bachelor washing out his dirty underwear.  It's entropy.  Thought follows flesh.  Soon the repetitiveness of a boring literary style.           

 

At the heart of Being there is an intellectually difficult thing.  At the heart there is a strongly beating heart.  And lucid paradox.  And an awareness that will not give way.

 

The tight order ordering remains.  All possibility of slipping into oblivion is gone.  Your tense attention is demanded.  The division is permanently established.  Being is and non-being is not.  Beyond that there is no beyond.  That is the final thing.

 

You are the particular you are.  That thing exists.  You are the substance of your own substance.  Resting neither in time nor in space, just in yourself.  There is no non-being to finally become.  There is no final becoming.  There is no becoming.  It is just itself.  And that is that.  

 

The enfant terrible waits and the horror never comes.  It is never more than it is.  He never becomes less than just himself.  Forever.  The slurripy end to thought isn't.  One thing and then another.  The Man of the Eternal Embarrassments and Shadowy Fumblings is just one of the Ideas.  I suppose it is as good a topic of writing as any.  It too will never give way in a Time that is itself no more than an Idea.  The difference between Man and man, between Time and time, between thought and the thing thought, between reality and the artistic amoral expression of it is of the delicious paradox.  The Difference that is fixed.  And the eternal knowledge of it that you are.   It will do no good to complain that that is just my subjective opinion, no matter how you may wish it would.  Mankind does know the truth of things.  This Night is wonderfully lucid.  Oh, my beautiful boy, you should learn the truly terrible, your Lover.

 

My friend, there is no sweet oblivion, there is only your lucid awareness and that has no end.  You are, no matter how hard it is to get accustomed to it.  Thought is.  After the orgasm you are back lying on your bed. 

 

 

 

2116  It isn't that God will help the lame and the dying, but that God is the lame and the dying.  He is the being of beings.  He is the Form that informs.  He is the particularity of that particular and He is that particular.  He is the possibility and the actuality that is that Form with that particular.  Shot all throughout, divinity takes care of itself.  It is God that stumbles lame and who dies.  It is your worry and desire to help.  He is your feeling of helplessness.  He is the noise on the street that will not let you think these thoughts through.

 

Because God is everything there is nothing you can do.  Your pain, your joy, your anxiety, your blessed relief is just Him.  That makes it all meaningless.  There is only the blank stare.  The intellectual blank stare. 

 

If God is, the world isn't.  Take your choice.  Because this is a God philosophy, I live with that Everywhere thing in the Nowhere-at-all and no world.  My realism has come to that.  Love is constraint and obsession and I have chosen love.  But surely I had no choice with either God or love.  God is even that.  And that is Love.  Perhaps in your philosophy you have a choice.

 

I am the intellectually lame.  My dying is my appearance before men.  My being is shot through with divinity and I feel helpless.  I pray to be, here, an ordered noise.  A sweet canticle. 

 

 

 

2117  The sun is too bright and it never lets up.  This truth permits me no cool darkness.  This divinity gives me no relief.  I can find no way to a soothing touch.  I know what I am saying.  I know that this is the end of the dance with this metaphysical logic.  I do find some relief in the fact that these are also the thoughts of Van Gough and Nietzsche and Kierkegaard.  And they are of the Dostoyevskian Jesus confronted by the Grand Inquisitor.  They are surely words a psychologist would try to eradicate.  But I know what I am saying and I say it in spite of that.  I do not say it in spite.  The Light has no darkness in it.

 

The superman existence of excessive light blinds and the madness of the one who left the cave is whispered.  There's nothing new.  All is new once again and once again.  Even the intellectual night glistens penetratingly.  And absence is a superfetation of Being.  The anti-mystics become downright mystical.  Presence abounds across the languid burnished prairies.

 

  

 

2118  I speak of Being and I think of all the things of Being.  I write of Being and all the categories of Being find a place is the ensuing words.  I am like Aristotle.  I have the problems of Aristotle.  Problems lovingly compounded by Being's being in all the erotic movements of Being's call.  And now, like Heidegger, I wonder just what Being is in itself aside from those things, forms and categories in its pursuing us and we are being laid out. 

 

Being, aside from these, is as nothing.  Aside from my philosophizing about it in all its logical difficulties What is it?  Besides a contemplation of its quiet turning from this into that Form What can I say it is?  Aside from now face, now visage, now countenance, in the rhythms and changes of language, How can I see it?  It resides always in the other than itself.  Just as the godhead is always only for us the persons of the trinity.  And yet it is not that.  The problems.  Enough time has been spent and no solution found and surely that is that. 

 

I mention Parmenides and Being and non-being and the understanding of that is perfect.  The words fall rhythmically exact.  There is no problem.  The One and the Many give way.  The ease is frightening.  The solution is the Solution and How can one just sit still and let it be.  Tear up the place!  Let criticism divide and deconstruct.  Tomorrow we can gather and construct again in the sun.  Shirts will fly away and the boys will gleam.              

 

 

 

2119  We can write what we cannot speak.  That is to say, there are some things we cannot speak with impunity.  Socrates was put to death, and would be put to death today, for speaking what we require schoolboys to read.  Philosophy is absurd, and taught as the directly present and manifestly true, and not as the thought of another unknowing and strangely religious time, is forbidden.  Any truth that is in the absurdities of philosophy must be translated and transformed into a straight and now explicated form of the former twistedness.  The gods and transcendent unities and elevated participations in all the divine orgies now become the most mundane of marginal mechanisms within the socially conditioned sub-conscious.  But wasn't Socratic questioning supposed to suppress all that theology?  Wasn't he the real modern-day scientist?  Didn't he deny the gods.  Mei genoito.

 

Contrary to college Privatdozenten Socrates did not after all deny the Separate Forms.  Socrates was not the nominalist the philosophically skeptical would like to have had him become.  He was not the non-lover of the disinterested.  He was not a pre-post-modern de-constructionist.  He was a Platonist, I surmise.  No one puts to death a mere worldly unbeliever unbelieving in repressive divine authority.  They put to death the one who is letting in the fiery spirits. 

 

No one speaks philosophical things believingly on the worldly side of the limelights.  The Monstrum cannot be really among the people.  Like a rock-and-roll freak, he is only from out of the dreams of the solitary boy undoing the world.  The boy so always of my philosophical analyses, the boy who doesn't write because he is, the boy who speaks in these written words.  I do not speak philosophy out in the world, that is, not now.  There was a time I tried to speak the words to someone I was trying to make my lover, but it made me strange and he politely bolted.  No prison psychologist ever got hold of me.  But in the whiteness of this page I am here across from you alas unattainable.

 

The ethical thing to do is to keep the two worlds apart.  That is the struggle.  But we don't want to do it.  And that is the greater struggle.  Intellectually, there are not two worlds at all.  Absolutes will tolerate no competition.  Beloveds are extremely jealous.  It's Being and non-being.  The two are led back to one.  And of that one thing it is either/or.  There's no figuring love, which is where the ethical finally ends up, vanquished. 

 

On the street I look like and act like an old celibate professor, not like the Boy of my writings.  You will do the same until this street disappears.

 

 

 

2120  There's no way to sensibly write about just why philosophy cannot be written sensibly.  The strange constructions all along the entangling non-transporting back alleys of thought will always invite and enchant but no real inhabitant will ever come out to greet you, no ride-worthy vehicle will ever pull up alongside to take you anywhere worth seeing, no guide will come along speaking the language of home.  You do not belong there.  And you could easily never go there again.  But you do.  So often, you almost think you understand the plan of the place.  The transcendent, divine, inscrutably scrutable plan of this magic city.  And just why I wrote that is not only a mystery but a surprise to me. 

 

Those sensible writings called philosophy aren't.  They are writings about philosophy, which are not only easy to sensibly write but must be so as a cover.  They are our scientifically managed history.  They keep the philosopher's head from rolling down the street.  The sensible writers use graduate student intermediaries between them and the wild side where Philosophy is, knowing their students almost always spend some time there.  

 

I think I have never read any writer who didn't agree that Philosophy, classical Philosophy, that is to say, the real thing with a big P, sensibly considered, is Mad, with a big M.  Even its most academically honored lovers agree.  As, of course, did Plato, The Writer, and about whom we know next to nothing, except that he thought that and a few other details.  Academic departments have been set up mainly to tear down what he set up and then are to be torn down if and when that happens, though it was supposed to have happened by now.  We do so want to be sensible and sane.  

 

 

 

2121  When I was a boy I loved to read Popular Science and Popular Mechanics magazines, I fell in love with mathematics of all kinds and physics and tinker-toy chemistry and every science, and I read, in the back of the classroom, every encyclopedia article describing the inner workings of the most complex electronic devices.  I figured out everything except how a sewing machine works, which I still don't understand.  And now today I write about the madness of philosophical love.  What happened?  Did my personal chemistry get the better of me?  Or is that the natural outcome of all that thinking?  I also assiduously tried the boy next door theologically.  I was trying.  I can penetrate to the angels.

 

I am complete.  Mathematics and logical-ontological puzzles, the most refined of the abstract things, give way of necessity to the most lovely love.  And to sex, which is love visibly intense.  Form and the Form of Form.  The eyes almost bleed.  And I have learned that mechanical contraptions serve our lovemaking and that is their only purpose.  And mathematical formulas moving with the still eternal dancer entrance and they are understood in the intellectual swoon of being broadly led across.  And then the End and the understanding is complete and you turn in and sleep.  Structure diving without that pearl of final understanding is a moment of nervous foreplay.  Philosophy is finality. 

 

 

 

2122  Today we do not speak of gods and spirits and transcendent participations because these are terrors to the insane.  Liturgical recitations only cause harm.  The repetition of chant becomes obsession.  The rhythms of holy writing lure one into a seduction.  Swelling form is forbidden desire now attacking.  The human being is too close to mental breakdown.  His intelligence is too strong and it will lead him where his brain cannot follow.  The truth of religion is irrelevant to the need at hand.  We need safety.  We need not to know.  But not all of us. 

 

If there are transcendent things, otherworldly ontological things, magnificently isolated analytical things, then we must look and acknowledge the danger, the dominium, the intellectual light in which they hang.  We are all close to insanity.  Someone must try to understand.  We cannot simply wait for the end.  The end may never come. 

 

The boy here is always in fear of the man.  And the man of the boy.  And then the killing.  Then the repetition.  This turning wheel must be broken and a still love put in its place, the two gently rising.  No more incoming murderous archetype.  They must be redeemed from the insanity of the fearful rigor of insanity.  A sweet romance must replace the frightening.  A truth and a reality.  A lovely madness full of the delights of this god.        

 

 

 

2123  An introduction to a piece of writing is not and should not be, I suppose, a writing itself.  Hesitating, I wonder if I can then write this introduction.  An introduction is rather a speaking about the writing.  For those of you who have listened to yourself and others discuss the words you yourself, at another time put down, a very different solitary time, for you the fright at the prospect of such a discussion happening again is overwhelming, I imagine.  And I see myself here writing these words down.  This will inevitably be a writing about the writer encountering the non-written word.  I don't think I have to describe the situation in any revealing detail as I am sure you know very well what I am saying writing.  But this is an introduction and I am discussing this with you gently and perhaps you have something to say on the matter.  No matter, such saying only says what we have all already been saying for a long time.  And the tedium of the long time settles in again.  I think in the end there is nothing to say about my writing, or I don't want there to be, or I do want there to be with the understanding that there really is nothing and we speak only to fall into the stupor of the ineffable and be comforted.  Discussions should be a lovefest of destruction.  Speaking tears up the written page; let the destruction begin.  A marvelous orgy.  Remembering always that a transcribed orgy is worthless and it is certainly not a piece of writing.     

 

 

 

2124  I never really got over those rock-and-roll love songs of the 50's.  I should say I never really got over those boy singers.  Rock-and-roll isn't the song so much as it is the one who, not sings, but displays the song all up and down his lithely moving body.  I can still feel the lump in my throat, the twisting in my heart, the tightening neck muscles.  Strange things to be what love's all about, but alum sweetness rising.  And the bitter taste of cum.  And the sour crotch stickiness all over me.  That's what love is.  Strange strange strange. 

 

Skin is an adventure.  The geometry of protrusions and intrusions makes my mind gyrate.  Gleams changing into a steady glare into the darkness.  Solitary oozings.  Bang bang bang inside my head.  So hard it hurts.  Finally a star point of light and it's over.  Finding him again is merely a matter of manipulating the transcendent.  Far places so close.

 

People say that love's a game.  It may be a kind of alchemy.  It is, no doubt, the product of music companies and nighttime car radios from General Motors.  "I saw the best minds of my generation …"  It is Mohammedan angels in tenth grade math books spinning at the end of radiating vectors.  Avoiding the social scene, finding solace in the repeating presences of medieval orders under the covers of darkness.  The nightlight is on.  Quiet descends from the starry sky.  Eye punctures. 

 

Beat poetry staggers me.  Where are my lovely articulate penis abstractions?  Internal vowel alterations and that high cracking boy voice.  Sex and thought collapse.  The night goes on sweetly.  Too sweetly. 

 

 

 

2125  Not worrying much about either Plato's Third Man or Bradley's Infinite Regress, I boldly begin to set up, perk up, liven up every nexus I can find.  This is the outting of the Real.  No more repression, suppression, or depression.  An impression of compression against the sheets is all that is necessary and I am off.  I will not be academically humble.  The night is on, the lights light up, I might just fight.  The world is at an end.  Its maker arrives.  The discrete beings are no longer discreet.  There's no way the simple love of those who are simply lovers will simply sleep now that the god of Love is here.  The Entourage is on tour.  Every ontological category in the books has booked a place in the fair.  And the fair will be taken as they always are and command comes quickly.  Sit down, lie down, get down, let the dawn down into the down down there.  Glistening flecks of divinity.  The nexus is so attractive and straight out of heaven and heavy breathing.  But where am I going to hang my hat?  This ontology has no ordinary hat stand.  Throw it up into the wind and let it blow and list forever.  Why are you listing to the side like that?  Lust on the edge.  Oh Honey, a mere list of what you can do is nothing, Do it!

 

This is an ontology where every maker, every actor in this play, comes out and taken a bow on the stage of Being.  And glances about and the bow above his eyes sends out love's arrows and then, shot through, what do I care about remembering any of the former illusions.  I fall in love.

 

The regress sets in and I set out for impossible distances.  That third lover that was always between the two lovers was the one and only lover loving himself and his mirror.  And the forgetting.  Being needs to have his face slapped.  This won't work.  He won't work.  He'll never get a job.  I will end up giving him all my money, all my substance, all my eternal rhymes to time.  Physics and this meta Physics cannot live together.   The old man gives way to the new man or there is the pry bar of the third man.  But I digress.  God gives, forgives and then forgets.  Progress through the infinite is sweetly accomplished in a glance and a twinkling of the eye. 

 

 

 

2126  Seeing my seeing I no longer see.  A sentence with too much form and repetition calls the reader to itself in anticipation of itself and the meaning of the sentence is lost.  But perhaps it's all for the better.  The writer may have wanted to show you things close in and world destroying.  I may have preferred to see that in me that is not me. 

 

Analysis transports.  The former things are forgotten. The mind is in an invisible flash somewhere else.  The simple thing did not hold together.  It interfered with itself.  Still and however, analysis itself cannot and could not have been analyzed.  Perhaps if more commas had been used and pauses to give the mind time to catch its breath.  Perhaps if everything had been long and drawn out.  Perhaps if we had been able to employ a more obvious middle voice.  Perhaps if we had just simply let things be as they naturally are.  But no, we are unnatural through and through, and self-consciousness is what we are and speech eventually speaks itself.  Analysis and inward turnings are inevitable.  The world cannot stand.  And every one of its forms, so mathematically axiomized, will yield under the divine glare and give way to the Other.

 

I caress the forms and in that I completely take the use out of them.  Just as the boy under my cockering hand is numb and still.  I have analyzed the boy.  Pieces only are left.  Even his boyness is abstracted away by my magical movements and that smell leaves me there with him and then it is finished.  

 

Or so I have written.  And written in a rather unfashionable rhythmical style all the better to work up the spirit of metaphysical completion.  Narcissus nodes on white surfaces.  I am being used by the useless things within Being.  Nonetheless, I am far from the nostalgia of having lost out, him being all over me as he wants it.  There's no use in objecting, I am the object, subjected to near dejection, but I reject all of your helpful interjections.  My words, as you can see, have let in an agitated wind from another place.  It's all real.  So very real.  For those who like the real.  Reeling around in this rosy-cheeked region of Being. 

 

The Light is lit up by the Light.  God is inside of God.  Clearly, doubt is to be doubted.  Questioning is to be questioned.  The boy's lips are kissing themselves in the dark.  It's time to go.

 

 

 

2127  Not all analysis kills, or rather, analysis always kills but some of the dead rise again in a glorified form.  The world disappears and never comes back.  Try as you may, the dead are dead.  What the dead were in essence, however, could never die, never having lived a worldly life.  If one can accept oneself as a murderer, as gloriously culpable, as a flaming Platonist, then the dialectic is easy.  The transformation of you, alas, my dear reader, into one of those may be the hardest part to accept and you may think it would be better to just let the dead be dead.  Or maybe you think analysis does not kill, but helps us see the magic of life that is already there.

 

Analysis kills.  I have a nicely shaped friend, about 18, who dances badly and I said to him, "You should move your hips more and stop all this hand and shoulder dancing."  He said, "Yes, I know, but I don't want to look gay."  And so it is with our stiff and stolid ontologists; they just don't want to be one of those.  What must people think? 

 

I read Ginsberg and Genet and Burroughs and Rimbaud and yes, also Whitman and I suppose there are others of that ilk though I don't know who, and I love these guys, they are so gay, so loving, so down transforming the biological fallen boy ooze of life into the heavenly fragrances of angels.  I am not like that.  I deal in abstract ontology.  I deal in the dialectical intellect.  I am the boy already lifted up into the air into the light into the space of the unearthly dead.  I write the ordinariness of the ordinary boy.  I deal in the real, not in the fantastic. 

 

In the end analysis does preserve the ordinary world, but only as it is there on the flat plane of the boy's geometry.  Few can see the sexuality there in a mathematics book.  The labor of cumming is not enough; they want the freedom of empty fantasy. 

 

 

 

2128  This is a book of desire.  Thus it is quiet and unspoken.  It is writing's writing.  It is the barely written.  It is under the obvious.  It is, for those who travel with that under the world's coverings, obvious.  It is a pure travail.  Until the end. 

 

Desire begets desire.  The superficial and the merely attractive are momentary, of course, but the one thing remains.  And that thing spins quietly.  It turns.  And unconsciously, unintentionally, the attention is held again.  The desire for that lovely loveliness returns.  But it is such an unseen thing, such an out of the way thing, such a thing contrary to the publicly touted, and we are our public selves, that we are, in this matter, not ourselves.  Desire quietly builds.  The shadowy, slow dervish.  The smooth planets.  The moon-faced travelers.  Seemingly oblivious of the heavy breathing of remembering.  The overhanging. 

 

In philosophical intuition I see and I almost don't see.  The pieces of Being are so very delicate, so lovingly fine, so re-fined, so coy, that I end up complaining, merely sadly complaining, that the others with me, and almost not with me, have not tried hard enough to see, with me, these dervishly exasperating things uncounterrolling.  

 

But desire is a constant.  I desire.  I eventually am desired.  Even against his will, against his good sense, against all his apparent desire, he desires my desire, the one and only desire, his own desire.  And the words spin unceasingly - also.

 

 

 

2129  I suppose my writing should also be characterized as a confession.  It has been rough going.  My heart has endured a lot.  My thinking has been over and over the territory of he is he isn't, he has he hasn't, too many times and I have trouble staying out of the well-worn ruts.  I roar.  I analyze.  The prostate rising up repeats.  I wonder and I tremble and I want to let the whole world know.  I speak the truth straight out.  Rectification with electrification.  I repose.

 

I compose.  The words fly together and I fly away and it's all so juvenile.  I confess that.  I have never gotten beyond the boy to the man.  I am from the American middle west where no male ever grows up – boys with toys forever.   My deposition lies before the criminal lawyers, themselves just practicing, and in opposition we then reposition ourselves and go home.  We take out our pens and look for the appositive.  I pose for you, you pose for me.  And then the permutations. 

 

There is no profession I can glean from this.  Word play is not word work.  Foreplay belabored.  "Let me confess to you, O Lord, what time is."  I have time on my hands.  I am damaged.  My whole body oozes.  I am a profusing foundry.  My confession is only a confusion.  I do not speak and this writing is the Houris' Kalamity.                    

 

 

 

2130  I know the redness of red.  I know the absence of absence.  I know the Being of Being.  And the Form of Form.  Not one of those knowings has propositional form.  Nor is any of a fact.  There is, for those apparent statements, no universal exemplifying a higher order universal.  I have, with those words, written nothing except unwritable ontological non-statements.  They are to be understood philosophically.  There are things we can think, and even speak, that cannot correctly be put into either logical or linguistic symbols.  And language speaks its own inability to communicate properly.  We must pay attention to what we cannot do, but which we do with elegance do.  We continue in violation.

 

My knowing and my speaking are a falling.  And because of the tightness and the rising in my chest they are a form of love called most properly Love.  It is necessary that philosophy be explained only with philosophical words within a philosophical thinking and while remembering having been taken once by a god.  I grasp at things.  And then perhaps I am grasped.  And a necessarily perfect understanding comes, useless to the world, but the stuff and the thickness of Being. 

 

I know the burning fiery redness of red.  Everything else disappears and there is only that.  Surely this is not an ordinary understanding of things.  It is an ontological knowing, a philosophical intuition, a mind exploding thing.  I will try to write an ontological analysis of that and I will fail.  But I do know how to fail in style.  And to stagger before the stiletto.

 

 

 

2131  The redness of red is a non-propositional philosophical form.  The Being of Being.  The going around of going around.  The combining of combining.  The passion of passion.  The glancing of glancing.  None of these is subject-predicate.  There is no external nexus between two things.  The thing itself is not separate from the thing itself.  Or so the thought itself would have you believe.  It is difficult to find any thought here, but there is a thought there in all of those non-sentential, maybe sententious, sentences.  We are close to the catastrophe of internal relations.  I struggle to write.

 

I find the ontological problem of order one of the, no doubt the hardest, to solve.  Assuming we know what a solution and a problem really are ontologically, we come to the idea of ground, the primal thing.  In that there is something that makes a thing of our world.  Deep inside.  In the vertigo.  In thought's intolerable compression.  In.  But the word "in" is too much and itself assumes we know the ordering of first and second, of simple and complex, of the same.

 

First the not knowing and then the struggle and then the knowing.  Or perhaps the not knowing comes from a prior not-knowing or a tighter notknowing.  Perhaps unity precedes division.  At the end I know that this is red.  Is it true that prior to that I knew a thisred?  And prior to that I am/was a knowing thisred?  And then on to I am a knowingthisred?  Until eventually the/a  Iknowingthisred?  Unity and Being become formless.  Order is destroyed.  No more worrying about an ontological problem.

 

But order is.  And Order, which grounds it in an ontological ordering.  And the struggle of thought with thought with Being that rises up toward a final orgasmic conclusion.  Or the writing was flaccid.  Things press on things.  My pencil expresses my worked ideas.  

 

(a(a,b))  is a definition of order that is given and I struggle to accept it but I have never really understood it or philosophically felt it.   (a(a,a))?  (red(red,red))?  Lie with me and we will see.  Are you top or bottom? 

 

 

 

2132  The problem of order.  It's a lovely contemplative ill-fated adventure.  We obviously know what it is; but, like time, when we think about it, it is gone.  So I use all those existentialist categories of anguish.  Surely at the end of ontology there is broad consternation and then a narrowing of the eye of the needle.  I am rich in the printed word and I have stayed in the finest philosophical baths. 

 

That's what I am all about – the final fragrant ontological profusion around the ineffable and the erupting of the soul in emotions that only the words of adolescent love are strong enough to handle.  The boys about, bringing the pharmacopoeia of ontological destruction, do seem to handle with perfection both Being and non-being.  Each is one more Eros, marginally not this not that.  From the marshes.  A wet space between the timeless forms and the world.  A sphere whose center is everywhere.  The keepers of order, themselves unordered.  I have gone to the back rooms where they sleep. 

 

I have read that physicists have now have been able to stop light and that maybe the computational possibilities of the many worlds will be ours.  The arrows of time and times will jab together.  Secula seculorum.  Dream worlds mixing with all the many real worlds.  Lords of confusion.  Until the wind blows it all away.  I can hardly wait.            

 

 

 

2133  Philosophers handling God must handle perfection, the final orgasmic point of the coming together of all the pieces in the ontological juggernaut and the strewn images.  It's too much for the eternal foreplay of the scientifically minded.  Anyway, this kind of sex in the classroom, teachers and students in quiet orgies, is downright illegal. 

 

Here in the East where no one ever criticizes another's theology because war might break out, I have learned the loveliness of religious argument.  Let's get on with it!  Attack!  But I never do, at least in my writings.  My writings are just me trying to deal with a god, "a flaming breath, by enchantment and wizardry knotting the water and tying up the air".  A beauty.  The spinning, uncontrollable object of our ontologies.  And we are left abject as are all lovers and the East understands perfectly.  The war will always have been.  Don't you agree?

 

I'm afraid to speak what I write.  A logical symbol is diamond hard as is a line of geometry (thus writing).  My voice is so soft, so invisible, so temporal.  Out there, on his face, around his going around, the forms appear and I am drawn out of myself.  He is hard.  I am hard.  Thoughts fill up with thick light, space is held.  Surely perfection has weight.  And I know this weight is going to cost me money.  I work and go back to work.  I feel a tongue in my tongue.  I cannot speak.  Nothing is so hard as this untamable.  An itch.  I'm afraid I will soon speak to him.  Krasny kluk.  Car buns. Crash.        

 

I read aloud and there is diamond dust and blowing graphite.

 

 

2134  As existence is separate from what exists, and then again it seems not to be, so God is separate from his attributes, because God is existence, and I wonder how such separation could justifiably be.  So I contemplate a God who is not just not merciful nor knowing nor one.  I contemplate God deep in God, only as God.  I wonder how all the simple universals could be not with that existence deep within them or if I should say that that deep in them is other, then how a thing is then not identical with something of itself.  My words block up.

 

A God beyond his attributes is neither Good nor Beautiful, and I am left with being whatever that thing wills.  He is desire.  He is Eros.  He is the incorrigible boy not this not that.  A lover of the Sophos like me.  As powerless as I.  As unknowing.  As almost ugly.  As close to evil.  The Forms yield to this formless form.  That is the erotic thing I write.  In my not-writing writing.       

 

And the problems begin.  Surely love's problems, so well-known.  The boy is his hard existence against you.  But the Boy is itself separate from existence, dialectic seems to demand.  And God and His divinity and existence and the existence of existence and the necessity of that and necessity itself all crowd in to be let out as a separate thing.  And there is no dialectical doubt but that each has a right to that freedom.  And then there is dialectic and freedom and the Gangesian absence of all that.  The clowns and the mad dogs of thought are close.  Nonetheless, that is my style and my ability to go on, to just go on.  I write the mix and the mélange and thought's malfeasance mellifluously down.

 

Tight unity exploding into itself is the Boy.  I'll wait until morning to clean it all up.  

 

 

 

2135  Thoughts - simple entities exemplified by this and that becoming mind.  Because they so closely resemble substance, the unity of matter and form now exploded into the many, they suffer in close resemblance the dialectical problems of substance.  How do we account for the sameness of thoughts to one another or their difference?  Does the fact, if fact it is, that the thought that I am writing and the thought that I am sitting uncomfortably both participate in (surely not the right word) the ontological fact that they are about the one me?  Do they exemplify the universal form of being thought?  Do they exemplify the relation of being simultaneous?  Is the Form Color somehow in or does it hover over the two thoughts that this is red and that is gold?  Does Difference reside in or crash the party of this being heavy and that being long awaited?  Are is and in things in the thoughts and the graspings of in and is?  Is the absence of thought in my hand in my hand?  Lovely considerations.  For those accustomed to the ways of love's bafflements.

 

Let us build ontologies out of all the possibilities, and then watch them fall down.  London bridges.  Luxor-ious mirages.  Lugubrious leavings.  Pothole marriages.  The sinking feeling that your dissertation committee is watching.

 

Philosophy succeeds only if things are overlooked and that pungent odor is half forgotten in the morning's remembrance and transformation.  The noise from the hall, the light from the seeping window, the fact that the wall is too close.  The world awaits, to be redeemed in its reconsideration in eternity and the uncomfortable becomes the comfortable itch.        

 

Phenomenologically speaking, the circus of philosophy is just that and the show will go on all around your sleepy lonely bed.  All night long.  His thoughts in your thoughts in internal relations internally related.

 

 

 

2136  "The mind is one; the world is many."  And thoughts of thoughts and thoughts together and thoughts separate and this is not that way down to their core(s) are what I am in my exemplifying them and they are all crowded into this very thought even you hold now.   You are for an instant what I was and you are me, in the objective case.

 

Few writers write about the mind and the mind in the mind.  The world in its all being laid out nicely is nice, and it is easy.  But that other is a horse of a different color and smell and with wings.  Thoughts exist and when exemplified they are even then nowhere in space - the better to fly instantly anywhere, and everywhere - and then in that magic moment outside of any moment the thought grasps that before exemplification and it is free.    Articulate writing at the articulo mortis libertatisque, subterfugiendo vacuitate, pervenit et advenio.  Voila.

 

I wish I could write ordinary journal articles that six people would read and I would get a little money and a lot of respect and I could then know I was one of the gang.  We could sit around and drink coffee and be subterfuged.

 

And quoted.  The only reason, of course, why I put quotes around sentences is because I too want to be read out so that I may be with you, in you, all over you, as you are to me, dear reader, here, as I lovingly think about you, even now. 

 

 

 

2137  I am a Platonic Christian pederast.  An extreme faggot.  A wilting onanist.  I contemplatively drink divine blood.  I tongue that flesh in my mouth.  I chase after the separate Forms.  That ordinary boy/god tastes good.  I have it all. 

 

I am learning Arabic because those sleepy sounds hold the promise of a transcendent fragrance.  Boys full of dialectical desire out on the starry desert full of sighs and gadflies and indecision about nothing at all.  Falfalla.  Kosheri.  Oily bowls and spoons from mouths fresh from kisses behind thin curtains.  A slippery language on slippery lips making useless promises.  The stars are too close.  The past is junk.  Mathematics is the only thing understood well.  Unities in redundancy. 

 

But then I don't really believe in a monophysite jesus.  That boy, so ordinary, so divine, so confusing.  The way through him isn't that easy.  Let's keep the dialectic going!  The platonic forms are certainly separate from any ordinary thing I have ever seen.  Those mascara-eyed street boys are not from the daytime get up get a job upstanding.  Those boys can lie down and stand up at the same time.  And that's what I call divine.  Call me crazy, call be bad, say I'm lazy, hazy, phrasy and, after years of having no one knock on my door, that I've been had.  I deal in exaggerated difference.  Neither the ordinary nor the divine dissolves into its other. 

 

I will never learn Arabic.  I'm too in love with well-laid out articulations, not the twistings of breath.  Give me a strong prepositional prefix any day.  Put a little english on those careening English phrasal verbs and let the well-put power of accent bring it all to a sweet conclusion.  On the other hand, I do like those medio-passive verbs so inwardly altering of Arabic. 

 

 

The northern orphic shamanic dying jesus on that structurally extended cross is too much for them.  The Body's form running through their form is too engineered for them.  They sigh and I eat them.  I drink their moonlight blood.  And I watch the Coptics waiting their turn.  The Ka is still around.  Ekyptic wailing.  I go back home.  The faggot dreaming Nile may have sucked it all in.

 

The Iowa prairie is still rectangularly beautiful from pickup truck windows, and

 

 

 

2138  What I like about Christianity, my two-boy solitary, pickup truck, prairie fire Christianity, is that all that family stuff has been shoved far aside, and there's American freedom everywhere.  God has no consort; he clones himself, he comes into himself, he speaks himself to himself.  His earthly prophet, that mad boy jesus, just himself, flesh flayed dying to himself, for his friends, now become just him.  There's only this perfect One in itself endlessly, completely, orgasmically.  Every kiss is a kiss of fire. 

 

All those Hindu god-families do me in.  That great Islamic family of the Prophet wearies me.  The Catholic Holy Family is a compression on the spirit.  That stupid all-American church going family has usurped the place of all things divinely free.  Escape! 

 

 

 

2139  The great need to work, to avoid metaphysics, is not new.  Only the name of Positivism is new.  We all are afraid of the Faustian-Mephistophlean dance.  We are all in love, however, with dancing.  And the ringlets of love.  And the impossible meanings to impossible gesturings. And we are concerned that our partner is not the one to lead us to fright and insanity.  But the northern lure of work and engineered order is itself another form of death.  And the wheel turns.  And the murderer is once again at the door. 

 

I don't want to bother the busy.  I have been taught that by my society.  I let the workers work.  They are good; I am ultimately evil.  I am the one with the erotic, the useless, the swoon of the final questions.  My eroticism is transcendentally unproductive.  A simple going around has me in an unbreakable timelessness.  The busy have the very stuff of time and the timed and my untimeliness is always bad timing, for them.  They are in fact dancing with a different kind of partner altogether.  It's a different philosophy.  It's the philosophy of no philosophy. 

 

Wittgenstein, the great twentieth century positivist, was the one responsible for the rush of metaphysics back into our lives.  The unspeakable.  The non-existent form of the world.  The eye seeing itself seeing the nothing.  The case of the falling cases.  Late evenings in the park looking for his man.  Shhh!

 

The positivists are so logical, and that is their glory.  Finally they have to look directly at it.  At It.  Logical form is something.  And the transcendent forms are really there in arms around your shoulder a god taking you around and around this dance floor here in the middle of this long night from out of nowhere.  And you are dizzy.  Or are you not one of those?  Are you like me?

 

So who really is dancing with the partner from Hell?  The positivists or the metaphysicians?  Or neither?  Each, I think, would want to say that there is only a provisional truth in the other.  Each finds a speaking that can be spoken.  Each finds an erotic tryst that he can trust.  Each avoids the accusing police.  Each goes to his own lonely marsh outside the city.   Firm ground is hard to find.  We end up dancing with jiggers.  

 

 

 

2140

 

Ibn Guzman writes,         

 

My life is spent in dissipation and wantonness!                                              

O joy, I have begun to be a real profligate!

Indeed, it is absurd for me to repent

When my survival without a wee drink would be certain death.                                                                                                                                          

So it is with me.  But I do not want to use his words for what he never meant them.  I am a wispy intellectual, not a full-blooded sot as he; though, the words do remain true even from my hand.  The saqi-boy spins my head one more time, one more turn of the dialectic, one more time I fall through the bed of night thoughts. 

 

This is a symposium.  We are drinking this cup together.  Absurd questions and the lease is signed.  The papers are here in front of us.  We let it all go.  Slackers.  Languishers.  Algolagniacs.  For a wee drink.  For one more drinking in of that boy.  A certain death and documents ensuring a rebirth in apophantic sobriety.

 

I doubt Guzman would approve.  I take all those from whom I have learned and twist them into my own unstoppable desire.  My death is sur-vival.  I am up!  Still, I would not approve of Guzman's disapproval; he was, after all, just a writer.  He was trying to keep his agreed on job as a drunk, as Bergmann was trying to keep his as a sober logician.  Neither were either.

 

 

 

2141  Just as the Bible is no more than the compositions of men, so my writings are no more than my words.  Just as the Bible is the true inspired Word of God.  So my words are not mine but are the words of the one I love, as is fit for a lover whose mouth can speak nothing but his love, the substance of which is the beloved.  I live yet not I but he lives in me.  Surely Paul knew the horror of that sentence – surely he knew his own death.  I know the terror that has taken my life right out of me.  And I know that you, dear reader, probably do not know the fullness of that sentence, unless you too….  .  And I know my own failure (a double horror) to live up to my own words.  I am my ordinary self.  I write the ordinary and the extra-ordinary, the ontological, together.

 

This is the difference between the Bible and the Quran.  The latter being only the words of God, not of men or of a single man.  Just as paradise is not for those who have become God as one with the Son of God, Himself the Very God.  Perhaps Christianity asks for too much.  And I assume too much.  And my death is just my death.  And that the second door I have gone through is mere dithyramb.   But, no.  Love will hardly let me consider it, even my lustful faggot love of God.

 

And so the words are easy to write.  And understanding them in the quick passage of sentence after sentence is as easy as moving through time.  But time is not easy, nor is the non-idea of God and man together.  Theology analyzed collapses into nonsense, mere human reaching, comic greatness.  So I will not analyze, but I will let Analysis itself proceed and I will concede to it all transcendental understanding and a non-sensual conclusion.  Or are you unfamiliar with the magic of words?

 

It is the very ununderstandableness, even the extremest absurdity of the Bible, that contains the Spirit.  I too, I know, have written the worthless, the merely sexual, the stuff of failed scholarship, and I have wallowed in presumptuous syntax.  In that, I am with the religious, the awaiters of the end time. The ruffled orgasm. 

 

 

 

2142  Some have written or implied rather in their writings that idealism is deference to, submission and finally trembling before and for the unspeakable, unthinkable whole.  That one thing even beyond the words one and thing.  Not a that.  Not a beyond.  It is the failing of words and the feeling of failure.  The thinker does not think, does not write, does not really see anything.  The complexity is too vast, the folds fold endlessly and hide.  All things hang in dependency.  Sort of, it depends.   Each thing has its place because each thing has its place.  We serve the whole.  Or so it is implied. 

 

My realism of ontological pieces each itself and complete is unsociably, or perhaps sociably, not allowed consideration.  There is no time.  Time is filled up with so many things to do.  This and then that.  Stopping for just the one thing is impossible.  There is only the interinterinterinterrelated whole.  All else is conceit.  Or so it is implied or rather written.

 

From the whole all things arise and fall back in.  The whole is a great hole.  A great hole of decomposition and decay.  A great stinking loathsomeness.  Come, Holy Logos, save me from this death.  Your logic cuts so fine.  Invade my writing with an articulate articulateness.

 

 

 

2143  Perhaps it was out of those moments of unconquerable loss that my philosophy grew.  Perhaps it was out of the feeling of not having the weapons with which to fight to retain the beloved thing.  Then I was Eros the child of poverty.  I knew the existence of non-existence.  I knew its intense grinding constriction.  I knew electricity behind my eyelids.  I blindly saw, at a distance, the quiet distinctions within that one I love.

 

To be intimate with the being of non-being.  To be that complex thing that is the being of non-being.  And to not be that, and thus to be an even greater complexity.  An entanglement.  I was and am Eros.  Neither this nor that, neither existent nor non-existent, and neither of those impossible pairs.  Words fail me, even now.  The beloved is gone and will not hear them and I cannot write.  I never could.  I still am what I was and my not being that in the collapse of logic still is.  In the distance he is none of that.

 

But he is not of the Plenty that I also know and am.  All the distinctions of Being are also perfectly with me and I am that.  I am the child of Plenty as well.  Divinely begotten.  With a perfection that, alas, is also not of the perfect ordinariness of the beloved I constantly look at.  My perfection is not quiet.  I cannot find my ordinariness.  He would never speak these words.  He has not known the terror of Pain not the terror of the Plenum.  I end with loss.  And with these words.           

 

 

 

2144  I have made the distinction between a philosophical thing and an ordinary thing, but it is a worthless, paradoxical distinction.  In the end my, so-called, ordinary thing is a philosophical thing and the real ordinary thing is unspeakable, and thus even this sentence is worthless.  This is the ineffable Ineffable itself.  It is close to that that Wittgenstein worked so hard at not speaking.  It is that that the Zen Buddhists clap their one hand over and we are not impressed. 

 

Philosophically speaking or un-speaking, there is the category of the ordinary.  But in the ordinary world there is only the ordinary and no such thing as a philosophical category, except as an academic thing, a no-thing at all.  Thought is repressed.  We are stuck with the ineffable whether we want it or not.

 

Usually I jump into the sun when I reach this point.  Into the absurd.  Into myth.  Into the erotic.  This evening, into love's pain.  And now, into the worthless.  The tiresome and the worthless.  The tires on this old car are losing their tread. 

 

So I end up with the everyday ordinariness of the ordinary and I am with the existentialists.  The tired old existentialists.  I need a new category.  Even my love pain over his not wanting me is getting old.  Maybe it is just I that is getting old. 

 

"That the world is, is what is mystical," so said Wittgenstein.  The ordinary ordinary world.  God is so very expressible.  The ineffable is easily spoken of and spoken.  The ordinary world in its ordinariness isn't.  Language is too extra-ordinary.  And its failure is grand.  I am stuck in Grandeur. 

 

 

 

2145  The grandeur of philosophy is inevitable.  And its reflection on the philosopher is embarrassing, considering the miserableness of that mere lover.  The words of philosophy are of necessity too much.  Another a priori category.  But such is the nature of love and we have all known what fools we see ourselves as in its presence.    

    

 

 

2146  My desire is to speak straight out just what I am thinking about philosophy, but that would be like arriving in an act of a single moment at the point of orgasm.  Philosophy and the sexual point really are reached suddenly and surprisingly from the nowhere of nowhere in an instant, but both require the long and drawn out that is prior and that is worrisome because in that nighttime the beloved may just leave.  Tension and release.  Fierce tension.  A saving release. 

 

My desire is thus to speak.  I have here merely written of that speaking.  To my reader and to my would-be lover I want to speak, but it may not be given to me to do so.  And I continue to write.  Kierkegaard wanted to be a preacher and not just a writer. 

 

And then to act physically.  Writing is closer to such an act than is lighter-than-air speaking, but the lighter-than-air is the home of music, and for writing the inertness of matter intervenes and it must be the very act of orgasm to find release from that and fly, though flying is such a hackneyed phrase and I seek release even from that.  Perhaps you see that I use the long sentence to tie up my reader into tension. And then.  The end.

 

The physical is in danger of finding no release.  The trap of matter can be too tight.  Yet without matter, either physical or intellectual, there is no feeling of the filling up that is so necessary for love.  The filling up and the pouring out.

 

I, or course, can speak straight out what I am talking about.  I am talking about Platonic philosophical love.  Intellectual sex.  A boy becoming dematerialized in an instant of orgasm into divine oblivion and then the return for another day.  The danger is that it all becomes so ordinary and that the release from that requires an even higher release and we may not have the energy for it.  Some of my readers cringe, some smile.  In the classroom, teaching this, the lecturer merely assumes a serious poker face and gives a lesson in the history of ideas.

 

 

 

2147  My intention is to make the dry, boring analyses of philosophy become things of excruciating beauty.  I can't do it.  Of course I can't.  But, nonetheless, that beauty is there and perhaps I can somewhat open the door to his room just enough for you to look in.  And to remember.  And outside you can find your cross, remembering that unattainable, unforgettable. 

 

I will make this a Platonism of remembrance.  It is, of course, a memory of what never was present in the kind of presence you are now in.  Remembering the timeless, intersecting time with eternity for yourself, is to construct your own crucifixion.  Nothing is more beautiful.  Nothing is more demanding and inviting and, for all that, unattainable. 

 

Your mind spins ceaselessly.  From itself only.  Thus, obviously, eternal.  Remembering.  From out of eternity onto the moving circles.  Into your own going around.  Around and around you going around me.  I am enchanted by you and your begetting of yourself into yourself.  And now as for the sex part – remembering the Phaedrus.  Will we, you and I, get it on, or won't we?  Should we?  Should we do it only in the spirit?  Could we really do that?  It sounds delicious.  But no, we are flesh and the cross is our goal – so we must do it boldly, my fair fellow.  Swing oh so high.  And spin.          

 

 

 

2148  First let us remember something of just what analysis is, what it has accomplished, what it has found, what it has stuck us with.  Our accomplice in the affair has left us with his residue.  The dew has fallen and the dawn approaches.  And memory has become thick.

 

The words are here.  The same, repeating words.  The oldest and the youngest of the words.  The numbing, the worrisome, the erotic, the filling up - and then the pieces ecstatically thrown out on the white page.  Being divides into just that right there in your hand and its having always been even in the timelessness of its having always been right there.  This and the eternal.  And the kiss, the soft delicate kiss of here and the nowhere.  Then spirit leaves and the hard words of analysis remain – particular and universal and nexus. 

 

Philosophy began in a moment of intellectual lovemaking.  Then the filigree of something half remembered.  Then the remembering.  From passion to the fine logical structures to his return and it begins again.    There is always an out come.

 

 

 

2149  The boy has been coming to visit me everyday.  A real boy, a boy of the real world.  But, in this case, he is also the really real of philosophy.  The beauty is intense.  My desire is as great as it has always has been.  God is here.  And I only slightly worry about all the theological jealousy that is for me everywhere.  I have come now to the place where I need a connection to the world so I can get my writings out to the readers I have always dreamed of.  Enough of purity for now.  I am with the unclean Christ working on the world.  It is a necessary thing.  The flesh is always close. 

 

This is vertigo and I have somewhat learned to handle it.  Love demands things.  And I will give it.  I pray for the final assumption of us all into a heaven of lovers.  Make the fire lovely.

 

 

 

2050  The Form, when seen alone in philosophical intuition, is as nothing.  Viewed from every side, it is the same.  From any distance, after every transformation, the inside and outside are all the same.  Such perfect symmetry is totally invisible to the everyday imagining eye.  Nonetheless, if I speak any simple word, you instantly know its simple meaning, but only in overlooking it; though you can't now that I have called your attention to it and you fill up the emptiness by insisting that you could never say all there is to say about it.  You know it perfectly, as befits the perfectly simple.  Do you deny that you know such a thing?  Unqualifiedly, it is as nothing and such denial is as nothing.   

 

I spend my time writing long analyses like that instead of quietly contemplating.  I do know the simple things best out on the street in the commotion and the frustrations of boys.  The unruly, the disordered, the same and the same and the same, the vertiginous symmetry.  The burning bright.  A luring singularity. 

 

 

 

2051  Those who think numbers and all the things of mathematics are invented and not discovered do so, I think, because they imagine all existing things to be particulars somewhere and to believe in such fantastic airy things in their fine heaven is not even possible for children and the mad.  The retort that they are neither particulars nor at a place is, I suppose, impossible to imagine and imagination has replaced thinking for them. 

 

We hear so much about brain images that that is now thought.  A thought without sensual images is as nothing.  Thus, it seems to me, that it isn't numbers and mathematics that are invented but images of black symbols on virtual computer screens floating in the neurons.  It is the evanescent image of symbols superimposed on virtual piles of material objects onto the feel of the mouth speaking natural language words, counting.  It is all so kinesthetic, which is a scholarly word that gives a sacred aura and fragrance to it all.  So involutionary and evolutionary.  Even the smell of ancient carrion and game arcade boy smell.  Pheromones flash and that's that. 

 

Neither number nor thought is an image.  Numbers cannot be imagined; they can only be thought.    

 

 

 

2052  Physicists today are fond of speaking of the Nothing that is the origin of all the  universes.  The vacuum, the emptiness, the ether from beyond its intellectual grave.  This is all far from simple negation in logic.  It is rather the dissipation of all energy.  And since matter and energy are one, it is the absence of matter (or at least of any interesting matter).  And because energy, matter and spacetime are one (maybe), it is the end of that also (or it seems to be true everywhere we look).  And because …. the absolute end never comes and maybe that is even a greater nothingness and on and on and on.  Physics is stuck. It can't find the dark glory of that non-being beyond which there is no more non-being.   Maybe it should adopt Gnostic mythology.  Or Vedic.  Or even Pharaonic.  Which is to say that physicists may only find the true negation of every something when they are untrue to physics – Betrayal as the absence.  Or they bow down to the true god Plagiar, the lord of entangled nets within internets.  I suspect, however, that what is really going on here though is simple sexism.  It is an attempt to elevate the Womb where opposites come together and cancel each other out in a flash.     

 

Why doesn't physics go in the opposite direction and look for the primal Something?  For Entity.  For Being.  I think the problem is in the dominance of the idea of the Origin (aka. The Womb) and emergings or proceedings or recursive unfoldings or headings-out from it.  Perhaps we should reduce it all to Everything even including the everythingness of everything and all its separate and manifold parts.  But what the hell?  Where's the poetry in that kind of talk.  Physics knows the beauty of math, but not of its own speaking. 

 

 

 

2053  The modern world has become art and technique and that is everywhere the death of true religion.  The destruction, the hidden terror, the sudden beauty arrive late, the spoils are divided. 

 

Calm and cheerful analyses and delight, it is understood, must limit their time so the news of reality might once again intrude, and you will wonder why everyone can't just have pleasant times of artful conversation.

 

In the hind tailing off to Thailand I have seen nature idols of puny black blobs.  I have seen ugly seated night shivers.  I have seen pugged recliners.  I have seen little masses of madness.  I have seen sickness in the stomachs of boys drunken dancing.  Fire light movings.  Frightful attractions.  I have seen an area stretching out within the high philosophic God.  Severe. 

 

The Brahmans try their best to make sure everything is done properly and nothing is real; fortunately the boys come in and do it right and the super-real comes over them and they and the night vanish.            

 

The symphony had all their brochures glossy and clean, the flowers were arranged beautifully, the ushers moved efficiently, I listened learnedly, the young man next to me jacked-off under his coat and a holy smell settled around and we all left.  

 

I worry that this page be completed completely and that my sentences have no syntactical knot in them or misplaced relative pronouns.  I hope to be mistaken and fail.  I desperately lust.  I want that god of my sickness.  I want the holy.

 

 

 

2054  Scholars are the bookkeepers of the world.  To any spirit that insists it wants to fly they prove that it cannot be done.  They point to the facts of the balance sheet that show that your only true balance is a weighty thing.  One's needs come first and then a planning for future needs and anyway airplanes and space shuttles can take you where you want to go as long as someone is there to help you get off.  You have made such arrangements and provisions for the needs of your weighty flesh haven't you?  It is an extremely needful thing.  Are all the negative marks canceled out by a procured positive?  Have you thereby arrived at the virtual perfectly vacuous being?  Have you prepared to spread the sheet over you?

 

It isn't as easy as all that.  Scholars may be the comedians of the world, but they cannot be laughed off.   Flying really is proven impossible by the bookkeepers.  The spirit is body-bound.  The flesh gruels. Your white spreadsheet is ready. Logical analysis deadens only the dead. 

 

The perfect liberty of the high God must find concordance with reason.  Though I live for and with the unspeakable, I minutely obey the dictates of speakable speech to hear it.  Though I eventually find a logos beyond logic, I practice logic into its completed dialogic to get at it.  And though what I see be ever so much a private vision I must prove my vision with what we all can see.  Only then and there is reason laid aside for something other. 

 

Art must do likewise.  Only through the rule of art is art overcome.  Only through the perfect rule of dreaming is reality found.  Only analysis, at its end, breaks away from the broken up to find the one thing.  In the thin air of the art of art, of the dreaming of a dream, and of analysis analyzed, the great wide wings of philosophy unfurl and loft about.

 

Of course it can be done.  The books of the bookkeeper are themselves balanced on only the books of bookkeeping, a fine mobile suspended from skyhooks.  We are tied up only in a few spider filaments. Even the nexus of logic is as nothing.  The magic is splendid.  The concern is great. 

 

 

 

2055  Sin is failure.  It is not that one intentionally disobeys the law, but that one tries exceedingly hard and in the end sees inevitable disobedience.  Not because one willed it so, but because it was too much. 

 

The sin of reason is that at last one must speak that which is obviously wrong.  For the realist it is the sin of finding only the individual after so much talk about the universal.  It is ultimately admitting that the great important things are the creations of a confusion of words.  For the long-winded nominalist it is admitting that he can find no words to say just what concepts and universals and classes really are.  They are just there. 

 

And there is yet another kind of failure.  It is that of the realist, who in spite of his inevitable nominalism, clings ever more insistently to his realism.  He forces the principles of being into intellectual space.  He insists he sees what is before him.  It is that of the nominalist who will go all the way into extreme nihilism to avoid any hint of concept, thought or universal.  It is the unreasonableness of one's principles, of the still shining dogma, of truth.  It is that no one understood the terror of that.  It is that they only wanted to help relieve you of your philosophic burden to help you find gentler words to say almost the same thing.

 

Beware of those who want to water it down.  Of Kierkegaard's friends who learned how to turn wine into water, who used water to put out the fire of the wine.  Beware of the comforters of Job who insisted that God does not dispense undeserved punishment.  Of the preachers who would make Jesus say not that we should hate mother and father and brother and sister but rather love them in order to get into the kingdom of heaven.  Of philosophers who uphold the everyday against the metaphysical.  Our failure in all these matters is sure and our understanding is doomed.  But the Beloved is ever there in Glory.  And our trembling is holy. 

 

 

 

2056  I'm not saying that Platonic love is harmless.  It is sublime and therefore world-destroying.  It is Christian.  It is the end of time.  It is the hatred of the world.  It is all that a flagellant would want.  It is to be rejected as is the divine infinite vortex.  It is outmoded neo-Platonism.  It is the merely historical Pythagoreanism.  It is unholy idolatry.  Craven cravings.  It is false.

 

Well, what can I say?  Slimy old men who think they are the metaphysical elite.  A not-so-grand delusion and on and on with the hyperbole of decadence into the dark brilliance of a true existential Nausea.  I too can do the Negation.  I too can write the dark night of the soul ever forgetful of the arriving dawn.  In fact, I can live it.  I am that. 

 

Is the Platonic lover not worse than the Platonic non-lover.  Both Christian and Sufi saints say he is.  And that both ironically elevate him is grotesque.  Such is life.  Such is our culture.  Literature is ultimately that.

 

Somewhere in all that there is the Platonic and neo-Platonic doctrine of positive and negative matter.  If we can just keep the scholars away maybe we can make our acquaintance with it.  Maybe they are the very stuff itself.  Platonic love is not nearly so harmful as they.  I know first hand from my being that also. 

 

Platonic love is a blessing; that is to say, it is a bloody thing.  Blessè.  The Harm and a harried plundering.

 

 

 

2057  Just as the beauty of snowflakes builds around a tiny speck of duct, so all of the magnificent forms of this worldly reality lie about a wrinkled little nugget of truth.  The Truth of the thing in Being is far different from the material truth.  If it is the priesthood of our historians to search out for us the material truth of things as the reality of things, then we are in this small eternity doomed to seeing only our thinghood insignificance.

 

It is true, in its nugatory truth, that David was surely no more that a minor prince, if that, who rode off on a little laughable horse to kill someone who was no more than he.  The Truth of the Songs of David, however, is Celestial Fire.  Who is the real David – the material nobody or the one of whom the incarnate God called Himself the Son?  If we make the division, as we must, then the Truth is that these two are absurdly put together.  And that is absurd or it is the very Absurdity of the Godhead.    It is comedy or it is theology.  Mere words or reality.

 

All through these writings I have attempted to unite the High with the lowly.  But that is nothing new.  It could be said that that is the way of all art and all thought.  It is clearly all through the Christian religion.  And it has been always questionable, even damnable. 

 

When I visit the East I am told stories of their great religious and political heroes.  Of poets and philosophers.  And I know in my perhaps crooked Western knowing that none of it was as they say.  I know the true material miserableness of it all.  I know that they dream.  I know that I would also like to dream.  But I know that in my philosophy of realism I search and claim to have found or been given the Great Truth greater than that of heroes.  These wretched ones I sit with and lie with really are gods, and that I don't speak with mere hyperbole.      

 

The crystals of ice swirl and blow into a fury and the mountainous drifts melt into a dirty sludge until the next mighty cloud formation appears in the West and the Majesty begins again and then the return of the filmy smudges and then the high updrafts lift and then descent and then and then again without end.  The presence and the absence cannot be denied.    

 

 

 

2058  Nietzsche's Platonic Creativity is higher than natural truth.  Into the non-existent godhead.  Negative matter forms the world, an evil place, full of dissimulating souls.  In his pure assertion it is made glorious.  He affirms life.  He is the creator of the world.  In an eternity ever returning.

 

Nietzsche, of course, did no such thing.  But in the great creativity of the spirit I see it shining in that place beyond the truth of existence and it is done. 

 

Nietzsche was a divine megalomaniac.  He was  Krsna divana.  Hackles rose up.

 

Our artists have been captured by the psychologists, the comedians.  Trying to please the public into buying their trashy gods they fall for theories of the pure child's imagination.  They become quack doctors of the spirit.  The reality beyond reality has been lost.  The body's infirmities have pitifully eaten it all.

 

Am I just another romantic trying to find the non-exiting exit?  It is necessary that I am.  The night of the soul must be perfectly dark in order for the perfect light to shine.  I will ride the Light itself out of here.  Clinging to his back of O Phos, I will instantly pass through all of time.  Even our science says it will be so. 

 

In the vortex of Yes and No, the straight line curves wildly.  Neitzsche's beloved science falls back into myth.  The Planes of Arjuna are scattered and the corpses never were.  The infinite faces of Krishna veer off.  Artists make lurid paintings of marketplace desires.  I write of Eros lying awake, scheming on doorsteps.

 

 

 

2059  In the great middle and neo-Platonic systems, abstract things loom large, exalted Spirits, high vaults, an almost tangible Light.  The mind of the earthly contemplative arrives, perhaps through the Meta-odos,  at the foot of the Beyond.  This always reminds me of what those with near-death experiences report, but it is more in that these are the structures and ligaments of thought and reality.  In these systems, the Forms are themselves visible.  Similarity and Dissimilarity, the Limited and the Unlimited, Motion and Rest, the Same and the Other.  The One.  The Beyond the One.  Being.  The Nexus of Participation.  Separation.  Matter and the Whirlpool of Descent.  These are majestic spiritual beings.  They are in ordered procession and emanation.  They are in self-being and other-being.  They arrive at themselves from themselves from the self of another.  Those reporting all this have conflicting reports either through ignorance or perhaps because the order there is conflict.  I cannot say. 

 

In our own time the existentialists have tried to make the logical negative be a great passion of the soul that rips the veil of Being.  And I have tried to make abstract sameness in the universal things be swirling eroticism.  The mind's vortex, the tornadic tail, whips and heaven oozes.  If this then that.  This then that.  The expanse was and remains inside the glistening point.  The spirit is thick.  Light crawls over my legs. 

 

After school let out in Rome and Athens and Alexandria and far away here on the banks of the prairie rivers, the boys went and have gone to their beds and their teachers imagined and have their naked bodies moving in merological dreams of emanation and self-begetting, of potency and the taken, in the fire and the moist twilight of sleep.  And it has all seemed so real. 

 

We are circling the Cataleptic Islands.  The edge of the world is near.  And the drop-off. 

 

 

 

2060

 

The form of the book is this –

 

______________________________ à \/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\ à   ||||||||||| 

 

In a book the entire length is present.  It is a great gathering.  The Whole dominates, the parts give way.  It is a community effort.  It is a social affair.  It is a family matter.  That is to say, in a paper book, it is like that.  In an electronic book it is different.  There, where there is no place or there  to be called such, files disappear or have already disappeared or were no more than merely anticipated.  In an e-book the parts stand out as all there is and each element shines forth as it is, uncrowded into meaninglessness by all the so-called others. 

 

In an e-book the spacing between is complete.  It is even more than that between two physically different books.  It is the spacing of non-existence.  It is even less than that, it is virtual non-existence.  The page and the files and the flickering quanta are so uncertain, more uncertain that your own understanding of such things. 

 

And the parts then stand out hard.  The gods are present.  Each a complete thing unto himself.  The world peels off and he is revealed.  The finest quantum fire.  Frothic.  Toxic and final.        

 

 

 

2061  The very idea of cataloguing the various philosophies, of precise distensions and their ramifications, of dividing spirit from spirit, follows upon the desire of the Church Councils to capture Truth.  Even in our universities and journal offices the voting continues.  The politics is mean.  The point is pointless.  The light is bright.  Too bright. 

 

Banishment is everywhere threatened.  New religions have to be established to accommodate the heavy pendulous compendiums.  Codpieces and binding sheaths! Weighty stuff.  And along come electronic folders folding it all up into the summer-eyes of sizzling vanishing diskettes.  He is zipped and unzipped.  So easily.  A distant speaking of routers and drunken servers, web masters and cropped pages.  The virtue of your fingertips.  Exile in a gamy ozone arcade – sheer heaven.  The new gods right there, tattooed on his shoulder.  Let the bans be given.  He's about to get married.  To a Dark Lover.  The old God takes his own. 

 

The necessary first thing is to get His attention.  Signal to the search engines that you are ready.  The trip is far and fast, but you are ready.  Broken up innumerably and reassembled. Crosses and slash marks.  Stabbings and insertions.  You're ready.  Shut down!

 

The councils call; you are their call-boy.  Pederastic priests had it all over you.  A formulaic eromenos.  Precision was yours.  Homoousias.  Homoousias.  Homoousias.  You were lathraios thrown into the Aleitheia.

 

 

 

2062  The bare particular is named by the English word That.  A naming is a pointing toward and it and the name itself are thus removed.  The Act of the word That is energetically moving in the direction of.  But what of the bare particular, two words that surely won't do as an entry way into That?  It seems that the thing itself is unspeakable.  Nonetheless, though I speak merely of it, the mind does grasp it in a grasping concept and the trap closes.  I do know the bare particular That. 

 

It exists.  And yet that it is not it.  My words stay at a remove and only achieve their end mediated by a hoped for nexus.  Nominalism threatens.  Pointers to pointers.  The address on the envelope finds no one there.  And the very locus of the There is yet another pointer and another energetic act that goes nowhere.  This reasoning is wrong.

 

I do name and know the particular.  Its bareness blazes.  Its presence is undeniable.  He will not be put off so easily. 

 

The difference between the word and the thing, I insist, is strong.  The intimacy is close and the mind reels, but the two remain two until the Silent Thing comes. 

 

 

 

2063  Others see reality as something other than what I have seen.  They have gods and goddesses that are mentioned nowhere in my philosophy.  Their eyes rest on other sights.  They fall into another's arms.  They await other arrivals.  So be it.  Their vision is as true as mine, and mine is absolutely true.

 

The idealist's vision of mere, personal, not-really-existent dream structures is false.  Even they say so.  But that's their wispy lovely goddess or god or  daimon or psychological episteme and So be it.  The idealists' non-existents exist and the paradox will have to stand or fall or just sit there, whatever paradoxes do. 

 

The realist's world, with its contradictory things, is not a world; it is a shaking of this mad, dark-eyed god's tresses of old.  Or so it is from where I have perched myself to spy on things.  I shiver.  I am the minute curlings of logic symbols.

 

That others see my system as anything but a system, except of the insane and the wished for, is their joy, not mine.  That they revel in non-existence and the sick, not the philosophically erotically mad, is their business and I cannot deal in their mercurial currency.  They are from a different part of the intellectual cosmos.  And though we drink tea together, there is the unspoken knowing that we'll all soon be out of here.  I will give them their skepticism and their hoped-for soft-breasted sleep.  Or I would if I had it to give.  I do not feel the cold wind approaching.

 

I'm afraid I have not been as kind and as generous to the others as I set out to be at the beginning of this page.  I will try again later.  The god I serve is a jealous god.

         

 

 

2064  My far off friend writes what he thinks is a Zen poem.  Many times he repeats that he's simply enjoying the things around him, the stone, the wind, and that there's no conceptual thinking going on in the words.  I believe him, of course I do, he knows what he's about.  And the poem is an enjoyable piece itself for me.  But I am disturbed by it, and I think, probably conceptually, that he is too. 

 

Why can't we think about being disturbed and about our concepts and about not enjoying any of that, or enjoying it, and still be attending to things as a non-conceptualizing Zen poet?  What's wrong with concepts?  There're there to be lived with as is all the world.  I would never say that, however, to a Zen poet, because he would go on and on about how that is just exactly what he was saying or going to say and it all comes to the same thing.  And I may then move from disturbance to anger.  Is there Zen anger?  No doubt there is and it's hopeless.  The problem, here in the West, and I suspect when the Eastern ones are talking to Western ones there, is that they talk too much and the suicidal conceptualizing never finds its throat.

 

I shouldn't talk.  I too talk on and on about that that is other than talk.  It's a boring constriction.  The trick, it seems to me, is to put some music and dancing in the words and be like rock and roll, which so excitingly says nothing at all.  Or the boa constrictor back down your throat. 

 

 

 

2065  Having given my work to a publisher to be scrutinized as a possibility, I thought to read it straight through fast as I thought they might do, if in fact they decided it was worthwhile to read it straight through fast, in spite of the fact that it probably wasn't.  I had never done that before.  Paragraph rapidly after paragraph, page hurriedly after page, thoughts minimally understood but understood well enough, feelings toppling over onto feelings, the impression only the impression noticed in business-like detail.  It was different. 

 

Then it struck me as much more human.  A longish recounting of a mind's thinking about thinking and its infusive desires.  And of an accommodating body.   Everything was so socially human, and I had set out to write a god's presence.  The god that came across was just of my own thinking and my thinking's turbidity.  It was a pleasant enough writing, with interesting long sentences, but it was so very human.

 

I didn't write these pages like that or to be read like that.  Each must have its own isolation.  I have not written a book, only separate, very separate pages.  I think the book as it appears on my website is better, because there you have to work and take time to get to the next page.  It isn't waiting just around the turn.  It, in fact, doesn't exist until it is clicked. 

 

It's somewhat strange I would say all that after having spoken so much about black ink on white paper.  Maybe they knew better than to read it fast.  It is, after all, orgiastic writing and fast sex is worthless.  Merely human sex is a waste of time.  The gods must be out and about. 

 

 

 

2066  There is of course a structure to the Idea I have tried to lay out in these writings.  It may be a transcendental structure and only somewhat expressible, and it may be many and contradictory, yet without that I am left with only the Silence. 

 

In my ontological imagination I see two that are one.  Each intimately tied to the one Form, tied to the same particularity, set together as one.    My seeing and the fact of that tight complex kiss and fall through each other and the whole of the lit up night begins. 

 

As you see the structure quickly becomes a wild thing.  The ordering I have attempted is threatened.  It was surely a temptation on me.  I insist I will not abandon it as mere human invention.  I am out on the real streets dealing in existence.

 

I write and I speak to myself and now to you. The words and the sentences flow.  The pauses and the stretches of not speaking speak the mute places of Being.  The flowing is the erotic. The arrow of the glance is the nexus of meaning.  I and you and these black signs on that building in hyperspace with its unfamiliar layout of appearing and disappearing surfaces, cheek against vision, lip on words, swelling thigh through abstract thought, the no-space that space is in.

 

What's the point?  It's all just adolescent poetry.  No more than youth itself soon gone.  Substancelessness.     The boy is constantly concerned about the Boy in him.  The particular and the universal at it.  I write what I am.  If it all comes back to me, then it is that.  I am the universal.  My particularity is just the ancient fleeting That.  There is no sense to any of it.

 

I walk into the Nagarjuna restaurant and I am waited on by flashes of insubstantial gods.  Their non-existent chariots wait outside for when they get off.  I watch. 

 

Structure exists, but its existence is separate and what's left?  Still I am not tempted into the lovely despair of poetry.  His erection is present.  I am a match.  The fire is lit.  

 

 

 

2067  Though divinity itself may be the very simple, the world is immensely complex.  That divinity maps onto that complexity and Complexity itself is a simple form from out of the Simple, is apparently a simplexity too much for all the words of man.  Language breaks down.  The world falls into God or God somehow falls into the world.  Anyway you cut it, it bleeds, the beautiful god bleeds to death. 

 

Magically I have reduced everything to the problem of the very complex.  I intend to speak about that for a very long time in variegated factitiousness.  I really should lay out a map for you to follow, or at least prefatory schemata as vague outlines in the dark of my labyrinthine mind.  Fortunately, though, the complexity of the complex is not so complex as all that and I can just speak it out straight away. Or at least I should be able to.  But I really can't.  The problem is just the problem.    

 

I sigh for simplicity; I believe in complexity.  The mole is sometimes seen in the wind-blown tresses. 

 

 

 

2068  It seems that I, after analysis is complete and the beautiful god has found only himself in the pieces, am left alone almost nothing.  But how can that slightest thing remain?  A deformed worthless thing is still there as something and as an irreducible thing it must therefore be no less than God Himself or there is a god beside god.  I am irreducible to anything of God or the worthless is itself also God.  After analysis is complete nothing at all remains.  And unless the substantial nothing is what I am and it is not God, I am less than nothing.  A Lesser Nothing trans-decending Nothing.  A worthless analysis, a failed philosophy, to be overlooked.   

 

Surely I must learn to see myself as also God or I am not a philosopher.  It is an audacious act, but it is also the stuff of ordinary bookstore mysticism.  I will cling to my failure and my deformity. And to escape the tragic and the poetic, I will be no less than complete Being.  I will be sexual; I will be the giver of the sexual cut.  I will be analysis. 

 

 

 

2069  That God can change the past is no more than His giving actuality to that factual chain rather than to this.  If actuality is, in fact, a thing given by God.   That God can create a past for this fact is simply a hooking up of nexus to nexus to nexus and the dialectic of fact and actuality begins again for us in our contemplation of Being and the temporal depths of Being.  I speak the words and they gently make sense.  I imagine an ontological scene and it is chaotic.  I am close to my bad dreams.

 

I speak my ideas to a boy.  The hook is in.  Hook with hook.  The doubling doubles.  Light from Light.  God from God.  Indwellings.  Time for an atemporal instant stops.

 

I despair that he doesn't understand.  Later I dialectically reverse it all.  That it is merely a verbal illusion gives way to reality.  I am redeemed.  That past is changed.  The imagined thing never was.  My thinking did reach its mark. 

 

 

 

2070  Christian theology versus simple faith in its Lord.  There seems to be no greater antagonism in the church.  Or between the good citizens of the church and those perverted thinkers now kicked out onto the hard streets.  Surely too much thought is a Faustian thing.  And only the love of a good woman can bring him back into the fold.  I am a theologian, the streets are fine, the boys are pretty, the dance of thought on this enchanted evening, the lights, the sighs, the approaching clamor, suffice.  It do see what I want.  The good citizens hire pedagogs to protect their sons.  Such distraction. 

 

I erect a system of thought and I work it and keep it up and the god sitting on top explodes.  It's a uranian thing.  The good citizens never did have much of a feeling for the orgasmic.  The settled is not the up transcendent.  I step off the languid wheel and I become my own rapid spinning, dying, in myself returning, in an instant, in and out of God.  I play myself the dialectic of the one and the many.  I and the Boy, three in one.  High Church stuff.  Cut off cloisters.  Fiery baptisms.

 

The monk sitting in his computer screen terrorist cell, complexities flitting so easily between his fingers, thought violence, worlds within world creation and destruction, just logic manipulation, casual explosions and then the infinite inevitable regressions.  The trick is to not let it fall into the ordinary and the sensible.  Life flees from death. 

 

 

 

2071  I grew up a small town Methodist.  I knew what that really was; I knew it was an absolute thing.  I knew what the spirit was that filled the lonely prairie stopping place. I knew of the Wesley baptism by fire.  I saw the Perfection of burnt away sin.  In the wind we were pure.  I accepted it. 

 

I didn't speak of it.  The first unspeakable.  The Platonic Forms are perfect.  It's a baptismal thing and a burning.  Sin and the imperfect never were.  I longed to speak of it to one other.  A forbidden speaking in a forbidden love.  The world transforms. 

 

I belonged to the protestants who had achieved the End.  I was in Parmenidean Being.  My unity with God was complete.  The kiss of Jesus was my own mouth.  I was inside the Body.  His skin was my skin.  I felt him.  He had become me.

 

This is all up in the universals.  There are here no lost particulars merely spoken of.  The lucidity is complete.  Ontological structures are known clear through.  You have always known them.  History leaves residue over which we can argue and conjecture, but Perfection only lays you down.  His face is only his face; there is nothing more.  His hard look away shifts you out of any world.  It's all way up in the universals.

 

Every night and morning I lay me down and the Method begins.  I know the End.  The perfection arrives soon.  The Fire moves out of me.  The god has created a world.  I speak, of course, only of pure forms.  Of the great Pure Forms.  This place gives way so easily.  The prairie burns. 

 

 

2072  When the philosopher approaches philosophy and then waits and speaks a quiet this and that and reaches hesitantly and philosophy offers itself, or seems to and then pulls back, and then after a few days it repeats until soon, surprisingly soon, the intimacy is present and philosophy shimmers and the philosopher must take what he wants through the trembling and the turbid not knowing and the later wondering, then it is quickly finished.

 

I cannot lie about in languorous languor.   I cannot wait.  For philosophy not to reach its conclusion is useless.  The mere tease must be brought to bear.  This bare particular must be overcome with the timeless universal.  He must glisten with my anointing.   He must find his perfection.  He must be perfected.  Philosophy is manhandled.

 

 

 

2073  When one argues philosophy in public, with the unassuming non-philosophers, and Philosophy himself comes to your speaking, the accusations start.  You spin.  You twist.  You invert.  Your destruction of art goes unappreciated.  Your landing on your feet in the Real is unapplauded. The Lure of your holy unspeaking lures no one.  Where are the labyrinthine travelers who can go with you?

 

You long for another who understands.  You long for a dance partner.  You long for one who assumes you really do love him.  Beautiful perversions. 

 

I went after forbidden things.  The usual tack of disinterest and the unstraightforward got me nothing, so I aimed directly at what I wanted and spoke directly of it.   My spinning was an unspinning, my twisting an untwisting, my inversion was a reversion to the uninverted, my perversion was only a perversion of the perverted.  I undid and I was undone and the upright appeared.  The accusations proved my point in a fallen world. 

 

 

 

2074  I belonged to that gang of young readers playing with the received intellectual forms.  I have written for them.  I have written their erotic puzzles nuzzling down into the other side.  I have, for them, engraved the engravement.  I cut around the nut.  I licked the ooze of thought.  I laid out the read thing for them.  We strode together.  Because of them.     

 

No one can say we were nice.  We are not nice now.  Knowing is what we are.  A knowing deep into knowing.  No English word on the ledge escaped us.  Each in himself become knowledge of the other.  Homologistics and paralogisms.   Or so it seemed.  The game quickly changed.  The puzzles were puzzling.  The muzzles were tightened.  He came in my hand. 

 

   

 

2075  The philosophy of love is from out of the Realm of Command.  The lover takes what he wants.  He wants the boy's beauty revealing the Boy's Beauty revealing the Taking.  The philosopher is at last taken aback. 

 

His commands are Re-Commanded.  The Militia have arrived.  The boundaries of Being must be crossed.  Trampled here; trembling There.  Take what you want.  Take it!           

 

I have said what must be said.  I have felt no fear, nor shown fear.  But I do fear God.  And within the world I must be prudent.  And cautious.

 

Speaking straight on about what I want, I am seen by the duplicitous as duplicitous.  The boy yields, the yielding is not believed and I am as though I never was.

 

I command heaven in my yielding to heaven.  God gives way to God.  The speaking speaks out into existence the existence that has always been.  I want and take myself.  I am the merest speaking of Be by God. 

 

The commanding is easy; the not commanding is difficult.  Love is the easiest thing; the pretence of not love is the most difficult.  Here I faint in this very difficult matter.  Why love withdraws is difficult to understand.

 

 

 

2076  It is neither money nor power that controls and is the meaning of great world events; it is Eros, romance, simple mad falling in love.  This is, of course, an unspeakable truth, spoken of to the exclusion of all else effusively by all for all of our history.  Love somehow is the All in All.  It remains unspeakable.  And jealousy is the terror we fear. 

 

Wars are, much more than anything else, the stand-off of one group of the beautiful young men against another.  Sparks and tracer bullets in the night.  Blood and the waiting shoulder.  The old men, thinking they guide the affair, don't.  The god of love fills the spaces and makes demands.  The whole affair was only him playing with himself, an eternal game, so appealing, against which you cannot appeal, as you are peeled off and he lies naked on the prickled ground covered with the faithful still now transcendent within him.  He's gone.   Nothing is ever lost. 

 

Love is a closed-mouth intricacy.  It is logic turning into gods.  It is the stuff of the Real.  Without the madness of this ever-changing myth there is no comprehension.  Without the slender waist there is nothing for you to grasp.  It is the falling sigh that your money and power attempted.  Finally it all mingles and you are free of it.  It is glistening before you.

 

 

 

2076  It is the mark of the material that it endures through time.  Tomorrow morning the same table will be by the window.  My box of books will wait for me downstairs.  That boy I knew years ago, though aged, will still be around somewhere.  That same scar will be on the side of my hand.  All of this is either reassuring or stuffy.  The non-material things I think about while I lie on my material bed, though real, are not in that aging time.  The mathematics I try to understand cannot be said to endure or perdure or in any way continue, but it always is.  The Beauty, the Face, the Movement, still and hardly of any seeming consequence in the world, cling tightly to my mind, and are never just that particular one remaining after the work is done. 

 

All these things come before the mind's eye.    The temporally enduring  and the non-temporal always there.  The feel of time and matter is different from the feel of untime and the immaterial.  One is heavy; the other is light.  One is worrisome; the other certain.  One pushes; the other the reason for the push. 

 

The material world appears immaterially non-temporally within my mind.  It hangs in Being.  Its thick presence is from out of the immaterial Thickness of Eternity.  I see time lying within untime.    

 

 

 

2076  This philosophy of the most abstract things, embedded in the most concrete movements of my own heart, will surely not please those wanting a depiction of a concrete scene with seemingly real persons involved in recognizable intricacies given by a vanished author become thoroughly abstract.

 

Philosophy, though, is always abstract, and the unspoken passion of the philosopher has always been there with it.  Whether he be the writer or the reader, the thinker thinks himself into constriction and release whenever he moves through the Idea.  There is no story to tell.  Philosophy is purely sexual.  It is a pure intuition.  It is a synthetic a priori affair.  It is Dionysian.  It is orgiastic.  It is damnation and salvation.  On the stratospheric clouds of fine transcendence.  No more than that.  

 

 

 

2077  My sentences are not directed outward but inward upon themselves.  The idea grows from out of itself into itself.  It remains with itself.  That you read it, that it is somehow a part of your own idea of life, within Being, Idea within Idea, pushing, contorting, expanding more, never was my intention – how could it have been; I never knew you.  The world is real outside of us; you never knew me.  There is, though, a lord that does know both of us intimately.  In him we may be his joy in a nighttime banquet.  We may be there with him even now, even unknown to us now.  The Ideas I write are not me.  Nor you.  Nor are we ourselves ourselves.  My words, my thoughts of myself, and you of you, are always other.  I write, of course, directing this not at you, but at the Idea working itself, waiting upon itself, coming to itself, over there, drinking into itself.

 

That I have here said almost nothing, that I have approached the Apophasis itself with it, that it was little more than just itself, has taken me, and now you, close to the most bare particular in itself, empty of any inward self.  A slightly musical thing.  Minimally holding the spirit up.  A gauze over the wound of love.  Abandoned.  Invaded.  Something dreadfully unfamiliar.  That.      

 

 

     

2078  The act of teaching is the violence of impregnation.  The man, taken by the boy's beauty, places within him the seed of his thoughts.  But first the game is cornered and captured. 

 

The education is from out of the safety of the family into the shadow of heaven.  Seduction and reduction to the primal things.  A bite on the neck. 

 

Every man was once the boy and was taken, and he was ever slightly aware that the Idea was swelling up within him.  Desire becomes subliminal.  Time passes into the passing of time.  No one is there, until he is there.  It is irrevocable.  The colt breaks out of its corral and things happen.  Things wrapped in their thinghood come loose.  Happily he rushes.  Which way will matters go?  It's an anxious time. 

 

We are, of course, talking of the spirit, here, and not of matter, there.  Words are the instrument.  And a touch.  Bodies tremble.  The spiritual thing goes in.  Matter breaks and the world waits.  Something will come of it.  For good or for evil.  Pray for the good.

 

 

 

2079  I write, as you know, using few compounded words, but rather the little articulating words; I break the dependent pieces into an independency; and I repeat.  I do it all for the sake of clarity and obscurity.  The dark spirit glistens.  I am after sleek movements and empty spaces. 

 

I am after the middle ground.  Consider the word "which".  It is a nonrestrictive relative link.  It should by rights be separated by a comma or should defer to "that".  Such rights, however, and such separation which I know well yield to my knowing and become essence not to be merely shoved aside; the comma vanishes.  The semicolon being more of an affront than a comma, but more obsequious than a period.

 

The great complexity of the world loosens up.  Into its atoms. 

 

Anyway, one does not fall in love with the whole, but with the pieces.  I forget the complete look of my Beloved, if I ever knew it, but I know so well the corner of his eye.  He has never held me envelopingly, but I am suspended by a touch.  I can't remember his complete name but I know and swoon at the first explosion of air in its pronunciation.  And depending on my mood I capitalize his pronominal traces or I curl up down inside its miniscule form.  The form of my writing is not for nothing.  It yields. 

 

 

 

2080  The boy is his visible form and the possibility of my moving around in it.  Thus he is without individual personality.  He is eternal geometry.  He is shuddering wave mechanics and a questionable explosive singularity.  He is a tightly held stillness.  His vectors finally add up to nothing.  He is the lightness of theorems being deduced.  He is nothing that you are not.  He is your double negative compression.  He is weight.  He is acceleration.  He is the final cut.  He lies within the covers.  I index him.  The mathesis is without remainder.  These forms could never not have been. 

 

And there is that fragrance that slowly quickly wafts its way up into the cavities of the bones in my mind.  The calcium, the chalk dust, the angelic musk.  I am peter, the petrified, the afraid.  If I do not move the pain will not come. 

 

That all the sensa are with the fine lines of the forms is too much for the clumsiness of our philosophical analysis.  That the boy finally has personality is irreconcilable with the timeless recursions.  That all the possibilities collapse to being just this one actuality.  That the boy should at long last be bare in his particularity before me.  That time gathers and is.  And that it all then gives way. Is outside our ken.  And this rendering is just soothing music for my pounding ears.      

 

 

 

2081  It is true that I drive philosophy into constrictions that are both baleful and dire.  What to do?  A choice is called for.  But I cannot choose.  Nor can I expect my reader.  It's a choice between one thing.  The strictures have come down to that.  The hand moves across my neck and I cannot move.  The numb erotic swelling sets in and now waits for its conclusion in immovable panic.  There's no way out but the way out.  The harm has been done, the two things have welded together, the trembling trembles uncontrollably.  And then it is finished.

 

I do so want to have order in my philosophy, but I must end up with only Order itself.  Such perfection, such finality, such a complete completion in depletion was inevitable given the nature of such a love.  Order gives way.  Any Order that Order might beget is unordered.  So the choice is between this one thing or the nothingness of this one thing.  I blow up.  But at least I do not fall into the siren call of impotence.  Philosophy has been performed.  The god is there.  I will seek out the next time of his coming. 

 

 

 

2082  If seems that the world, or rather it seems that physics is telling us that the world is really not a world but a superimposition of worlds each a slight, an ever so slight variation of the one onto which it has caressingly imposed itself.  In one world I impulsively took off my shirt, in another I waited.  There's no telling about an impulse, and an impulse is merely that – a thing from nowhere.  The blood rushes inwardly only to inward places.  I did what I wanted, but I wanted it all.  And so I was and I wasn't.  I who am caresses the I who am not.  I superimpose myself onto myself.  I seem to be able to know that thing or non-thing that is both.  Physics is telling me nothing new.  But I now have become a great serpent writhing in my understanding. 

 

I think of a friend who has died, or who has died in my world, also a real world.  It really does seem to me to be true that he lives in a world, perhaps just like this world and I am there and for him nothing has changed.  Thus I cannot get upset about his death that is merely here and not there.  And in that thought I am in neither world but in a sort of meta-world, stopped.  I have truly died.  And yet I sit here thinking and writing. 

 

I, who am a philosopher, live in both the world of worlds and in the universal forms of such a thing.  And it is not that I have died but that I or a part of me exists that never lived, though perplexingly I have no parts. 

 

Physics has never been good at explaining physics.  That physics is thought and may be wrong is a mere accident of this place.  We have all fallen into non-thinking thinking.  We shall develop a mathematics for that also.  These are the cracks through which the spirit seeps.  Or the seam that is sometimes unseemly and I ooze in semiosis.  What message have I for myself today?  Being is an impulsive aseity.  I have stuck my pencil into its assemblage.  I have taken its derivatives down into stillness.  He bangs and bangs and bangs and I cannot get at him. 

 

Physics has run out of experiments to perform and its mathematics has led it everywhere.  Now what?  That new boy in class has fallen asleep on his desk, but we will not arouse him.  He already is.

 

 

 

2083  When I read the modern writers, I find few or none who, it seems to me, would appreciate, agree with, or, and much less, like what I have written.  They are so worldly sad.  The blissful Eternal Forms are worse than nothing at all to them; they are disrespectful of the dead.  The God of magnificent things lies rotting in all their living rooms.  They speak quietly at the eternal Wake.  I do not attend. 

 

I have learned all this from Nietzsche.  He explained their actions to me.  He also made me see that I am not a true follower of his.  He too finds nothing worthwhile in my words (as far as I can tell).  Nonetheless, I have learned many other things from him.  And from Kierkegaard, who, I'm sure, would also quickly put my words aside.  Or so it all seems to me.  I really don't know if I hope I'm wrong or not.  These matters are very complicated.  I do know that we have no need, out on this empyrean plain, of psychologists.

 

I suppose it's all a matter of what you're in love with.  Or of what you're afraid you're in love with.  Or of what you'll let yourself be in love with.  No one wants to play the fool, but the real lover will consent to it.  It's impossible to be loved by society and be their fool.  The proponent of love will not be tolerated.  But the one who offends this high god will be tolerated even less by heaven.  Choose whom you will please.  The Wake, in its own way, is darkly magnificent.  Perhaps the gods of caverns and fissure fumes are present.

 

I accept the fact that there is a Battle going on.

 

Don't misunderstand me.  The modern world is not at war with love.  Speaking of love occupies all our time.  We accuse each other continually of lacking in love.  It is even the most sought after commodity in the market.  The reason I am not given my time on the writers' podium is that I am speaking of what is considered the most unloving thing – metaphysical, ontological Uranian Love - a bewilderment in anyone's estimation – an entrapment of boys.  Women will not tolerate such competition within the confines of what is by all accounts their territory.  Philosophical lovers must go and live in another world. 

 

There is one more reason I don't find a place here.  Writers write of the emptiness of love, its final calamity, and they write of the emptiness of writing.  No doubt, the moral to draw from that writing is that writing and its emptiness should be given up (for whose sake?).  I too write of the empty and the nothing.  Still, there's emptiness and then there's emptiness.  There is the emptiness that is filled up with a god.  And then there is that which isn't.   If the god is not allowed to come in because of her jealousy as an escape from her incessant mere need then he doesn't.  I have no such signs posted around. And he readily finds an open path to me.  The analysis is complicated and the accusations fly.               

 

 

 

2084  If x has the property of being just out of my sight and properties exist then what is the ontological place of my very sight in that property and is it really also a property of x?  In everyday talk, What is the relation between my sight and the property of being just out of my sight?  There is no relation.  There is no property of being just out of my or anyone's sight.  Such a complex thing is just that – a complex thing and it suffers the analysis of all complex things, which as you know is anything but a simple matter.

 

Such complex properties exist just as much as skewed noses and the waltz but in ontological magic they all disappear and only all those things from out of forever remain.  You know exactly what I mean even if you have no idea exactly what any of that means.  The spirit whispers itself right into you.  If you but let it.  On the other hand, the spirit never did matriculate and has no place in a proper university.  Nor do you then and there.

 

Thus we do understand what Russell meant by propositional  functions.   We can put parentheses around anything as well as anyone else.  It does seem that the mind has the power to combine and separate anything.  It doesn't – it sees what is already there.  I don't here and now create the world.  Being imposes itself gently onto the willing me. 

 

The property of being just out of my sight is ontologically tricky and like ontologically non-existent facts in a world made up of nothing but facts containing non-existent complex properties they put me somewhat in the same corral as the nominalists, but no.  I gambol at the thought of philosophy's teasing love affair with me.  It's not as it at first appears. ( Or is it? )  His things are everywhere just out of my sight.

 

 

 

2085  In school it was always impossible for me to write sensibly and academically about philosophical theses.  I doubt if Van Gough could have written sensibly and academically about sunflowers and the starry night.  I walked out into the evening woods and the ideas exploded out there in ontological wonder.  I had no distance; I was under them.  How others framed and explained the idea was of no interest to me.  Only the thing itself captured so tentatively in the hesitating words I muttered mattered.  I stumbled through final tests giddy. 

 

I would think about the ability of the intentional nexus to connect only one thing, if need be, because the object of thought didn't exist.  I wandered through the twilight light and through the idea and was left amazed, limpidly stunned.  But I know the idea well and clear through, and the words I used to speak it were no less than the lucid stammerings of the comprehending spirit.  I always nearly failed the test.  The teacher was never sure if it was he or I that was to blame for his not understanding just what I had managed to write down.  Philosophy is a mind mangling thing for those in love with it. 

 

I think about the rule or the canon that the naked particular exemplifies relations, but relations do not exemplify bare particulars.  I marvel at the ordering in this deepest place of Being.  I stare at Order and the Rule and my knowing them and the thought that is that knowing and I am that and I am done in.  There's no way calm speech can contain that and the fixedness of words is only a pillow under which to keep this unsettling philosophical dream.             

 

Present absences, actual possibilities, the formless form of error, that all of this is in a timeless Now, that analysis can never recover the world it destroyed, that with Existence and Difference we are at ontological rock bottom.  That consciousness is so very conscious of itself.  That the curve of his neck contained all of Being's Power.  That his smell could waft through my mind.  That I can group all these together and leave them for another time resting on my table is more than I can calmly live with. 

 

 

 

2086  So much of Eastern philosophy is a search for certainty.  For the pramana and the prameya.  Direct perception, constant association with no counter examples, deference to trusted authority, inference from out of good logic, a god's words – all employed in the search.  Paid in a currency struck in the heat of the spirit.  In the night the hard diamond head searches for rock bottom.  A great attempt to overcome illusion, the maya of an amorous god. 

 

Lovers always search for certainty.  It isn't there to be found.  Doubt is the stuff of love.  Giving up love is the only course down to the real.  Or so the pain and illusion of love would have you believe.  Paradox and backward turnings abound and bound and you are bound and it is bound to turn out bad.  Worthless mantras.  So much time wasted in mouthing words.  Down to his waist.  His rocks have bottomed out.

 

I am not one of those who moan and bemoan the fact that love is merely so-called and comes to nothing.  I knew love directly and it was real.  That is to say love exists in a timelessness.  But maybe timelessness is non-existent for you.  As you wish.  We do not all think alike.  I know love like-timeless-wise.  Surely the logic here is not too much for you and bespeaks of certainty – if indeed I did and do really know with knowing such things of which it is meaningless to speak of their time.  But can I be certain?  Only paradoxically, but paradox is from out of love and the argument ends.  His sugar bottom rocks.  I am doubled up in a certain Cartesian doubt.  And he sprouts an artesian well.  The shikshak has shacked up. 

 

Eastern philosophy tries to find certainty by abandoning love, and, of course, sex.   But then there are the boys.  Love and sex has come right inside the brahmanic fence.  The Flames flare up even after one wakes up.  The morning blazes.  A higher unity beyond the separation.  The saddhu is a boy again.  Boys need it bad.

 

  

 

2087  Ontological intuition is a tricky thing.  Such distinguishings and other separatings of the inseparables are the workings of violent spirits.  The attempt to see becomes a slaughter and an ingesting.  The many things abound.  Little, if anything, is left of the original object.  Otherworldly things come and take its place.  Surely a strenuous act of belief is required to continue.  But the continuing itself is transposed and becomes a still thing from out of no time.  And the self acting is no less than the eternal Self acting with the non-acting of what has always been.  The world is left behind.  There never really was a world. 

 

Ontology has been the only thing on your mind from this eternal beginning that is also just now beginning.  Your thought having dissolved into just the existing thought.  You knew it all along.  And you know that such eternity and such existing are real tricky notions.

 

Analytically professorial, to be eternal is to be merely unrelated by time relations to other things and such eternal things abound.  All universals and nexus are such unrelated things.  Only particulars are related by time relations to each other, which, of course, and also is not to say that these particulars are in or at moments, there being none.  No ontological thing is of itself temporal, not even the very time relations themselves.  Time, the very substance of our world, disappears and the professor finds himself analytically blowing in the mystical wind.

 

Classically professorial, to be eternal is to be more than a mere non-timed and non-temporally located entity.  Eternity is a high intellectual grandness.  Or so the mind surmises it must be as it falls helplessly into trying to think the merely analytical presentation.  Shouting, Real Existence.  A vertigo demanding belief, but giving a perfection of knowing to which we are woefully unaccustomed.    

 

 

 

2088  I do feel, though I don't know why I feel, that my words are not to be received easily or without hesitation by my readers.  Perhaps I have read too much Kierkegaard and, because I write the true faith, I expect them to be offended.  But what is that and by what?  I do know that the lover does not search for evidence and that I have given none.  I do know that the lover is not received easily nor without hesitation.  I fear being unloved by being loved.  So, I do know why after all.  Nor have I really hesitated. 

 

There is no choice.  That you love me has been fore-ordained.  Such love is, of course and of necessity, a divine unlove.  And I will be left here alone.  Soon He will come. 

 

 

 

2089  This is not mind fighting against the evils of matter.  There is no such other-sexuality present here.  This is not Being against non-being.  I do not engage in the politics of metaphysical control.  This is a philosophy without time, without emergings, without the birth pangs of creation.  No system of opposites arises out of the unstable passions of the void.  There is no airless vacuum suffocating the new.  The other is the same and with him there is here no need to prove a point.  The war is over.  The world never really was.  It is understood.       

 

Perhaps this is a form of nihilism, perhaps the complete parousia.  The middle ground could not be struck.  Each path led to somewhere else.  The final thing was just the final thing.  Anyway, I've never had a problem reaching the exquisite point.

 

 

 

2090  These writings are a completion of twentieth century ontological realism.  That is to say, they are a violation of almost every principle from which that philosophy hoped to proceed.  Nonetheless, the historical truth of realism is here, as it must be; nothing has been lost; the hope itself is not without force.    Universals, logical connectors, bare particulars, the tying nexus, ephemeral fact, all give way again to the Eternal Forms and the Logos, to the biting, baiting gods and to That.  The Cupbearer intoxicates with his beauty and Beauty itself is revealed.  Nothing has changed.  The dialectic will always turn your glance into other ways.  The mind analyzes itself vividly.  Being swells up and it is out there.   

 

 

 

2091  The mathematical glistens with existence.  It is a music that is everywhere present.  It performs the final counter-rolling of all things.  It cannot not be. 

 

I try to imagine a place without mathematical form.  I cannot.  But if there is such a place and it is within Being, it must be a secret leaking in of the godhead.  Only the super-formlessness of That or what would have been such.  It speaks itself too easily too fluidly.  The imagination slips.  I only know that I was thinking of something else, but what? 

 

In him I can see my own ideas grow large.  He speaks and moves and they slither down has arms, down his thighs, down into down.  The spirit entered him; another virgin conception, another virgin birth.  The forms ooze without breaking the puerile skin.  The unspeakable oozing, throughout, along, uneventful. 

 

Untouched, therefore not a contingent thing.  Therefore an eternal necessity.  There before anything else.

 

The presence of the mathematical is itself formless, shy, pure, and without recourse, of course.

 

Tiptoe out of here.  Turn off the music.  Go.

 

 

 

2092  There is of course no reason at all why anyone should have to do philosophy the way I do it.  No one does have to.  Except me.  And so expect me.  It's in me. 

 

He lay with me at night.  The spirit entered me.  Jesus going through walls unscathed.  Being is in the world and pour it out into these English sentences.  Into pure abstractions.  My caught-up breath.  His flashes along my skin.  No harm is being done to either you or me, read on.

 

The things of Being enter silently and make a world.  They are the entering and the entered and that that enters.  What's left?  Only Being is.  The world vanished long before it was.  I think you understand.  He's been doing this forever in his forever.  Die in his arms.  Destruction in the city.  The night glistens. 

 

The school's philosophy is so boring without him.  It's Plato without the boys.  It's Michelangelo fuori i nudi.  It's Shakespeare with real women playing the parts of women.  It's the classroom without the street lapping at its door.  I just couldn't take it any longer.  I learned philosophy in my dorm room, under the covers, dreaming.  Dreams which I took on long walks along the Volga.  I knew where the scholars all wanted to get back to. 

 

It read all those boring writings and I tried to write like that because I really did love something in there, but it was only an image of something out here.  Speculation must give way to the head on.  It was in me wanting out bad.  The times made the magic intellectualization necessary.  I caught him up. 

 

 

 

2093  In this philosophy, the relation and the nexus are external to that which they unite.  That a shirt over the back of a chair indicates to me that he is here is a fact in which the nexus of indication (or meaning or sign, call it what you will) is of neither the shirt being over the chair nor of him being here nor of me nor of them all together.  The nexus is between and outside the facts and things joined, which leaves the facts and things joined to be quietly just what they are and no more. 

 

A thing is what it is, a fact is what it is, each rests complete in itself; not one depends on the rest of the world for its being.  This independence is the great simplicity and beauty of Being.  Because of which I can walk away from everything I have ever written and lived. 

 

The relation of ownership is of neither me nor these words and the nexus of exemplification has only momentarily made these words mine and that fact, which I now see, is momentarily mine because of the nexus of seeing which I also now momentarily see – and it is all gone.  Without independence no new thing or fact could come to be, but everything else would be dragged along.  As it is, in the simplicity and independence of Being, when those other things are gone, they're gone.  A clean break. 

 

So now he's here, back again.  Oh well, one more time.  But wait – I remember now – he left last time without his shirt and so he's really not here at all.  Things remain just as they are.  That shirt is still over the back of the chair.            

 

 

 

2094  After all the analyses have been completed, after they have been folded up rounded off and placed on their proper pedestal to be admired, there's still something not quite right in the philosopher's world.  The great intertwining complexity, the cramped maze, the tight knot, the fitful acrobatic balance, the ballerina on one toe, his hair in your mouth, his mouth full of murmurings signifying nothing at all, all conspire inspiringly with that spire of yours waiting no more than the simplicity of sleep.

 

That we should be able to think these things.  That we know the difference between all the categories of Being, that they stand there beautifully naked for us to see in a brilliant seeing, itself seen.  The awareness of awareness.  The awareness that these are the final things, rock bottom, the heavenly heights, that thing in itself just as itself.  There's nothing left.  The heart breaks.  Such a great necessity of longing for longing.  He and he and he and he dissolve. 

 

Perhaps if this or that were changed just a little the spirit would emanate.  Just don't stop.  Keep going. 

 

 

 

2095  Time is a sheer bafflement for me.  That now is now and not then or never reverberates.  A lengthy rod of a sentence transverberating my fleshy mind.  Actuality comes to facts and departs leaving only possibility.  Or so it seems.  It all depends.  It's a now and then thing.  It makes no sense at all even if it is the easiest to think.  Time's encasement.  Time's supporting hand.  Awaiting time's release.  From time.  From time's too much.

 

And so I work my way around time.  I write and leave it.  Presence is presence and absence, though perfectly well thought out, is totally absent.  That this and that are identical and only one and therefore not a this and a that equally baffles, but it is somehow a friendly thought and not of time's Threat.  Will time give me time to think it through?  Will I be lost in sad nostalgia for what never could have been?  Will poetry be vanquished at last?  At the last of what?  There's no doubt about doubt.  I will work until it's time to leave time.  It's all the same. 

 

But he is something else.  That glance, lasting less than a moment, is the one eternal glance.  Eternity is within the briefest briefs.  Bereft, I continue.  One more time – the same one identical time again.  A sheer encaging bafflement.  And that rod. 

 

It seems the philosophical answer to time's engaging question is to go to the instant.  The Flash.  And then the lasting fading aura.  He is in his withdrawing.  And with my drawing the drawstring out and out and out. 

 

 

 

2096  To be present before the mind is to be.  I think the most abstract things of ontology, and, if I really do think them, they are there existing.  It is questionable, to some, whether or not I do think them, whether or not anything is present before my mind except wishful thinking.  I concede the questionableness, but argue that such questionableness is of those things as is the certainty of that.  They screw up their thousands of eyes at me and I just go on.

 

I do think ontology and I am not thinking just mind fumes.  I do also think the unthinkable and speak and write the ineffable and I insist on the necessity of certain non-existent things.  So what?  I know color separate from its existence.  I know that the very simplicity of color makes it a complexity.  And that complexity is a non-existent within complexities.  And that, color not as any particular color, is as colorless as my thought of it and that it is different from all colors because of difference itself seeping into the space between it and them where there is no space at all.  Poetry, sheer poetry, you say, the stuff of wishes and bad dreams later.  There's no thought there.  But of course there is and I go on.

 

With what do I think simple ontological things or what am I become when I am the thinking of such things?  I grasp at them and I am a grasping, concapiendum.  I grasp myself red handed and I am conceptus.    The nexus and the concept of the nexus, though intimate through another nexus or what would have been such if the intimacy were not quite so tight, are two and only in the dialectical considerations of number and its difference from the numbered are they not, but rather one, but again not so numerically.  If you get my gist.  If you can hear the tenor of my voice.  I have been taken by all this.  And taken up.

 

Nonetheless, there remains the eternal question of whether or not I have written any real philosophy or just my longing love for it.  But then that's what philosophy really is.  The lovers will have their say.

 

 

 

2097  High art is not hard-core adult anything.  It's questionable whether high art is for adults.  It's more likely that it's a pre-Adamic thing.  It's of the innocence that even our children have lost.  It's from before the law and our deadly, necessary knowledge of the law.  All hard-core things deal in the law and our ultimately being seen and then caught up by the law.  From the hard-core there is no escape.  It is something about which we must accept responsibility.  We are here born adults.  The high artist is despicable for not accepting his in-bred duty.  The high artist is no more that a freak.  Pre-Adamic-shmamic nonsense.  We must accept this hard-core reality, the only reality. 

 

There is no middle ground between here and There.  Here there is no There.  Those who really get it on know that literary hard core is laughable.  The artist will not get their money for a second look.  A philosophy of the world is less than childish; it is unmarketable.  I have been forced to remain pure.  The world is gone.   

 

 

 

2098  I didn't step out of ontology into boy love, but I brought love's things into ontology.  Love's trembling is the solicitation of Being.  The final and sure thing, so obliteratingly real, his sudden come on, you take as you took it straining through all the starry-eyed emanations right from the beginning.  You know the real and the necessary and the sticking out right there of Being as well as anyone and there's no way you're going to forget it.  Being is.  All seduction, all those times you were being so gently waylaid, brought you nowhere you hadn't already been.  You know the timelessness of things as well as anyone.  You'll be back.  And back.  And his back is so smooth and broad.

 

I do start off with a kind of academic distance and quiet, but then the clamorers arrive and I'm off.  It's criminal.  It's just criminal.  Are you coming along or not?  The night is on.  The flowers in this garden of Academus have become downright paradisiacal.  Cheeks aflame.  Being calls.  Love's table is set.  The beloved's blood is there for you to drink.  What's about to happen to you, Honey, is unspeakable.  Never will never be. 

 

 

 

2099  There are those, I suppose, who might or may write or who have written books on the twin topics of philosophy and homosexuality.  It seems to me that I in these pages haven't.  And I haven't paid much attention to those others, though I always remember Sartre's remark that the natural bent of the homosexual mind is toward a centripetal, Platonic essentialism.  Sartre knew little of the homosexual mind.  He could characterize it no better than any of the rest of us, and the rest of us, if we dare but look, are overwhelmed by the complexity of such an undertaking.  I am writing from out of that centripetal Platonic essentialism, but that is no more than to say that I am of the other great branch of the philosophical stream, the one Sartre refused to step into, much less wallow in.

 

Rather than homosexuality as my topic, I think I have merely hit upon the topos of the Platonic otherworld.  Which, for us, is now a great Christian idea.  I have both its dialectical nastiness and its wiltingness.  I am an Oxford and an Andalusian Don in bed with my dreams.  I tremble before the Duende.  Adonis has laid me out.  Modern day homosexuals find little here of value.  High flying abstractions are not in vogue.  Boys giving birth to intellectual patterns are nowhere in sight.  Socrates is biting only the air.  The sighing Uranian finds it all rather tedious.  I am writing the great difficulty of ontology.  That it becomes theology and a god is with me is of no concern to anyone here.

 

As in Islamic poetry the boy and his spinning lover are only idealized forms.  They are the dikr of paradise.  They evaporate in the dry desert air.  The earthly fleshly family is much too solid.  They are, though, somewhat akin to the frail beings of homosexual real life.  I don't know, perhaps I have written the topic of homosexuality in spite of the contrary insistence of homosexuals that I have merely imagined.  But Platonic paederastia is too hot to handle, and no one in the schools knows how or where to put it in the syllabus, even if it is at the center of the Great Works.

 

 

 

2100  My understanding of Christianity is Pauline.  We cannot save ourselves from destruction.  No amount of following any law, no amount of being good is of any avail.  No amount of penance, no correctness of belief, no public confessing of one's faith in any god or God is the slightest bit adequate to the task of salvation.  There is no contract or covenant or deal one can make that is any more than fleeting breath.  There is nothing you can do to stop your final failure and oblivion.  It will be done to you if it is to be done. 

 

 The Christian religion states that because of the sacrifice of God to God your salvation will be accomplished.  Trust in God to have done it and don't despair.  Also, and this is so important, don't turn trust and not despairing into an act of yours that you will have done to accomplish your salvation.    Those who trust in God, that is to say, those who have given up on their own ability to bring about their salvation will find it already present.  Even in the intensity of not believing and in mighty despair.  In the vision of failing it is there to be taken.  Your hand will be made to take it.

 

I was raised among a people who called themselves Christian and I do the same.  If I had been raised among Hindus, by the grace of God, I would have called myself a Hindu and I would have worshipped Brahma God and the Great Entourage and it still would have been true that I could have done nothing to effect my salvation and that, by abandoning my own effort and trusting in God, I, by the grace of God, would have found salvation – because of the sacrifice of God to God for me.  In other words, in my Christian words, by the act of Jesus, all who trust in God, however He is seen, are saved.  It is not necessary to be a Christian nor even to know of Jesus.  Pray for that trust to be given.     For God so loved the world ….. that whosoever believeth in Him… (this "Him" refers to God, not to Jesus as many Christians mistakenly think). 

 

Christianity as I see it is a vision of a lover God.  It matches the feelings running through my body and perhaps yours – no doubt through yours also.  I and you are made as we are.  I love the way both I and you were made.   Don't worry about our being alone when in church, I have found many references to others who felt as we do.  It is a great romance and an intoxicating erotics.  I flow with the pure abstractions around your delightful form.  It is good that I am as I am.  You are God.

 

Because we know love so well we know the failure of love to love, and thus we know the necessity of the love to lift us up or we are lost.   All of love is outside the law.  It is a vision of the Beloved directly without such an intermediary.  He is naked in his nakedness.  Strikingly.  A strange thing is in us.  I have my hand around it.  Thus Christianity is the lover's love.  It is a holy shudder.  It is the desire for the strangeness of flesh. 

 

 

 

2101  Bergmann kept his distance from all mystical and religious statements, he says, more or less, not because of his empirical-scientific desires, but because he finds all of them to be a form of nominalism, the land of non-existing shadows, the land of forgotten distinctions.  A mysticism of sunlight, differences and Existence eluded him.  The poetry of Romanticism finding a home in the deadly Aryian light of Nazism, I am sure, left him cold.  He was sure that any momentary attractiveness hid an ontological absurdity.  But then trouble entered into his thinking when he tried to retain good commonsense, because, as he admitted, all philosophical statements are absurd and, to make matters worse, nominalism seems to be the natural bent of the human mind.  He felt he could easily lift out the commonsense element within the seeming absurdity of his philosophy of existence and overcome its unnaturalness.  Mankind goes, of himself, toward the darkness, not toward the light.  I think Bergmann fell into confusion on this matter of commonsense and religion.  I am one with him in his desire for Light and Existence and to find a way against the prevailing wind, but I obviously tack differently.  

 

It seems to me that in the end Bergmann let the world be more important than his philosophy.  He wanted philosophy to serve the world and he was willing to let himself be the clown reciting absurdities.  Scientific materialism ate him up.  He hated scientific materialism as a philosophy, but he hated also the idea that philosophy could usurp the proper place of science.  He was too deferential to a science that did not understand science.  The swirling vortices of primal matter are lovely things from nominalism.  Maybe he also felt the dark love.  I cannot judge.  Did he really believe in the things he had so laboriously found?  It really is a difficult thing.

 

 

 

2102  Kierkegaard announced that, while the many writers were busy about making matters easier for their readers, he would instead make them all more difficult.  I have done the same, not because I had intended to do so, I had in fact intended to be one of the many, but because the simplicity of the subject matter is the stuff of transcendental airiness.  Or rather the final lack of air in the transcendental realms makes it so hard for the reader to take flight with any of these ideas.  For example, this philosophy considers such a thing as "and".  It is a thing so simple and easy that it seems that any sustained consideration of it is, not only unnecessary, but madness.  And so I hide the madness in these, what I hope are attractively distracting, complicated paragraphs. 

 

The work must be lovingly done.  Both reader and writer must be at each other.

 

 

 

2103  Today Everyone wants to get away from the untruth and the unfairness of pre-conceived ideas and get to the thing itself, which usually and eventually changes into a simple getting away from ideas into a direct feel for the something.  It would be an anti-intellectualism except that there is a very heady amount of dreary intellectualizing about the whole enterprise.  Directly feeling your feelings, your sensings, your intuitive knowing is not easy to maintain and so we council each other excessively.  There's a lot of sitting, but little dancing.  No one seems to feel the beat yet, and thus the need for more talk.  What to do?

 

The fiery sensum of the sensualists seems to be the thing to find.  Or the lush quiet.  Or the soothing emptiness.  Or the happy gathering.  It all seems a long ways from the dematerialized spirits of Platonic emanations.  Or Peter's up-side-down martyrdom.  Or the tortures of the Ontological Argument.  Or my worry about the existence of the bare particular.  And the fact that I want to argue about the existence of Difference gets me excommunicated from among the blest.  I am pushy, intellectually.  But my rhythms and images are the most fiery.  Still and perhaps I am Icarus.  I am trying to get to the intellectual thing itself.  I want to be intimate with Idea.  I relish thought, not learning how not to think.  My solitude and the movements of the Form of Form in my mind and down my back are enough.  Am I among the Everyone or not?      

 

 

 

2104  Those who reject the presence of any eternal form in the world, who find all things transient and meaningless, do have the lurid beauties of poetic sadness; but it has to end.  To speak of forgetting eternity in favor of the sensuousness at hand does present a lure by which one can catch up oneself in that forgetfulness.  Sad philosophies are eternally beautiful.  Ah, to stay right there.  But death comes, or so the philosophy says and to deny that would be to lose the sensuousness of coming loss.   Unbeauty transformed thus into beauty is illusory and in need of transformation and it is soon accomplished.  Then at last the knot of rejection rejected accepted. 

 

Nominalism wanted to be true to the world as it presents itself.  As it is before the mind performs a shift in set and analysis sets in.  The nominalist mind hates the mind.  Or so I deduce while it protests at any such thing.  He repeats that he believes it is necessary to stop impotent incessant thinking and just be.  To get outside one's thoughts into the world.  To let the world be and then to accept it.  To give oneself over to the loving arms of the flow of time and life.  To wheel around with the wheel.  And I wonder why he always speaks in such an ethereal impersonal third person.  I agree with everything he has said, for his sake, and I wonder why he doesn't take his own advice, because I see no real self in his words.  Nominalists are nominalists because they must be.  Nothing, it seems, strikes them except themselves speaking to themselves.  Or have I been too harsh?  He will, of course, agree with me, but only because he always agrees and then, but dialectically, he again says he agrees with me and I think he doesn't want to at all, but he disagrees agreeably with everything.  Or I am just baffled by him.  It's impossible to argue with someone who sees no real order to things.  I should never venture out into these analyses.  Does he read sad poetry also?

 

 

 

2105  Perhaps the realist and the nominalist are striving for the same thing.  If I feel lonely, I feel the loneliness and I am aware of my feeling lonely and on and on, the thinking is relentless.  I, as a realist, want to say that what I am feeling is loneliness and the thoughts of that are thoughts of that, none of it can be explained away as anything else.  I fear the nominalist will try to explain it away as biological ooze or a social effect or a soliloquy of empty words.  Perhaps he will say it is really fear or self-love or a political loss of control – anything but loneliness.  It seems to me that everything is always something else for the nominalist.  Nothing really is.  He's such a rationalizer of ubiquitous dissimulation.  I want to say loneliness is really loneliness, a thing that I didn't create in my thinking, but that real thing that others have felt exactly as I and have done so for as long as there has been any kind of consciousness to be aware of that thing there exemplified.  I don't explain anything away.  I let it be as it appears and presents itself.  Isn't that what the nominalist said he too wanted before he started all his psychological verboseness?  Words are only words and they have meaning beyond themselves.  Great masses of words neither explain nor create anything.  They point.  Even if they are intimate with the pointed at. 

 

Knowing that the world must have form and believing that form exists only in the mental word, the nominalist tries to build a world with proper form by writing academic papers or by talking talking talking at endless social get-togethers, which if he is lucky are memorable sentimental drunken lovefests. 

 

For me the Forms about are beautiful beloved.  I think the nominalist is jealous.  Beloveds will tolerate no other.  Only he is to be loved, only he is to be god, only he is the all in all, only he can be watched.  His words have power to make happen, he insists.  And if I had not been the lover of Being, but the beloved, I too would probably have been a nominalist and thought all my thoughts were the beauty of the nighttime Nothing, which I could command right well.

 

 

 

2106  Realism tries to be true to the reality that is directly before the mind's eye.  It sees a blue ball and says that here is an instance of first and second order universals (among other things).  The analysis continues on to bare particulars and nexus of various sorts and sets and classes and structures and more orderings and even absences and it quickly becomes apparent that in this great circus that has suddenly come to town the little blue ball has been totally lost. 

 

The reality of realism is the clamoring emanating heavenly Circus.  Soon a slum.  Broadway in the morning.  Academic screw-ups.  The boy moved in unexpectedly. 

 

I guess that is the real world after all.  The analysis seems to be faultless.  The blue ball was just a come-on.  Truth is the freedom to go on.  But not to go back home.

 

 

 

2107  Have I left the door open and now the wind of non-existence will come and take the reality away from my realism?  Have I let in nominalism – the chanting?  The Continuum Hypothesis has been mouthed by so many mathematicians that by now it's hardly worth tasting.  These same ones are always telling us just what a Platonist would have to say not being a formalist.  And I wonder if they ever knew the smooth thigh of a boy come surprisingly and just continually.  Now that's a hypo-thesis.  Real, unreal, transcendental, what a number!  And the wind blows deep down along the hillocks.  What the fuck is going on here?!  We must be discrete.  But it was so unrelentingly smooth. 

 

One thing is just one thing.  That it is very discretely many is another thing all together.  And then each goes off by itself.  Pop!

 

There's no way the humpty-dumpty of the continuum is ever going to be put back together once broken.  There's no way the broadway boy can more than just visit the farm again.  The world is gone.  The Really Real is here.  Super-Being has found Super-Boy.  Red cape and all.  Now clean up all those messy axioms lying about everywhere.  It's hopeless.  The morning came.

 

Om, mani padme Om    Oh Man, he put me on!  So fine.

 

 

 

2108  I do not write out of consideration of all the possible rhythm structures.  I consider the Idea.  And then the idea considers me and I am led about.  I am its starry-eyed thrall.  I am become that.  It's repetition, mere repetition, nothing more.   Participles, infinites, relative clauses, stretch out, turn and close in upon themselves.  Prepositions pre-positioning themselves right at the front of my mind create the space.  Complements complete.  Paratactic, syntactic, whatever, it ends and then begins again.  Time is the coming around of time.  Eternity is the total pointlessness of it all.  But then this god's pointer points one more time and I am off to his great big nowhere at all.  Stars fall. 

 

The reason for all the non-finite verb forms in philosophy, though not in philosophical history writing, is that the god is present and he insists on being neither here nor there, not this or that, just a nowhere, nothing at all.  Leaving you desperate for definition.  For boundaries.  For simple bondage.  He breaks the sentences.  The wind of heaven blows through and around and, unless you had somewhere else to go, there you are cruising like a missile only a few feet above the ground.

 

         

 

2109  The scientific and the philosophical must be kept apart, laboriously kept, absolutely apart.  But let's be clear about that absoluteness.  There are not two scientific or two philosophical realms.  One does not scientifically study philosophical things.  And one does not philosophically write of the things of science.  One does not let the other invade.  There is no commerce between.  There is in fact no battle for territory.  Among all the facts of the way things are there is no philosophical thing. 

 

Consider a blue thing traveling at the speed of light.  Or consider a sad boy studying the rust on an old hubcap.  Scientifically there is so much to be said.  So many relations to be established.  A swelter of hypotheses to be defended.  A rush of emotions to be abated, and institutions to be established for more study on these dreadful consequences of thing on thing.  Science is a busy time.  Philosophy, though so very human, is off by itself, somewhat interested, but mostly oblivious.  Philosophy wonders if relations really exist and if so are they external to and separate from the relata, and science stops, and wonders through what door, forgotten and left open, did that question enter.

 

Consider three electrons spinning or vaguely diffusing around a nucleus.  Are numbers things by themselves and separate from the things numbered?  Is there some sort of nexus uniting number to the numbered?  Is Number (divine and timeless) or number (just number) one thing and thus a thing united to number or Number by a nexus itself unnumbered?  Do nexus fall into sorts and what is the falling?  Consider how these considerations are worthless to science.  Number is not a thing that enters into any causal relation with all the many and numerically ordered things of the world.  The Nexus or nexus is to be completely overlooked as obvious and like the street urchin almost nothing.  Science only begrudgingly gives a glance at him, maybe just an it. 

 

The things of philosophy are obvious and not really there.  Just why the human mind so often gets caught up on their flimsy non-existence is becoming of interest only to the police.  And the great majority of those who call themselves philosophers, lovers, are only narcs.  Former scared delinquents now informants, which, I guess, makes them a proper study for the science of criminology.  So, if philosophy is a part of science at all it is of criminology.  And thus, because of the obvious virulence recently and ever aroused, in divine science, canonically and curatively speaking, it is the sin (but not the Sin) of sin. 

 

Science thinks that classical philosophy leads to bad things.  State sanctioned philosophy today has become the undoing of philosophy.  There is in fact no other world, no transcendent anything, no eternal heart's desire, no love to die for, no sufi Tavern, just an ordinary drunkenness.  To lead a young student into philosophy was and still is a matter for capital punishment.  Athens continues in its ways.  Let him soak his desires for transcendence in ordinary alcohol. 

 

I write only somewhat as a classical Platonist.  Those guys were proto-scientists.  I write from out of the no-time past the death of their great God.  I write the twisting in the heart and the groin.  I write the people's obvious desire to be rid of science.  I write the completed passion. 

 

 

 

2110  Nonetheless, the positivists were right about one thing – philosophical statements are absurd.  But there's absurdity and then there's the Absurd.  And then there's the absurd leap into the intellectual Sun.  And that absurd thing you do to me in bed.  And the total craziness of falling in love, but that's another matter all together.  And the absurd apulse that there is something rather than nothing at all.  And that you are such a sheer awareness of it and what did he mean by that anyway?.  All in all, the absurdity of a thing never stopped anyone from grabbing it and sticking it right in his back pocket.  Philosophy is loved.  Prudish non-philosophy isn’t.

 

The positivists tried to explicate the absurd into commonsense science.  It didn't work.  It was only a promise.  A lover's promise.  Not much.  Their students wouldn't stand for it.  No one believes one who feigns non-love.  The screw up hurt too much.  Philosophy had to be taken seriously or it had to be blown up.  Explosions are everywhere.  And I'm back here taking it seriously.  The god's finger is up my back.  A positively delicious thing.

 

 

 

2111  I suppose I really am a writer and a philosopher, though it is eternally fashionable to humbly deny that.  Or to make each a humble thing to be, and thus to be doubly humble because I am both.  Humility is really not involved here, nor humbleness (English being somewhat awkward about that latter thing).  And my merely supposing it is no more than polite and necessary hesitation.  I am a writer and a philosopher.  But because of what I write I am a Writer and a Philosopher, and I am neither.  I write the received Writings of Philosophy. 

All writers, if they are real writers, write only the received word.  Just as beauties, if they are real beauties, reveal only the beauty they have naturally, but also divinely, received.  Or singers or dancers or mathematicians.  What we have is given.  No manual can help concoct a presence from out of an absence.  Thus a beauty, eventually, will have to admit he is a beauty and let it be and live with it.     

 

 

 

2112  The point of religion is not to promote the Law but to overcome it.  It lifts man above the Law.  Without religion we are subject to the ravages of what inexorably must be.  Without religion we are soon destroyed.  Without religion we have only science and its going from nothingness to nothingness.  In science man is a little thing, even if he does know that.  In science man is a part of the rising up and going under of the species.  In religion man is bound back into an original grandeur.   Only religion gives man direct awareness of Being itself.  Only in religion can he find his imperial sovereign self.  Beyond the law, outside the law, the Lawless one.  The immoral Greatness.  He knows.  Resentment and loss vanquished.  The lover's acceptance accepted.   

 

The merciful God of Islam lets you forget about all that happened in the world now lifted up into his transcendence.  The perfect God of Christianity finds a way out for you through himself.  The East gently lifts you off the wheel of impossible karma.  And the Israelites, knowing the ways of love, were always able to talk their way back to their jealous lover.   God bends.  Man has captured his heart. 

 

Only the damned materialists insist there is no way out.  Only they accept doom and oblivion.  Only they can stomach the bitter food.  Fortunately logic and the obvious are not on their side.  These poet lovers of pain and despair are in love with that that they hate.  A strange love.  La belle dame sans merci.

 

I simply believe.  Could it be that I understand because I believe or that I believe in order to understand or is it that this is only the barb of love that is dragging me along?  Love crashes.  The beloved is rejected.  The Fire settles in right behind the eyelids.  Angels flame.  Your boyfriend is sitting with another.  "You suffer everything because you are poor."  You know and feel and have perfect explanations for the Cut of Being.  The red reeling real is with you and it is now yours.  A god has taken you for himself and has given you a love greater than you wanted and now you have no choice but to go with him.  Divinity has infused you and fused with you and there is neither refusing nor confusing what has happened with mere dreams.  Beyond the emptiness there is the Plenum.

 

 

 

2113  Though my sexual desires are directed differently, though only in comparison with my immediate fellows, they are not so when I am seen among those fellows more intimate with the inner doings of our civilization.  Here I have been directed out onto the grassy margins.  There I walk up the steps of the temple above the agora.  The truth is that I have never felt marginalized out here on the Iowa prairie because I know the informing nexus between the forms here and the Forms there.  This broad open place is tornadicly forced back.  I spin at the center.  I am directed to the self of my self.  The other is in me. 

 

My directedness is the direct erection.  This nexus is his gentle neck I cling around.  Sweet breath, wet kisses, tempestuous curls.  Commander.  I meander among the hills of your rising and falling going around never without the final moment Moment.  Nothing has changed.  This is the center that has always ruled this heavenly city.  So civilized.  The merging margins ever emerging again.  Right up here in the Cumulous clouds. 

 

Corrected.  Connected.  Perplexed rectangles.  And tangles.  In the fields.  And bangles.  He bangs.  It's all one to me.  We repair off for more comparisons later. 

 

 

 

2114  I think you get the point of what I'm trying to say.  Philosophy cannot be said perfectly, but in it's perfect imperfection it does have that perfection that is the expression of the Perfect.  Surely you get my point, though such a point is pointless.  As Form is formless and Time is timeless.  As surely as the Certain is uncertain.  And this saying says nothing that can be said well or badly or at all.

 

The logic is impeccable.  My sin is somewhere else.  I have not written ordinary things that are the necessities of life and life is necessary for now.  Any delight is only a flash and life is the happiness of enduring substance or nothing.  And the sexual itch of pubescent wings is only the scratching of the blush of dawn along the ground of night.  Worthless metaphors.  Gored matadors.  The bull of the day rushes at me. 

 

That I use boys to explain ontology is laughable.  But it's the Great Tradition.  Maidens are useful only for laughing at the ontologist as he falls in the great pothole plainly in the road unseen as he looks up to see the face of that Boy stretched across the heavens.  It's a matter of competition as the beloveds vie.   

 

I really do know the last things.  I know Actuality and the Light of ontological truth.  I know Certainty.  I know Divinity and Presence and Pure Difference.  I know Knowing.  But I do not know if this before my mind is actual or if this ontological fact is true and thus really a transcendent fact.  Or if the god I think of is the divinity itself or if he is present and if there really is a difference between him and me.  Of the simple things in themselves I have perfect awareness.  Of their complicity and complexity and is this that or otherwise I can only make an educated guess which is nothing that would lead me out into the open and true Light.  The boy may be mine and then again I may have only wished it.  I know Number and times and is perfectly but whether or not 16 times 437 really is 6992, I cannot tell you with any perfection of knowing.  I know Actuality but whether or not I will ever see that this world was only an imagined possibility, I cannot tell.  Illusions abound, lovers present themselves, death comes close and I see none of it, my reality being only the everyday uneventful.  These are the next to the last things and I know them weakly if at all.  But I really do know the last things.

 

 

 

2115  The writings of an enfant terrible are usually too sweet and comfortable for me.  They avoid mentioning the intellectually difficult things.  Only the loose things of the flesh and our dealings with the flesh are hung out and then lovingly.  It's as though we are supposed to be upset but we end up thinking about what a pitiful and delicate thing a human being is and he should find someone to hold him all night long. 

 

It's the same with materialism and materialists.  The final liquor sweet slide into oblivion, the final alzheimers, the final incontinence, the desperation is somehow the only truth and lucid acceptance of it is wisdom itself.  It's an old man with his lovely gadgets.  It's the old woman worrying about her grandchildren, if she has any.  It's the old bachelor washing out his dirty underwear.  It's entropy.  Thought follows flesh.  Soon the repetitiveness of a boring literary style.          

 

At the heart of Being there is an intellectually difficult thing.  At the heart there is a strongly beating heart.  And lucid paradox.  And an awareness that will not give way.

 

The tight order ordering remains.  All possibility of slipping into oblivion is gone.  Your tense attention is demanded.  The division is permanently established.  Being is and non-being is not.  Beyond that there is no beyond.  That is the final thing.

 

You are the particular you are.  That thing exists.  You are the substance of your own substance.  Resting neither in time nor in space, just in yourself.  There is no non-being to finally become.  There is no final becoming.  There is no becoming.  It is just itself.  And that is that.  

 

The enfant terrible waits and the horror never comes.  It is never more than it is.  He never becomes less than just himself.  Forever.  The slurripy end to thought isn't.  One thing and then another.  The Man of the Eternal Embarrassments and Shadowy Fumblings is just one of the Ideas.  I suppose it is as good a topic of writing as any.  It too will never give way in a Time that is itself no more than an Idea.  The difference between Man and man, between Time and time, between thought and the thing thought, between reality and the artistic amoral expression of it is of the delicious paradox.  The Difference that is fixed.  And the eternal knowledge of it that you are.   It will do no good to complain that that is just my subjective opinion, no matter how you may wish it would.  Mankind does know the truth of things.  This Night is wonderfully lucid.  Oh, my beautiful boy, you should learn the truly terrible, your Lover.

 

My friend, there is no sweet oblivion, there is only your lucid awareness and that has no end.  You are, no matter how hard it is to get accustomed to it.  Thought is.  After the orgasm you are back lying on your bed. 

 

 

 

2116  It isn't that God will help the lame and the dying, but that God is the lame and the dying.  He is the being of beings.  He is the Form that informs.  He is the particularity of that particular and He is that particular.  He is the possibility and the actuality that is that Form with that particular.  Shot all throughout, divinity takes care of itself.  It is God that stumbles lame and who dies.  It is your worry and desire to help.  He is your feeling of helplessness.  He is the noise on the street that will not let you think these thoughts through.

 

Because God is everything there is nothing you can do.  Your pain, your joy, your anxiety, your blessed relief is just Him.  That makes it all meaningless.  There is only the blank stare.  The intellectual blank stare. 

 

If God is, the world isn't.  Take your choice.  Because this is a God philosophy, I live with that Everywhere thing in the Nowhere-at-all and no world.  My realism has come to that.  Love is constraint and obsession and I have chosen love.  But surely I had no choice with either God or love.  God is even that.  And that is Love.  Perhaps in your philosophy you have a choice.

 

I am the intellectually lame.  My dying is my appearance before men.  My being is shot through with divinity and I feel helpless.  I pray to be, here, an ordered noise.  A sweet canticle. 

 

 

 

2117  The sun is too bright and it never lets up.  This truth permits me no cool darkness.  This divinity gives me no relief.  I can find no way to a soothing touch.  I know what I am saying.  I know that this is the end of the dance with this metaphysical logic.  I do find some relief in the fact that these are also the thoughts of Van Gough and Nietzsche and Kierkegaard.  And they are of the Dostoyevskian Jesus confronted by the Grand Inquisitor.  They are surely words a psychologist would try to eradicate.  But I know what I am saying and I say it in spite of that.  I do not say it in spite.  The Light has no darkness in it.

 

The superman existence of excessive light blinds and the madness of the one who left the cave is whispered.  There's nothing new.  All is new once again and once again.  Even the intellectual night glistens penetratingly.  And absence is a superfetation of Being.  The anti-mystics become downright mystical.  Presence abounds across the languid burnished prairies.

 

  

 

2118  I speak of Being and I think of all the things of Being.  I write of Being and all the categories of Being find a place is the ensuing words.  I am like Aristotle.  I have the problems of Aristotle.  Problems lovingly compounded by Being's being in all the erotic movements of Being's call.  And now, like Heidegger, I wonder just what Being is in itself aside from those things, forms and categories in its pursuing us and we are being laid out. 

 

Being, aside from these, is as nothing.  Aside from my philosophizing about it in all its logical difficulties What is it?  Besides a contemplation of its quiet turning from this into that Form What can I say it is?  Aside from now face, now visage, now countenance, in the rhythms and changes of language, How can I see it?  It resides always in the other than itself.  Just as the godhead is always only for us the persons of the trinity.  And yet it is not that.  The problems.  Enough time has been spent and no solution found and surely that is that. 

 

I mention Parmenides and Being and non-being and the understanding of that is perfect.  The words fall rhythmically exact.  There is no problem.  The One and the Many give way.  The ease is frightening.  The solution is the Solution and How can one just sit still and let it be.  Tear up the place!  Let criticism divide and deconstruct.  Tomorrow we can gather and construct again in the sun.  Shirts will fly away and the boys will gleam.              

 

 

 

2119  We can write what we cannot speak.  That is to say, there are some things we cannot speak with impunity.  Socrates was put to death, and would be put to death today, for speaking what we require schoolboys to read.  Philosophy is absurd, and taught as the directly present and manifestly true, and not as the thought of another unknowing and strangely religious time, is forbidden.  Any truth that is in the absurdities of philosophy must be translated and transformed into a straight and now explicated form of the former twistedness.  The gods and transcendent unities and elevated participations in all the divine orgies now become the most mundane of marginal mechanisms within the socially conditioned sub-conscious.  But wasn't Socratic questioning supposed to suppress all that theology?  Wasn't he the real modern-day scientist?  Didn't he deny the gods.  Mei genoito.

 

Contrary to college Privatdozenten Socrates did not after all deny the Separate Forms.  Socrates was not the nominalist the philosophically skeptical would like to have had him become.  He was not the non-lover of the disinterested.  He was not a pre-post-modern de-constructionist.  He was a Platonist, I surmise.  No one puts to death a mere worldly unbeliever unbelieving in repressive divine authority.  They put to death the one who is letting in the fiery spirits. 

 

No one speaks philosophical things believingly on the worldly side of the limelights.  The Monstrum cannot be really among the people.  Like a rock-and-roll freak, he is only from out of the dreams of the solitary boy undoing the world.  The boy so always of my philosophical analyses, the boy who doesn't write because he is, the boy who speaks in these written words.  I do not speak philosophy out in the world, that is, not now.  There was a time I tried to speak the words to someone I was trying to make my lover, but it made me strange and he politely bolted.  No prison psychologist ever got hold of me.  But in the whiteness of this page I am here across from you alas unattainable.

 

The ethical thing to do is to keep the two worlds apart.  That is the struggle.  But we don't want to do it.  And that is the greater struggle.  Intellectually, there are not two worlds at all.  Absolutes will tolerate no competition.  Beloveds are extremely jealous.  It's Being and non-being.  The two are led back to one.  And of that one thing it is either/or.  There's no figuring love, which is where the ethical finally ends up, vanquished. 

 

On the street I look like and act like an old celibate professor, not like the Boy of my writings.  You will do the same until this street disappears.

 

 

 

2120  There's no way to sensibly write about just why philosophy cannot be written sensibly.  The strange constructions all along the entangling non-transporting back alleys of thought will always invite and enchant but no real inhabitant will ever come out to greet you, no ride-worthy vehicle will ever pull up alongside to take you anywhere worth seeing, no guide will come along speaking the language of home.  You do not belong there.  And you could easily never go there again.  But you do.  So often, you almost think you understand the plan of the place.  The transcendent, divine, inscrutably scrutable plan of this magic city.  And just why I wrote that is not only a mystery but a surprise to me. 

 

Those sensible writings called philosophy aren't.  They are writings about philosophy, which are not only easy to sensibly write but must be so as a cover.  They are our scientifically managed history.  They keep the philosopher's head from rolling down the street.  The sensible writers use graduate student intermediaries between them and the wild side where Philosophy is, knowing their students almost always spend some time there.  

 

I think I have never read any writer who didn't agree that Philosophy, classical Philosophy, that is to say, the real thing with a big P, sensibly considered, is Mad, with a big M.  Even its most academically honored lovers agree.  As, of course, did Plato, The Writer, and about whom we know next to nothing, except that he thought that and a few other details.  Academic departments have been set up mainly to tear down what he set up and then are to be torn down if and when that happens, though it was supposed to have happened by now.  We do so want to be sensible and sane.  

 

 

 

2121  When I was a boy I loved to read Popular Science and Popular Mechanics magazines, I fell in love with mathematics of all kinds and physics and tinker-toy chemistry and every science, and I read, in the back of the classroom, every encyclopedia article describing the inner workings of the most complex electronic devices.  I figured out everything except how a sewing machine works, which I still don't understand.  And now today I write about the madness of philosophical love.  What happened?  Did my personal chemistry get the better of me?  Or is that the natural outcome of all that thinking?  I also assiduously tried the boy next door theologically.  I was trying.  I can penetrate to the angels.

 

I am complete.  Mathematics and logical-ontological puzzles, the most refined of the abstract things, give way of necessity to the most lovely love.  And to sex, which is love visibly intense.  Form and the Form of Form.  The eyes almost bleed.  And I have learned that mechanical contraptions serve our lovemaking and that is their only purpose.  And mathematical formulas moving with the still eternal dancer entrance and they are understood in the intellectual swoon of being broadly led across.  And then the End and the understanding is complete and you turn in and sleep.  Structure diving without that pearl of final understanding is a moment of nervous foreplay.  Philosophy is finality. 

 

 

 

2122  Today we do not speak of gods and spirits and transcendent participations because these are terrors to the insane.  Liturgical recitations only cause harm.  The repetition of chant becomes obsession.  The rhythms of holy writing lure one into a seduction.  Swelling form is forbidden desire now attacking.  The human being is too close to mental breakdown.  His intelligence is too strong and it will lead him where his brain cannot follow.  The truth of religion is irrelevant to the need at hand.  We need safety.  We need not to know.  But not all of us. 

 

If there are transcendent things, otherworldly ontological things, magnificently isolated analytical things, then we must look and acknowledge the danger, the dominium, the intellectual light in which they hang.  We are all close to insanity.  Someone must try to understand.  We cannot simply wait for the end.  The end may never come. 

 

The boy here is always in fear of the man.  And the man of the boy.  And then the killing.  Then the repetition.  This turning wheel must be broken and a still love put in its place, the two gently rising.  No more incoming murderous archetype.  They must be redeemed from the insanity of the fearful rigor of insanity.  A sweet romance must replace the frightening.  A truth and a reality.  A lovely madness full of the delights of this god.        

 

 

 

2123  An introduction to a piece of writing is not and should not be, I suppose, a writing itself.  Hesitating, I wonder if I can then write this introduction.  An introduction is rather a speaking about the writing.  For those of you who have listened to yourself and others discuss the words you yourself, at another time put down, a very different solitary time, for you the fright at the prospect of such a discussion happening again is overwhelming, I imagine.  And I see myself here writing these words down.  This will inevitably be a writing about the writer encountering the non-written word.  I don't think I have to describe the situation in any revealing detail as I am sure you know very well what I am saying writing.  But this is an introduction and I am discussing this with you gently and perhaps you have something to say on the matter.  No matter, such saying only says what we have all already been saying for a long time.  And the tedium of the long time settles in again.  I think in the end there is nothing to say about my writing, or I don't want there to be, or I do want there to be with the understanding that there really is nothing and we speak only to fall into the stupor of the ineffable and be comforted.  Discussions should be a lovefest of destruction.  Speaking tears up the written page; let the destruction begin.  A marvelous orgy.  Remembering always that a transcribed orgy is worthless and it is certainly not a piece of writing.     

 

 

 

2124  I never really got over those rock-and-roll love songs of the 50's.  I should say I never really got over those boy singers.  Rock-and-roll isn't the song so much as it is the one who, not sings, but displays the song all up and down his lithely moving body.  I can still feel the lump in my throat, the twisting in my heart, the tightening neck muscles.  Strange things to be what love's all about, but alum sweetness rising.  And the bitter taste of cum.  And the sour crotch stickiness all over me.  That's what love is.  Strange strange strange. 

 

Skin is an adventure.  The geometry of protrusions and intrusions makes my mind gyrate.  Gleams changing into a steady glare into the darkness.  Solitary oozings.  Bang bang bang inside my head.  So hard it hurts.  Finally a star point of light and it's over.  Finding him again is merely a matter of manipulating the transcendent.  Far places so close.

 

People say that love's a game.  It may be a kind of alchemy.  It is, no doubt, the product of music companies and nighttime car radios from General Motors.  "I saw the best minds of my generation …"  It is Mohammedan angels in tenth grade math books spinning at the end of radiating vectors.  Avoiding the social scene, finding solace in the repeating presences of medieval orders under the covers of darkness.  The nightlight is on.  Quiet descends from the starry sky.  Eye punctures. 

 

Beat poetry staggers me.  Where are my lovely articulate penis abstractions?  Internal vowel alterations and that high cracking boy voice.  Sex and thought collapse.  The night goes on sweetly.  Too sweetly. 

 

 

 

2125  Not worrying much about either Plato's Third Man or Bradley's Infinite Regress, I boldly begin to set up, perk up, liven up every nexus I can find.  This is the outting of the Real.  No more repression, suppression, or depression.  An impression of compression against the sheets is all that is necessary and I am off.  I will not be academically humble.  The night is on, the lights light up, I might just fight.  The world is at an end.  Its maker arrives.  The discrete beings are no longer discreet.  There's no way the simple love of those who are simply lovers will simply sleep now that the god of Love is here.  The Entourage is on tour.  Every ontological category in the books has booked a place in the fair.  And the fair will be taken as they always are and command comes quickly.  Sit down, lie down, get down, let the dawn down into the down down there.  Glistening flecks of divinity.  The nexus is so attractive and straight out of heaven and heavy breathing.  But where am I going to hang my hat?  This ontology has no ordinary hat stand.  Throw it up into the wind and let it blow and list forever.  Why are you listing to the side like that?  Lust on the edge.  Oh Honey, a mere list of what you can do is nothing, Do it!

 

This is an ontology where every maker, every actor in this play, comes out and taken a bow on the stage of Being.  And glances about and the bow above his eyes sends out love's arrows and then, shot through, what do I care about remembering any of the former illusions.  I fall in love.

 

The regress sets in and I set out for impossible distances.  That third lover that was always between the two lovers was the one and only lover loving himself and his mirror.  And the forgetting.  Being needs to have his face slapped.  This won't work.  He won't work.  He'll never get a job.  I will end up giving him all my money, all my substance, all my eternal rhymes to time.  Physics and this meta Physics cannot live together.   The old man gives way to the new man or there is the pry bar of the third man.  But I digress.  God gives, forgives and then forgets.  Progress through the infinite is sweetly accomplished in a glance and a twinkling of the eye. 

 

 

 

2126  Seeing my seeing I no longer see.  A sentence with too much form and repetition calls the reader to itself in anticipation of itself and the meaning of the sentence is lost.  But perhaps it's all for the better.  The writer may have wanted to show you things close in and world destroying.  I may have preferred to see that in me that is not me. 

 

Analysis transports.  The former things are forgotten. The mind is in an invisible flash somewhere else.  The simple thing did not hold together.  It interfered with itself.  Still and however, analysis itself cannot and could not have been analyzed.  Perhaps if more commas had been used and pauses to give the mind time to catch its breath.  Perhaps if everything had been long and drawn out.  Perhaps if we had been able to employ a more obvious middle voice.  Perhaps if we had just simply let things be as they naturally are.  But no, we are unnatural through and through, and self-consciousness is what we are and speech eventually speaks itself.  Analysis and inward turnings are inevitable.  The world cannot stand.  And every one of its forms, so mathematically axiomized, will yield under the divine glare and give way to the Other.

 

I caress the forms and in that I completely take the use out of them.  Just as the boy under my cockering hand is numb and still.  I have analyzed the boy.  Pieces only are left.  Even his boyness is abstracted away by my magical movements and that smell leaves me there with him and then it is finished. 

 

Or so I have written.  And written in a rather unfashionable rhythmical style all the better to work up the spirit of metaphysical completion.  Narcissus nodes on white surfaces.  I am being used by the useless things within Being.  Nonetheless, I am far from the nostalgia of having lost out, him being all over me as he wants it.  There's no use in objecting, I am the object, subjected to near dejection, but I reject all of your helpful interjections.  My words, as you can see, have let in an agitated wind from another place.  It's all real.  So very real.  For those who like the real.  Reeling around in this rosy-cheeked region of Being. 

 

The Light is lit up by the Light.  God is inside of God.  Clearly, doubt is to be doubted.  Questioning is to be questioned.  The boy's lips are kissing themselves in the dark.  It's time to go.

 

 

 

2127  Not all analysis kills, or rather, analysis always kills but some of the dead rise again in a glorified form.  The world disappears and never comes back.  Try as you may, the dead are dead.  What the dead were in essence, however, could never die, never having lived a worldly life.  If one can accept oneself as a murderer, as gloriously culpable, as a flaming Platonist, then the dialectic is easy.  The transformation of you, alas, my dear reader, into one of those may be the hardest part to accept and you may think it would be better to just let the dead be dead.  Or maybe you think analysis does not kill, but helps us see the magic of life that is already there.

 

Analysis kills.  I have a nicely shaped friend, about 18, who dances badly and I said to him, "You should move your hips more and stop all this hand and shoulder dancing."  He said, "Yes, I know, but I don't want to look gay."  And so it is with our stiff and stolid ontologists; they just don't want to be one of those.  What must people think? 

 

I read Ginsberg and Genet and Burroughs and Rimbaud and yes, also Whitman and I suppose there are others of that ilk though I don't know who, and I love these guys, they are so gay, so loving, so down transforming the biological fallen boy ooze of life into the heavenly fragrances of angels.  I am not like that.  I deal in abstract ontology.  I deal in the dialectical intellect.  I am the boy already lifted up into the air into the light into the space of the unearthly dead.  I write the ordinariness of the ordinary boy.  I deal in the real, not in the fantastic. 

 

In the end analysis does preserve the ordinary world, but only as it is there on the flat plane of the boy's geometry.  Few can see the sexuality there in a mathematics book.  The labor of cumming is not enough; they want the freedom of empty fantasy. 

 

 

 

2128  This is a book of desire.  Thus it is quiet and unspoken.  It is writing's writing.  It is the barely written.  It is under the obvious.  It is, for those who travel with that under the world's coverings, obvious.  It is a pure travail.  Until the end. 

 

Desire begets desire.  The superficial and the merely attractive are momentary, of course, but the one thing remains.  And that thing spins quietly.  It turns.  And unconsciously, unintentionally, the attention is held again.  The desire for that lovely loveliness returns.  But it is such an unseen thing, such an out of the way thing, such a thing contrary to the publicly touted, and we are our public selves, that we are, in this matter, not ourselves.  Desire quietly builds.  The shadowy, slow dervish.  The smooth planets.  The moon-faced travelers.  Seemingly oblivious of the heavy breathing of remembering.  The overhanging. 

 

In philosophical intuition I see and I almost don't see.  The pieces of Being are so very delicate, so lovingly fine, so re-fined, so coy, that I end up complaining, merely sadly complaining, that the others with me, and almost not with me, have not tried hard enough to see, with me, these dervishly exasperating things uncounterrolling.  

 

But desire is a constant.  I desire.  I eventually am desired.  Even against his will, against his good sense, against all his apparent desire, he desires my desire, the one and only desire, his own desire.  And the words spin unceasingly - also.

 

 

 

2129  I suppose my writing should also be characterized as a confession.  It has been rough going.  My heart has endured a lot.  My thinking has been over and over the territory of he is he isn't, he has he hasn't, too many times and I have trouble staying out of the well-worn ruts.  I roar.  I analyze.  The prostate rising up repeats.  I wonder and I tremble and I want to let the whole world know.  I speak the truth straight out.  Rectification with electrification.  I repose.

 

I compose.  The words fly together and I fly away and it's all so juvenile.  I confess that.  I have never gotten beyond the boy to the man.  I am from the American middle west where no male ever grows up – boys with toys forever.   My deposition lies before the criminal lawyers, themselves just practicing, and in opposition we then reposition ourselves and go home.  We take out our pens and look for the appositive.  I pose for you, you pose for me.  And then the permutations. 

 

There is no profession I can glean from this.  Word play is not word work.  Foreplay belabored.  "Let me confess to you, O Lord, what time is."  I have time on my hands.  I am damaged.  My whole body oozes.  I am a profusing foundry.  My confession is only a confusion.  I do not speak and this writing is the Houris' Kalamity.                    

 

 

 

2130  I know the redness of red.  I know the absence of absence.  I know the Being of Being.  And the Form of Form.  Not one of those knowings has propositional form.  Nor is any of a fact.  There is, for those apparent statements, no universal exemplifying a higher order universal.  I have, with those words, written nothing except unwritable ontological non-statements.  They are to be understood philosophically.  There are things we can think, and even speak, that cannot correctly be put into either logical or linguistic symbols.  And language speaks its own inability to communicate properly.  We must pay attention to what we cannot do, but which we do with elegance do.  We continue in violation.

 

My knowing and my speaking are a falling.  And because of the tightness and the rising in my chest they are a form of love called most properly Love.  It is necessary that philosophy be explained only with philosophical words within a philosophical thinking and while remembering having been taken once by a god.  I grasp at things.  And then perhaps I am grasped.  And a necessarily perfect understanding comes, useless to the world, but the stuff and the thickness of Being. 

 

I know the burning fiery redness of red.  Everything else disappears and there is only that.  Surely this is not an ordinary understanding of things.  It is an ontological knowing, a philosophical intuition, a mind exploding thing.  I will try to write an ontological analysis of that and I will fail.  But I do know how to fail in style.  And to stagger before the stiletto.

 

 

 

2131  The redness of red is a non-propositional philosophical form.  The Being of Being.  The going around of going around.  The combining of combining.  The passion of passion.  The glancing of glancing.  None of these is subject-predicate.  There is no external nexus between two things.  The thing itself is not separate from the thing itself.  Or so the thought itself would have you believe.  It is difficult to find any thought here, but there is a thought there in all of those non-sentential, maybe sententious, sentences.  We are close to the catastrophe of internal relations.  I struggle to write.

 

I find the ontological problem of order one of the, no doubt the hardest, to solve.  Assuming we know what a solution and a problem really are ontologically, we come to the idea of ground, the primal thing.  In that there is something that makes a thing of our world.  Deep inside.  In the vertigo.  In thought's intolerable compression.  In.  But the word "in" is too much and itself assumes we know the ordering of first and second, of simple and complex, of the same.

 

First the not knowing and then the struggle and then the knowing.  Or perhaps the not knowing comes from a prior not-knowing or a tighter notknowing.  Perhaps unity precedes division.  At the end I know that this is red.  Is it true that prior to that I knew a thisred?  And prior to that I am/was a knowing thisred?  And then on to I am a knowingthisred?  Until eventually the/a  Iknowingthisred?  Unity and Being become formless.  Order is destroyed.  No more worrying about an ontological problem.

 

But order is.  And Order, which grounds it in an ontological ordering.  And the struggle of thought with thought with Being that rises up toward a final orgasmic conclusion.  Or the writing was flaccid.  Things press on things.  My pencil expresses my worked ideas.  

 

(a(a,b))  is a definition of order that is given and I struggle to accept it but I have never really understood it or philosophically felt it.   (a(a,a))?  (red(red,red))?  Lie with me and we will see.  Are you top or bottom? 

 

 

 

2132  The problem of order.  It's a lovely contemplative ill-fated adventure.  We obviously know what it is; but, like time, when we think about it, it is gone.  So I use all those existentialist categories of anguish.  Surely at the end of ontology there is broad consternation and then a narrowing of the eye of the needle.  I am rich in the printed word and I have stayed in the finest philosophical baths. 

 

That's what I am all about – the final fragrant ontological profusion around the ineffable and the erupting of the soul in emotions that only the words of adolescent love are strong enough to handle.  The boys about, bringing the pharmacopoeia of ontological destruction, do seem to handle with perfection both Being and non-being.  Each is one more Eros, marginally not this not that.  From the marshes.  A wet space between the timeless forms and the world.  A sphere whose center is everywhere.  The keepers of order, themselves unordered.  I have gone to the back rooms where they sleep. 

 

I have read that physicists have now have been able to stop light and that maybe the computational possibilities of the many worlds will be ours.  The arrows of time and times will jab together.  Secula seculorum.  Dream worlds mixing with all the many real worlds.  Lords of confusion.  Until the wind blows it all away.  I can hardly wait.            

 

 

 

2133  Philosophers handling God must handle perfection, the final orgasmic point of the coming together of all the pieces in the ontological juggernaut and the strewn images.  It's too much for the eternal foreplay of the scientifically minded.  Anyway, this kind of sex in the classroom, teachers and students in quiet orgies, is downright illegal. 

 

Here in the East where no one ever criticizes another's theology because war might break out, I have learned the loveliness of religious argument.  Let's get on with it!  Attack!  But I never do, at least in my writings.  My writings are just me trying to deal with a god, "a flaming breath, by enchantment and wizardry knotting the water and tying up the air".  A beauty.  The spinning, uncontrollable object of our ontologies.  And we are left abject as are all lovers and the East understands perfectly.  The war will always have been.  Don't you agree?

 

I'm afraid to speak what I write.  A logical symbol is diamond hard as is a line of geometry (thus writing).  My voice is so soft, so invisible, so temporal.  Out there, on his face, around his going around, the forms appear and I am drawn out of myself.  He is hard.  I am hard.  Thoughts fill up with thick light, space is held.  Surely perfection has weight.  And I know this weight is going to cost me money.  I work and go back to work.  I feel a tongue in my tongue.  I cannot speak.  Nothing is so hard as this untamable.  An itch.  I'm afraid I will soon speak to him.  Krasny kluk.  Car buns. Crash.        

 

I read aloud and there is diamond dust and blowing graphite.

 

 

2134  As existence is separate from what exists, and then again it seems not to be, so God is separate from his attributes, because God is existence, and I wonder how such separation could justifiably be.  So I contemplate a God who is not just not merciful nor knowing nor one.  I contemplate God deep in God, only as God.  I wonder how all the simple universals could be not with that existence deep within them or if I should say that that deep in them is other, then how a thing is then not identical with something of itself.  My words block up.

 

A God beyond his attributes is neither Good nor Beautiful, and I am left with being whatever that thing wills.  He is desire.  He is Eros.  He is the incorrigible boy not this not that.  A lover of the Sophos like me.  As powerless as I.  As unknowing.  As almost ugly.  As close to evil.  The Forms yield to this formless form.  That is the erotic thing I write.  In my not-writing writing.       

 

And the problems begin.  Surely love's problems, so well-known.  The boy is his hard existence against you.  But the Boy is itself separate from existence, dialectic seems to demand.  And God and His divinity and existence and the existence of existence and the necessity of that and necessity itself all crowd in to be let out as a separate thing.  And there is no dialectical doubt but that each has a right to that freedom.  And then there is dialectic and freedom and the Gangesian absence of all that.  The clowns and the mad dogs of thought are close.  Nonetheless, that is my style and my ability to go on, to just go on.  I write the mix and the mélange and thought's malfeasance mellifluously down.

 

Tight unity exploding into itself is the Boy.  I'll wait until morning to clean it all up.  

 

 

 

2135  Thoughts - simple entities exemplified by this and that becoming mind.  Because they so closely resemble substance, the unity of matter and form now exploded into the many, they suffer in close resemblance the dialectical problems of substance.  How do we account for the sameness of thoughts to one another or their difference?  Does the fact, if fact it is, that the thought that I am writing and the thought that I am sitting uncomfortably both participate in (surely not the right word) the ontological fact that they are about the one me?  Do they exemplify the universal form of being thought?  Do they exemplify the relation of being simultaneous?  Is the Form Color somehow in or does it hover over the two thoughts that this is red and that is gold?  Does Difference reside in or crash the party of this being heavy and that being long awaited?  Are is and in things in the thoughts and the graspings of in and is?  Is the absence of thought in my hand in my hand?  Lovely considerations.  For those accustomed to the ways of love's bafflements.

 

Let us build ontologies out of all the possibilities, and then watch them fall down.  London bridges.  Luxor-ious mirages.  Lugubrious leavings.  Pothole marriages.  The sinking feeling that your dissertation committee is watching.

 

Philosophy succeeds only if things are overlooked and that pungent odor is half forgotten in the morning's remembrance and transformation.  The noise from the hall, the light from the seeping window, the fact that the wall is too close.  The world awaits, to be redeemed in its reconsideration in eternity and the uncomfortable becomes the comfortable itch.        

 

Phenomenologically speaking, the circus of philosophy is just that and the show will go on all around your sleepy lonely bed.  All night long.  His thoughts in your thoughts in internal relations internally related.

 

 

 

2136  "The mind is one; the world is many."  And thoughts of thoughts and thoughts together and thoughts separate and this is not that way down to their core(s) are what I am in my exemplifying them and they are all crowded into this very thought even you hold now.   You are for an instant what I was and you are me, in the objective case.

 

Few writers write about the mind and the mind in the mind.  The world in its all being laid out nicely is nice, and it is easy.  But that other is a horse of a different color and smell and with wings.  Thoughts exist and when exemplified they are even then nowhere in space - the better to fly instantly anywhere, and everywhere - and then in that magic moment outside of any moment the thought grasps that before exemplification and it is free.    Articulate writing at the articulo mortis libertatisque, subterfugiendo vacuitate, pervenit et advenio.  Voila.

 

I wish I could write ordinary journal articles that six people would read and I would get a little money and a lot of respect and I could then know I was one of the gang.  We could sit around and drink coffee and be subterfuged.

 

And quoted.  The only reason, of course, why I put quotes around sentences is because I too want to be read out so that I may be with you, in you, all over you, as you are to me, dear reader, here, as I lovingly think about you, even now. 

 

 

 

2137  I am a Platonic Christian pederast.  An extreme faggot.  A wilting onanist.  I contemplatively drink divine blood.  I tongue that flesh in my mouth.  I chase after the separate Forms.  That ordinary boy/god tastes good.  I have it all. 

 

I am learning Arabic because those sleepy sounds hold the promise of a transcendent fragrance.  Boys full of dialectical desire out on the starry desert full of sighs and gadflies and indecision about nothing at all.  Falfalla.  Kosheri.  Oily bowls and spoons from mouths fresh from kisses behind thin curtains.  A slippery language on slippery lips making useless promises.  The stars are too close.  The past is junk.  Mathematics is the only thing understood well.  Unities in redundancy. 

 

But then I don't really believe in a monophysite jesus.  That boy, so ordinary, so divine, so confusing.  The way through him isn't that easy.  Let's keep the dialectic going!  The platonic forms are certainly separate from any ordinary thing I have ever seen.  Those mascara-eyed street boys are not from the daytime get up get a job upstanding.  Those boys can lie down and stand up at the same time.  And that's what I call divine.  Call me crazy, call be bad, say I'm lazy, hazy, phrasy and, after years of having no one knock on my door, that I've been had.  I deal in exaggerated difference.  Neither the ordinary nor the divine dissolves into its other. 

 

I will never learn Arabic.  I'm too in love with well-laid out articulations, not the twistings of breath.  Give me a strong prepositional prefix any day.  Put a little english on those careening English phrasal verbs and let the well-put power of accent bring it all to a sweet conclusion.  On the other hand, I do like those medio-passive verbs so inwardly altering of Arabic. 

 

 

The northern orphic shamanic dying jesus on that structurally extended cross is too much for them.  The Body's form running through their form is too engineered for them.  They sigh and I eat them.  I drink their moonlight blood.  And I watch the Coptics waiting their turn.  The Ka is still around.  Ekyptic wailing.  I go back home.  The faggot dreaming Nile may have sucked it all in.

 

The Iowa prairie is still rectangularly beautiful from pickup truck windows, and

 

 

 

2138  What I like about Christianity, my two-boy solitary, pickup truck, prairie fire Christianity, is that all that family stuff has been shoved far aside, and there's American freedom everywhere.  God has no consort; he clones himself, he comes into himself, he speaks himself to himself.  His earthly prophet, that mad boy jesus, just himself, flesh flayed dying to himself, for his friends, now become just him.  There's only this perfect One in itself endlessly, completely, orgasmically.  Every kiss is a kiss of fire. 

 

All those Hindu god-families do me in.  That great Islamic family of the Prophet wearies me.  The Catholic Holy Family is a compression on the spirit.  That stupid all-American church going family has usurped the place of all things divinely free.  Escape! 

 

 

 

2139  The great need to work, to avoid metaphysics, is not new.  Only the name of Positivism is new.  We all are afraid of the Faustian-Mephistophlean dance.  We are all in love, however, with dancing.  And the ringlets of love.  And the impossible meanings to impossible gesturings. And we are concerned that our partner is not the one to lead us to fright and insanity.  But the northern lure of work and engineered order is itself another form of death.  And the wheel turns.  And the murderer is once again at the door. 

 

I don't want to bother the busy.  I have been taught that by my society.  I let the workers work.  They are good; I am ultimately evil.  I am the one with the erotic, the useless, the swoon of the final questions.  My eroticism is transcendentally unproductive.  A simple going around has me in an unbreakable timelessness.  The busy have the very stuff of time and the timed and my untimeliness is always bad timing, for them.  They are in fact dancing with a different kind of partner altogether.  It's a different philosophy.  It's the philosophy of no philosophy. 

 

Wittgenstein, the great twentieth century positivist, was the one responsible for the rush of metaphysics back into our lives.  The unspeakable.  The non-existent form of the world.  The eye seeing itself seeing the nothing.  The case of the falling cases.  Late evenings in the park looking for his man.  Shhh!

 

The positivists are so logical, and that is their glory.  Finally they have to look directly at it.  At It.  Logical form is something.  And the transcendent forms are really there in arms around your shoulder a god taking you around and around this dance floor here in the middle of this long night from out of nowhere.  And you are dizzy.  Or are you not one of those?  Are you like me?

 

So who really is dancing with the partner from Hell?  The positivists or the metaphysicians?  Or neither?  Each, I think, would want to say that there is only a provisional truth in the other.  Each finds a speaking that can be spoken.  Each finds an erotic tryst that he can trust.  Each avoids the accusing police.  Each goes to his own lonely marsh outside the city.   Firm ground is hard to find.  We end up dancing with jiggers.  

 

 

 

2140

 

Ibn Guzman writes,         

 

My life is spent in dissipation and wantonness!                                              

O joy, I have begun to be a real profligate!

Indeed, it is absurd for me to repent

When my survival without a wee drink would be certain death.                                                                                                                                          

So it is with me.  But I do not want to use his words for what he never meant them.  I am a wispy intellectual, not a full-blooded sot as he; though, the words do remain true even from my hand.  The saqi-boy spins my head one more time, one more turn of the dialectic, one more time I fall through the bed of night thoughts. 

 

This is a symposium.  We are drinking this cup together.  Absurd questions and the lease is signed.  The papers are here in front of us.  We let it all go.  Slackers.  Languishers.  Algolagniacs.  For a wee drink.  For one more drinking in of that boy.  A certain death and documents ensuring a rebirth in apophantic sobriety.

 

I doubt Guzman would approve.  I take all those from whom I have learned and twist them into my own unstoppable desire.  My death is sur-vival.  I am up!  Still, I would not approve of Guzman's disapproval; he was, after all, just a writer.  He was trying to keep his agreed on job as a drunk, as Bergmann was trying to keep his as a sober logician.  Neither were either.

 

 

 

2141  Just as the Bible is no more than the compositions of men, so my writings are no more than my words.  Just as the Bible is the true inspired Word of God.  So my words are not mine but are the words of the one I love, as is fit for a lover whose mouth can speak nothing but his love, the substance of which is the beloved.  I live yet not I but he lives in me.  Surely Paul knew the horror of that sentence – surely he knew his own death.  I know the terror that has taken my life right out of me.  And I know that you, dear reader, probably do not know the fullness of that sentence, unless you too….  .  And I know my own failure (a double horror) to live up to my own words.  I am my ordinary self.  I write the ordinary and the extra-ordinary, the ontological, together.

 

This is the difference between the Bible and the Quran.  The latter being only the words of God, not of men or of a single man.  Just as paradise is not for those who have become God as one with the Son of God, Himself the Very God.  Perhaps Christianity asks for too much.  And I assume too much.  And my death is just my death.  And that the second door I have gone through is mere dithyramb.   But, no.  Love will hardly let me consider it, even my lustful faggot love of God.

 

And so the words are easy to write.  And understanding them in the quick passage of sentence after sentence is as easy as moving through time.  But time is not easy, nor is the non-idea of God and man together.  Theology analyzed collapses into nonsense, mere human reaching, comic greatness.  So I will not analyze, but I will let Analysis itself proceed and I will concede to it all transcendental understanding and a non-sensual conclusion.  Or are you unfamiliar with the magic of words?

 

It is the very ununderstandableness, even the extremest absurdity of the Bible, that contains the Spirit.  I too, I know, have written the worthless, the merely sexual, the stuff of failed scholarship, and I have wallowed in presumptuous syntax.  In that, I am with the religious, the awaiters of the end time. The ruffled orgasm. 

 

 

 

2142  Some have written or implied rather in their writings that idealism is deference to, submission and finally trembling before and for the unspeakable, unthinkable whole.  That one thing even beyond the words one and thing.  Not a that.  Not a beyond.  It is the failing of words and the feeling of failure.  The thinker does not think, does not write, does not really see anything.  The complexity is too vast, the folds fold endlessly and hide.  All things hang in dependency.  Sort of, it depends.   Each thing has its place because each thing has its place.  We serve the whole.  Or so it is implied. 

 

My realism of ontological pieces each itself and complete is unsociably, or perhaps sociably, not allowed consideration.  There is no time.  Time is filled up with so many things to do.  This and then that.  Stopping for just the one thing is impossible.  There is only the interinterinterinterrelated whole.  All else is conceit.  Or so it is implied or rather written.

 

From the whole all things arise and fall back in.  The whole is a great hole.  A great hole of decomposition and decay.  A great stinking loathsomeness.  Come, Holy Logos, save me from this death.  Your logic cuts so fine.  Invade my writing with an articulate articulateness.

 

 

 

2143  Perhaps it was out of those moments of unconquerable loss that my philosophy grew.  Perhaps it was out of the feeling of not having the weapons with which to fight to retain the beloved thing.  Then I was Eros the child of poverty.  I knew the existence of non-existence.  I knew its intense grinding constriction.  I knew electricity behind my eyelids.  I blindly saw, at a distance, the quiet distinctions within that one I love.

 

To be intimate with the being of non-being.  To be that complex thing that is the being of non-being.  And to not be that, and thus to be an even greater complexity.  An entanglement.  I was and am Eros.  Neither this nor that, neither existent nor non-existent, and neither of those impossible pairs.  Words fail me, even now.  The beloved is gone and will not hear them and I cannot write.  I never could.  I still am what I was and my not being that in the collapse of logic still is.  In the distance he is none of that.

 

But he is not of the Plenty that I also know and am.  All the distinctions of Being are also perfectly with me and I am that.  I am the child of Plenty as well.  Divinely begotten.  With a perfection that, alas, is also not of the perfect ordinariness of the beloved I constantly look at.  My perfection is not quiet.  I cannot find my ordinariness.  He would never speak these words.  He has not known the terror of Pain not the terror of the Plenum.  I end with loss.  And with these words.           

 

 

 

2144  I have made the distinction between a philosophical thing and an ordinary thing, but it is a worthless, paradoxical distinction.  In the end my, so-called, ordinary thing is a philosophical thing and the real ordinary thing is unspeakable, and thus even this sentence is worthless.  This is the ineffable Ineffable itself.  It is close to that that Wittgenstein worked so hard at not speaking.  It is that that the Zen Buddhists clap their one hand over and we are not impressed. 

 

Philosophically speaking or un-speaking, there is the category of the ordinary.  But in the ordinary world there is only the ordinary and no such thing as a philosophical category, except as an academic thing, a no-thing at all.  Thought is repressed.  We are stuck with the ineffable whether we want it or not.

 

Usually I jump into the sun when I reach this point.  Into the absurd.  Into myth.  Into the erotic.  This evening, into love's pain.  And now, into the worthless.  The tiresome and the worthless.  The tires on this old car are losing their tread. 

 

So I end up with the everyday ordinariness of the ordinary and I am with the existentialists.  The tired old existentialists.  I need a new category.  Even my love pain over his not wanting me is getting old.  Maybe it is just I that is getting old. 

 

"That the world is, is what is mystical," so said Wittgenstein.  The ordinary ordinary world.  God is so very expressible.  The ineffable is easily spoken of and spoken.  The ordinary world in its ordinariness isn't.  Language is too extra-ordinary.  And its failure is grand.  I am stuck in Grandeur. 

 

 

 

2145  The grandeur of philosophy is inevitable.  And its reflection on the philosopher is embarrassing, considering the miserableness of that mere lover.  The words of philosophy are of necessity too much.  Another a priori category.  But such is the nature of love and we have all known what fools we see ourselves as in its presence.    

    

 

 

2146  My desire is to speak straight out just what I am thinking about philosophy, but that would be like arriving in an act of a single moment at the point of orgasm.  Philosophy and the sexual point really are reached suddenly and surprisingly from the nowhere of nowhere in an instant, but both require the long and drawn out that is prior and that is worrisome because in that nighttime the beloved may just leave.  Tension and release.  Fierce tension.  A saving release. 

 

My desire is thus to speak.  I have here merely written of that speaking.  To my reader and to my would-be lover I want to speak, but it may not be given to me to do so.  And I continue to write.  Kierkegaard wanted to be a preacher and not just a writer. 

 

And then to act physically.  Writing is closer to such an act than is lighter-than-air speaking, but the lighter-than-air is the home of music, and for writing the inertness of matter intervenes and it must be the very act of orgasm to find release from that and fly, though flying is such a hackneyed phrase and I seek release even from that.  Perhaps you see that I use the long sentence to tie up my reader into tension. And then.  The end.

 

The physical is in danger of finding no release.  The trap of matter can be too tight.  Yet without matter, either physical or intellectual, there is no feeling of the filling up that is so necessary for love.  The filling up and the pouring out.

 

I, or course, can speak straight out what I am talking about.  I am talking about Platonic philosophical love.  Intellectual sex.  A boy becoming dematerialized in an instant of orgasm into divine oblivion and then the return for another day.  The danger is that it all becomes so ordinary and that the release from that requires an even higher release and we may not have the energy for it.  Some of my readers cringe, some smile.  In the classroom, teaching this, the lecturer merely assumes a serious poker face and gives a lesson in the history of ideas.

 

 

 

2147  My intention is to make the dry, boring analyses of philosophy become things of excruciating beauty.  I can't do it.  Of course I can't.  But, nonetheless, that beauty is there and perhaps I can somewhat open the door to his room just enough for you to look in.  And to remember.  And outside you can find your cross, remembering that unattainable, unforgettable. 

 

I will make this a Platonism of remembrance.  It is, of course, a memory of what never was present in the kind of presence you are now in.  Remembering the timeless, intersecting time with eternity for yourself, is to construct your own crucifixion.  Nothing is more beautiful.  Nothing is more demanding and inviting and, for all that, unattainable. 

 

Your mind spins ceaselessly.  From itself only.  Thus, obviously, eternal.  Remembering.  From out of eternity onto the moving circles.  Into your own going around.  Around and around you going around me.  I am enchanted by you and your begetting of yourself into yourself.  And now as for the sex part – remembering the Phaedrus.  Will we, you and I, get it on, or won't we?  Should we?  Should we do it only in the spirit?  Could we really do that?  It sounds delicious.  But no, we are flesh and the cross is our goal – so we must do it boldly, my fair fellow.  Swing oh so high.  And spin.          

 

 

 

2148  First let us remember something of just what analysis is, what it has accomplished, what it has found, what it has stuck us with.  Our accomplice in the affair has left us with his residue.  The dew has fallen and the dawn approaches.  And memory has become thick.

 

The words are here.  The same, repeating words.  The oldest and the youngest of the words.  The numbing, the worrisome, the erotic, the filling up - and then the pieces ecstatically thrown out on the white page.  Being divides into just that right there in your hand and its having always been even in the timelessness of its having always been right there.  This and the eternal.  And the kiss, the soft delicate kiss of here and the nowhere.  Then spirit leaves and the hard words of analysis remain – particular and universal and nexus. 

 

Philosophy began in a moment of intellectual lovemaking.  Then the filigree of something half remembered.  Then the remembering.  From passion to the fine logical structures to his return and it begins again.    There is always an out come.

 

 

 

2149  The boy has been coming to visit me everyday.  A real boy, a boy of the real world.  But, in this case, he is also the really real of philosophy.  The beauty is intense.  My desire is as great as it has always has been.  God is here.  And I only slightly worry about all the theological jealousy that is for me everywhere.  I have come now to the place where I need a connection to the world so I can get my writings out to the readers I have always dreamed of.  Enough of purity for now.  I am with the unclean Christ working on the world.  It is a necessary thing.  The flesh is always close. 

 

This is vertigo and I have somewhat learned to handle it.  Love demands things.  And I will give it.  I pray for the final assumption of us all into a heaven of lovers.  Make the fire lovely.

 

 

 

2150  Philosophy is not a thing of the world.  But, of course, it is a thing of the world.  Love is of heaven and it is, you know well, your mouth pulling in the acidic taste on his neck.  I have never maligned the one for the sake of the other.  Though I have lived in words, they too are a fleshy thing and a movement all along the body.  This has all been forced onto me by my Christian religion.  Platonism became in this a holocaust for the world.  The spirit has been relentless for two thousand years.  The magnitude of the love that is over us has left us no peace.  The gadflies of thought in wakeful nights create in us the itch of love.  The explosions explode often.  In have written it down in a hurry.  I will insist on it being understood well.

 

I have often asked others if they think it possible to be in love with someone, to love that same one and to be his friend all three at once.  I have always said I thought it was not possible.  Two out of the three, yes, but not all of them.  I still think so.  My boy, I am in love with you.  And I am your friend.  I will leave it to your parents to love you and to your companions.  Thus you may think that all my talk about love was a lie.  Not so, I was, of course, speaking of the love of being in love.  You may think that nothing.  Eros, however, is a mighty god and one offends him with such a slight at one's peril – this we should all know by now. 

 

Christian Platonism is a furthering of the madness.  The absurd is even closer.  The analysis runs deeper into the flesh.  Godhood crinkles on the skin.  There is no peace.  Mouths kiss excessively.       

 

The Platonic ideal turns out to be exceedingly real. 

 

 

 

2151  This is the philosophy of the pretty, boy prostitute.  The hustler of your heart.  The unsocialized.  He sticks out and stands out.  He has not receded into the nothing as the group wants.  He is himself, gloriously himself, displaying himself, an object to be taken.  He will use your money and buy more light for himself.

 

I collect boy porno pictures.  I love these guys.  They have put themselves right out there to be loved.  They have not dissolved into iki kumuri, those non-things that are so socialized they just disappeared as individuals. 

 

I write the boy up in his room moving gloriously up into the great Light of the angels.  He himself is one of them.  Look at him!  He is a splendor to love.  He is a passion to be watched.  He is your show for the night.  He has refused to dissolve into the background with the non-others.

 

I call attention greatly to that one in his room, so eternally fixed in the Light of Being.  That room is the entryway to the Knowing and being Known of Eternity.  To the Seen.  He strips and nothing is unseen.  He jacks off in profusion.  He learns to use the video-cam and we all see and he sees our seeing.  This unsociable boy who strongly becomes himself.  This eternal particular That.  This eternal Form.  This exemplifying beyond time's ever taking away.

 

I am that.  I am for you.  Here at the boundary, in your hand, you take me and I take your money, Honey, I am.  I am the Church.

 

 

 

2152  The philosopher must always be anxious that he offend the god and then the jealousy and the numb emptiness.  It is for sure that we cannot take for granted that the ability will always be with us.  And it is sure that when the gift is given it must be taken and loved.  Where is the gift?  Which thing has truly been given?  Is the giver still within the gift?  Religion becomes a thing of necessity and its questioning is urgent.

 

Philosophy is love and it is thus the lover's anxiety over love's leaving.  The dark night.  The dawn.  The great Swing.  And the force within the chest and the push of the legs.  It's inevitable - he will come again.

 

To trust that out of total breakdown and the dusty greasy piece lying there so limp there will be another rising up and another night of love is the faith of our religion.  To know that it is inevitably not just nothing.  To see with the eyes Being's strong presence.  To be shot through with the deathless.  We use the words that speak of necessity and a dim translucence. 

 

Even as the god lies just under of the skin of the boy I stroke so evenly, and he comes again in these words and they run down the page, so you fidget and even you are that and he is in you again.  And the anxiety that this must be allowed to continue and praised in song and for all that remain hidden from those who do not see.  I will fence off and become offence to the people.  And the death.  And the excruciating resurrection.

 

 

 

2153  To publish is a frightening thing.  To send one's words to the public and to ask the public to pay money for one's thoughts, thoughts always against that very body, is surely asking too much.  Don't misunderstand me, the public does buy anti-public ideas and the public loves the simple individual – in that they all agree.  I, however, have written an anti-anti-public thing in that my idea is that we all, individually to be sure, are down in submission to That.  And that is unacceptable to the public, who require no submission, no one thing that captures the individual and silently abducts him, as has, in fact, happened in my words.  Together they worship the independent simple single individual – even the individual alone struggling against his solitary destruction.  For me that one dissolves into the clamor of lovers awaiting the arrival of the One – and then, at last, the one watching the one in complete existence, and no one else watching. 

 

The public is a collection of individuals.  Collections don't exist.  The looseness of such a non-thing is counted as freedom, but it is destruction.  I am not a lover of such death in numbers.  Rather, I look for, long for the tightly bound in itself, one thing with itself.  Lovers – the two in one.  The nexus that is hard and fast.  The overcoming of the limp and the flaccid many.  A great masculine sexuality.

 

I do dread the public's casual gatherings, except that I sometimes have spied there a pair of eyes that carried me away. 

 

I must and will publish.  I am once again in the vortex between.  The world and the realm of love's command cannot mix, but I will reach out to find another longing to cross over and I will grab him.  I am writing philosophy, not sociology.  I, at last, escape.  And, in his eyes I at last exist.

 

There's something in the fright that keeps me awake.  There's something in the fleshy money that is the street boy beckoning.  There's something in the misunderstanding that is akin to the ineffable God.  I have not left my dialectic and gone outside.

 

Oh Madam, I have fallen in love with your son and I intend to take him to another world.  This book is my hook in him. 

 

 

 

2154  That the street boy and the quiet overly refined schoolboy are one is well known.  Each is wounded and alone.  Each is vulnerable.  Each dreams of the other.  Splendid apartness and closed in security, ragged freedom and ordered golden warmth, scruffy musky daring and pure clean smoothness.  The hardness of the streets and the hardness of the abstract is the hardness they become in their nighttime dreams.  A warrior god owns both of them.  Both will be sacrifice.  Tangled tresses and red lips. 

 

The schoolboy and the streetboy is my dialectical pair.  I have been both in my own way, which is to say, I have erotically existed in my non-existence close-in between them.

 

 

 

2155  I feel a word about beauty is necessary.  I warn you that without the beauty mark beauty fails.  Without that error there is no truth to it.  I spied a beauty, and when I saw that dark moment beside his mouth, the sexual whirl started and the evening was complete.  Any attempt at perfection without the mark is an attempt to rid oneself of the oppression of beauty and to relax.  Beauty is unsettling, demanding and exhausting.  And because it succeeds only in its failing it is eternal and cannot last here.  It must quickly transfer itself into philosophical remembering.  It is the really real and does not fit here in this flaccid pacing.     

 

 

 

2156  Ontology has successfully analyzed a pair of blue eyes into their eternal forms.  Unfortunately, the boy whose eyes they were disappeared in the process.  Likewise, my sentences about those eyes fall into analysis and even they are soon gone.  Ontology and the world are Castor and Pollux, the immortal and the mortal as trying to be intimately one.  The old diad of time and eternity is here again.  Philosophy wanted so bad to hold the world close but there was no way.  The neighbor boy became the Boy of the heavenly godhead.  And my words to him are instead about Him and to Him, and the ordinary boy moves on.  Even I, in my approach to business to make a business of this in order to get to that boy, have hardly appeared to be seen.  The diad, though, is real and the pair is also ordinarily there and I look for what to do. 

 

The form of these paragraphs is that of foreplay leading to orgasm – of course they are.  They are my desire on paper.  Cum stains. 

 

But that form is nothing.  Or rather it is the nothing of oblivion at the peak and then the return – you know it well.   The building rush and then simply the end is there.  Or was there, because now it is/was as nothing, or less than nothing.  I write that form with my twisted onto-logic, with my involuted sentences, with the sudden questionableness of all of philosophy.  A turning and something was not there, but of course it is there.  A cross-eyed god.  And you almost understand him.

 

 

 

2157  One does not take care of God.  The Forms are of God and are God.  Their exemplification as this and that are of no concern for us.  They are instruments of pure pleasure.  One delights in God.  Our very being is strewn about.

 

Taking care of is an attempt to control.  Things will not be controlled.  They are to be enjoyed in intellectual contemplation.  They are erotic force.  They will control you. 

 

The Forms exist in splendid isolation.  The intertwining network of things is deadening and has no end.  Endless manipulation to free the swelter from the power of Being is at last of no avail.  Rather, Look! and move your mouth onto the eternal existence and drink – there's nothing you can do and nothing is required of you.

 

The boys of this writing hardly exist for more than a moment.  Only the Boy remains.  The others are as much under the hand of God as am I and we all suffer that and we are taken aback and taken back.  Ethically speaking, God will have none of our worrying intrigue to deny Him.

 

Outside of philosophy, I, of course, work as hard as anyone to secure a place for those I love.  Philosophy, however, will finally win out and life reverts to That.

 

 

 

2158  This ontology is all wrong, historically, logically, psychologically, and morally.  Which is not to say that I haven't written it as it had to be written in order to be true to my task of finding that beloved thing that is the ground of all things – which self-projection shoots far out of bounds.  I am unembarrassed.  The hounds are out and I am making the rounds.   

 

I have written my desire and its completion.  On screen and paper.  He preens and I am dapper.  Oil, toil and dangling hair.  It comes to nothing.  All the intellectual finery comes off and down on the ground found bound not a sound all around sit the jinn and thin white tight bright-faced boys that never were.  Messy.  And, of course, precisely precise. 

 

The foreplay of thought leading to Thought is the most exact touching and the tingling begins.  Practice practice practice.  One last completing thought and it is thought out.  Glistening, lying there, useless, the godhead revealed and sealed up in sheets and pleats after feats of great love.

 

Only when thought mangles thought does it have any real chance of being thought.  Being dashes up and stops and like a canon ball the spirit ejected soars into the beautiful empty loneliness.      

 

 

 

2159  Like Socrates I know only about love and I talk about sex too much for the pure.  This is not a calm and wise philosophy.  It is in that in-between place that is the itch of the erotic.  It is the Itch itself.  That has become the end of things for me.  It emanates glistening pearl drops, the contemplative mind, the footstep. 

 

I reach for Ends.  Within technology, the endless reaching of the instrument, there is finally the End that looms large and the mind stops.  Even my sentences become just themselves.  The rhythms undulate.  His underwear comes off.  And the loving relation snaps on.  Soon it is just that – nothing more.  I have relations in my philosophy that don’t relate but just are.  The orderly carrying across progresses and ingresses and your guess is as good as mine what it is. 

 

We are seen in the ordinary world to be this or that being this or that.  Outside the seeing there are only the pieces and the seeing is a licking right on the skin.  Away from the All-Seeing we are seen all over by only one lover and he soon becomes just that seeing.  And then the Quiet. 

 

 

 

2160  Philosophy in its search for the simple things that ground the ordinary things of the world inevitably becomes religion.  There are no two ways about it.  Of course one does not have to do philosophy.  That is the way of no way at all.  One can stay in the ordinary world and never approach the archetypes that ground that world. 

 

One can have an ordinary love affair of person with person and never know the pull of the universal form.  Or one can be taken by the intensity of the one simple thing that is the body of Beauty and go with Him.  The search for that simple thing is on the way of philosophy and, of course, it is not necessary that that one way be followed.  The ordinary home life or the intensity of the bright Intellectual Night.  The homely maiden or the surreally beautiful boy.

 

This is the way it always has been.  Nothing has changed. 

 

 

 

2161  To be engaged to such a thing as first philosophy is to be alone with that.  It is to be alone.  Not just because of the difficulty of it and the lack of another who will do the work of loving it, but because of the jealousy of the god within it.  No doubt, he too is trapped by the form of the One and the dialectic of the absolute.  He is within love.  This engagement it turns out is the engagement of one thing.  His arousal is frightening, a herm, and a blowing phallos.  Turn back!

 

I long for someone to speak with about philosophy, but, like Socrates and Jesus, I find only ignorant boys.  I know, as did Kierkegaard, the transcendent impossibility of any marriage with them.  Finally I speak, not with the boy's speaking, but with his form, and there the god of my philosophy is present. 

 

Philosophical dialectic is violent.  Neither gentle dialogue nor eristics, it is erotics, and, if it is dis-cussion, it is that very quashing apart and the close snug.  Thus the others prefer silence in my company, or they insist on small talk.  Nothing has changed in philosophy for millennia.

 

The boy running free from the fat and lazy clergy, even baiting them and biting the hand that waits to be kissed, that boy of Whitman and of Emerson's self sufficiency, he is my prairie whirlwind.  He is the naked and the known.  He is translucent thought.  Outside the corruption of religion.  The letters of my writing in their flow attempt his visible form.  I have striven here for the unity of form and content.  Of thought and appearance.  Of mind and body.  With the boy I find myself separate from all civilized society.  But I do know that we are at the heart of our city.  The separate Platonic Erotic Forms.  Unspeakable in polite society. 

 

     

 

2162  Unfortunately today the faculty and graduate schools of philosophy are filled with the laid-back, the more or less good looking, the fashionably understated.  Being, there, has lost its intensity.  Intensity is, there, found to be tiresome.  I write the intense.      

 

I suppose that only those who have been forced to live through something intense for more than a short time can develop a taste for such a thing.  Only those who have been in the Catastrophe of life.  Only those who have been yanked out.  Only those who have been in the fire.  The divine fire.  The devastation.  The Fire.  I have been there.  So have many others on the outside.  In the Outside.  It's not a cheap thing.                                                                

 

Something must be done about the schools.  We need some terrorists about.  Some pimple-faced, sheepdog, mangy jack-off litterateurs.  Erotic martyrs.  Boys without offices.  Wangers who have stepped right out of Eternity.  Friends of the insanely beautiful - Angelic distinctions - jailbait in the classrooms.  The godhead whipped up.  Emanation stains.  The perfect remainder remaining. 

 

It really isn't cool to be cool.  Metaphysics is the fluff of faggot flamboyance.  Crying nights of unimaginable loss.  Horny mornings.  Satyric meanderings.  Platonic sighings.  Nothing more. 

 

The Catastrophe of Being is Being itself.  It's no wonder the well-placed in the universities know nothing of it – the universities were set up to fence it out.  They fenced out Being itself.  I'm sure the faculties would agree.  They have no time for such adolescent nonsense.  Boom!  Pubic hair everywhere.   

 

 

 

2163  Those who fashion themselves defenders of the Absolute and relativize away the world find themselves absolutizing the mere mereness of the relative and end up in the relaxed non-being of Being and rest at last.  They are fashionable.  They have shown the comical nature of Being and the realists.  They have brought all high things low and they now feel better about their own confusion.

 

To say that a door is a door only in relation to our own coming and going in a social matrix of sub-meanings and super-intendings laid down vaguely, whooshing by, is to say that there is really no door there.  Or it is suppose to say that and not that there is a complexity of relations actually present making a real fact.  It is a saying that is supposed to de-energize Being.  Without Act Being is limp and the presumptor of philosophy is unbothered. 

 

Being is a sexual thing.  Sexual things are either loved or hated.  I glory in male power onto male power.  God onto the philosopher.  I castrate neither.  I do not deny the power for the sake of the powerless.  A door is a door and I move easily through it.  Even relations are real.  Nothing is mere.  Neither I nor It are lax or flaccid.        

 

 

 

2164  Not only do I believe in a bare this but I believe in them with a capital B and a capital T.  Only in the intensity of Being do I Believe in Bare Things.  Bare Butt Boys Banging.  That This is This impresses itself upon my mind.  The Power of Being.  Therefore.  People are afraid of the Therefore.  The Therefore means that you have to really look at what is there before you.  Even in dreams it won't go away.  It It It is There.

 

I would rather merely remember the intensity of Being than to have forgotten it altogether.  I would rather feel it once again in my proof of it than admit any non-existent inability to do so.  I would rather be overcome than be admitted among the flaccid. 

 

I would rather blow up in the Face of transcendence than not blow up at all. 

 

And yet it is inevitable that the Beloved leave and we are once again back out on the street merely looking and remembering and soon forgetting.  And then the Hart appears on the Horizon.  Just why this game of love repeats and repeats is torment to me but I have no choice but to play.  My being laid back by it is not a laid-back affair.  Certainly That has me hooked.

 

 

 

2165  The simple things that make up the logical form of the world are translucent.  The quantifiers and the connectives, the well-formed form, actuality and potentiality, the logical nexus itself – all are there in perfect illumination.  Likewise, the simple things of beauty, the good and the strong are, each in itself, clearly manifest.  And we know each with a perfect knowing.  We know knowing clear through.  In the realm of simple things in themselves everything is clear and clearly seen.

 

In the sweltering complexity of the world we see dimly and the facts that obtain are opaque.  We do, though, know opacity and the sweltering clearly in themselves, simple things - and facticity.  We know error just as error and the turgidity of a turgid mind perfectly.  The world as the world is obvious.  We know the dark clearly.  Our knowing is the found-out maze.

 

I write the paradox and the massively sexual.  I write the filled up and the exploding.  But I write it in clear easy musical sentences from out of my banging head.  I know Platonic light and the Socratic bite.  I know the Phaedratic Itch and the emanation.  I can bring logic to its conclusion.  And I can latch shut the paragraph.  It is all very clear.

 

 

 

2166  The collection of ontological things is finished in the body of the boy.  And I am finished off by the beauty of Being.  There is no nexus that unites the simple pieces of Being into a one thing.  There is neither differing nor deferring.  The Boy is the incomprehensible finishing off and he is off again.   Being is so complex, but it is not a complex, and it is not a complexity.  How Being relates to the categories of Being is anybody's guess.  It’s the boy.  The ineffable, manifestly illogical boy.  The bane and the resurrection of the philosopher.  He's up again! 

 

The boy and not not the boy are two.  He is two.  He is constantly beside himself, his own best boy.  That is the structure of mind.

 

Of course we know intimately and perfectly all the simple things of Being.  And the simple ontological facts are fine enough to insinuate their way into everything we think and NO PROBLEM!  The light of Being is in his smile – of course it is – I didn't have to repeat that, did I?  And around his eyes just as it has been so casually mentioned so often in trite desperation.  And your vague wanderings around him are tiresome but necessary with tight logical necessity.  You yourself follow so nicely, so QED.

 

Perhaps I will go for a while and listen to the Thomists try to calmly professorially explain that Being is really not one more category of Being but that's all right.  In great calm smoothness they will put it all together and, even though no one believes them, it's nice.

 

 

 

2167  I am the patron saint, the guardian angel, the refuge of budding budded gay boy philosophers, lovers of clean-it-up Sophos all down their legs.  I will help them get the one they want.  I will bring them the boy jesus.  I will lovingly teach them, Walt Whitmanesquingly, the aromatic slippery beauty of the flesh.  They will glory in the Gloriyum of what they so movingly are.  Nights awake.  Drums beating under the blankets.  Heads banging.  Cum socks running around the room.

 

Fine intellectual distinctions between thought and the thought out, way out there.  Crawling along the nexus.  Get over on your side!  Do you have bugs, or what?  I am you are me – almost.  So many things to put together.  Where's that tube of whatever it was?  I think I'm thinking too much, or not enough.

 

I will help you by driving you mad with desire.  And then we'll just get out of here.  And, of course, he can come along too.  Philosophy is just a matter of tickling in the right place.  With the right music grinding under you.  You want him bad, don't you?  This is Being being Being.  The whole thing is so oooooorgiastic.  This then that then That. 

 

Boys will understand so well.  I am their singer.  Their is-the-door-locked? singer.  Why not?

 

 

 

2168  This is high art; that is to say, in these words the mathematical and the sensual are united.  Intellectual puzzles without the luring beauty of flesh are cold, and they reach no end.  Thought separated from the acidic taste along the hairy calf of the boy is untranscendent.  Thought that does not tumble through the sensual wide mouth does not stick to the skin of the mind.  Perception must cohere to the hardening ooze at the inner corner of his eye.  This is a realism of the spirit out there.  This is the savor of the sapient.  The not insipid.  Saphos and the serpent emerging. 

 

Intellectual difficulties solved by old men for old men are worthless.  And alone, the boys here are unable.  What to do!  Socrates and the academic beauties.  Age must have youth which must have age.   

 

The mistake of the twentieth century was to think that it could grab a hold of youth and beauty and energy and forget the difficult thinking of pure mind thinking.  It found itself in the great boredom.  It was no surprise.  The dialectical middle ground of love's incessant twisting need to understand love must now be found.  The fiery logic of Logic itself must burn.  The chest must be squeezed by an incomprehensible comprehending.

 

The boy is pure thought and he is the smell of sexual musk.  I listen to him with the rhythms ringing soaringly in my ears and I taste his logic with my mouth sliding over the entangling hairs of his rising rigidity.  His paradoxes shine alongside.  I teach him himself. 

 

Narcissus mirrors and speculation.  He is fascinated with himself.  I become a smudge.  The horror and the crossings over of thought bind.  The nexus burns.  The lubrication of glass comforts somewhat.  Christ is anointed again.  The aromatic plant blooms and secretes down the Logos.  The One hides from the One in the many.

 

 

 

2169  The philosopher, of course, is the one at whom maidens laugh, and the lover is the one who is pitied and then despised, and the saint is the one whom we all must lead into his martyrdom.  We stumble.  But the low eventually become the high and the transcending of Transcendence flashes.  Art accomplishes its infolding.  The entanglement of love moves to unity, and the world is overcome.

 

The man of wealth, the householder, the commander of property fades.  The chants begin.  The destitute stand.  The boy is taken.  The love affair takes hold.  Philosophy is no longer passed around by moneychangers.  Desire appears in the very words.  We no longer speak objectively of the subjective.  And the objective swells and explodes. 

 

My passion for the boy has led me into the wilderness and I can no longer see the world.  Desire is redeemed.  The simple things appear around me.  The boy is just that.  I died. 

 

 

 

2170  Ultimately in all love making there is only one lover, one beloved, one love.  The logic is airtight.  I hold my breath.  A god has me by the balls.

 

This book is for those who would have been religious seminarians, if the church hadn't been held captive by those against such a transcendent transcending compression.  The church needed the world and the world needed the church and those who would scream their way out of the world were creamed out.  Outside the world and the church the lovers of love have fallen at last into the One thing.  Wet nights.  Dark lights.  Into the morass.   I make eyes at those out on the marshes.  Those on the march.  Into incessant thought.  Seamen marks.  Morning larks. 

 

There's no one here but me and him.  Which is to say, me and you.  Surely you do not object to being put in the objective case.  You are a case.  You are my sexual object.  I have subjected you.  It's all one.  There's only one.  Difference has itself been momentarily deferred. 

 

All the lovers I write to and for are dizzy from so much turning.  The one thing emerges - again.  Perhaps if I or you reverse the process the many will come back out in proper order.  It's only a thought.  Of.  Faggot Platonists in Prairie fires.  Sweet martyrdom abounding.  Pounding, in your groin.  This god holds on tight.  And twists. 

 

All you guys are one to me.  We fall and spin and fly up into That.

 

 

 

2171  It is important to keep in mind, when reading this, just what the erotic is.  Eros was the child of Poverty and Plenty.  He is not the beautiful.  He follows after the beautiful.  He is desire for the desirable. He is not the ugly.  He runs from the ugly.  He is the beauty of desire and the ugliness of not having.  He speaks well.  He speaks more than well; he speaks like a god.  He is a god.  He is a terrible god. 

 

 

This is an attempt at an otherworldly writing.  An attempt to be the words of something other.  The temptation is to think that I have failed and to bask in the sunlight of no god present.  I have not failed.  The god is here.  The words do cross over.  Their meaning is fiery and not here. 

 

   

I unrelentingly accuse my readers of failing this Beloved.  That I accuse myself also brings no peace.  That I now walk alone is diabolically preordained.  It is the very form of my words.  "Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?"  Do I, should I, have a transcendental hope.

 

I lie long hours on my bed and wonder how I am going to reach the light of renown.  I sleep badly.

 

"Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken

 While shadows like to thee do mock my sight?

 Is it thy spirit that thou send'st from thee

 So far from home into my deeds to pry,

 To find out shames and idle hours in me,

 The scope and tenure of thy jealousy?"

 

 

 

2172  The Form hovers, but it is always beyond.  The dancing of the dancer, the dancer himself, the movement of the music, the excitement in the night.  The stamping of your lover's feet.  The Form of things is never yours.  It is yours perfectly in its eternal hovering.   It's a maddening having not having; it's completely erotic.

 

I have been closer to my love in his picture, in the pictures of someone unknown to me, in the vocis flatus of words than I have been with his physical presence.  It is God.  It is the beautiful, irresistible God.  It is the loveliest Boy.  It is the ever here once again.

 

God is such a trite, inconsequential thing, the overly familiar.  The hackneyed expression, the not here.  He is the one not captured.  We have been captured by that. 

 

These words will have to do.  Better ones do not exist.  This truth is the ever unspoken ever at hand truth.  Will there ever be a time or a not-time when it is otherwise?  I am satisfied unsatisfied with the way things are.  Talk to me tomorrow and He will have changed Being itself around completely.  I write, of course, the luscious erotic, the desirable desire only.

 

 

 

2173  We are all looking for someone who will be a bridge for us into the light.  The primary characteristic of this world is that the darkness is overwhelming.  We, all of us, and the things around about lie unknown, unsensed, unloved.  As an act of defiance and violence, I have written a philosophy of realism.  There, in its audacity, Being emanates open nakedness.  In the light, in the presence, in the being known.  The Boy glistens his glistening into your mind.  He is the ground of your seeing him, wanting him, being no more that his desire for himself to be present to himself.

 

It is not that the mind lights up the world by seeing it, but that the Light of the world lights up the mind and becomes Presence to it.  Existence, presence, simplicity, difference are all transcendental things that seem to be nothing at all.  Perhaps they are nothing at all.  The Light is very fine. 

 

The remarkable thing is that there is something instead of nothing.  The mystical thing is that the facts do obtain.  From out of darkness that even to itself is a total darkness, there is the clear and distinct Face.  Loveliness in its timeless down dawns once again on his cheek.  His forehead glows with the simplicity of intelligence.  His waist moves around slowly and spirit secretes a fine film.  The doner turns, the dervish flashes, the arches vault.  I walk him over.

 

 

 

2174  Like all ontologists I worry about the individuating of complex structures.  A strange worry.  An enfrazzlement of mind.  An attempted enticklement of one's students into teacher love.  The subject of a projected paper - surely others have laid out the possibilities and they are there somewhere lying around and around about to be gathered up anyway.  More structure is called for!  More laying out and lying down laid out by whoever is willing to put their beautiful eyes all along the extended subject – the others can stay away.  A wearing wonderful harrying. 

 

Should I say that this structure, this interrelating of relata, is a this exemplifying a form?  Is a structure a form?  Is a complex structure a simple thing as is a form?  Is that simple thing separate from the parts of the structure?  Well, yes.  It must be so.  Ontology searches for simples and if there are no simples to be found to ground complex structures then complex structures don't exist, or ontology is nothing.  Structures are ontologically simple and they are individuated and so there must be some sort of nexus between them and their individuators.  Likewise the simple forms of the structures are not filled up with the many parts that are structured and so some sort of connector must be found there also.  The task is daunting and I am daunted. 

 

I present the entanglement of Being for all to see.  And for all to fall in love with.  It's either that or be offended by such a presentation and so we are back at religion.  Kierkegaard can help you from here on out in getting it out or getting out. 

 

 

 

2175  Ontology is the vision of momentous differences.  The ontological distances that the mind can cross in a moment's swoon blind and sink.  To speak casually of this is the hopeless impulse of the academic.  He jerks into himself.  We watch.  The state gathers these like-minded into colleges and forgets.  Ivy grows.  The sacrifice is performed and the crops flourish again.  

 

The difference between universal and particular, thing and nexus, thing and fact is so immense as to be unthinkable in itself and it seems as nothing.  Should I say that Being is that difference?  That Being is the Great Difference?  As an ontologist – why not?  If you will always remember that I am speaking the unspeakable and the always yet unspoken then I speak the Truth.  I defer.  I lie and rely on your every support.  On your firm hand under me.  I am just that.  Concretion.  Red lips.  Your craw craving secretion.  And we swing far out.  Then another.  But it's all been done so many times before.  Facts become thought and vying veers off relentlessly.  They don't teach that in logic books!

 

I'm obviously having trouble writing the momentousness, or I have obviously not even tried; but, what the hell, you can do it yourself up in your own room late at night.  Your pencil has been sharp for a long time.

 

 

 

2176  In inaccessible Light, the Boy is, above all, naked.  I do not trivialize this by putting it in the material world and by thus denying the momentous import of the vision.  To exist is to be in the Light.  The Real is in the Light.  The differences I make are lit up.  The hidden itself is hidden away.

 

It may be true that to be is to be perceived, but it is the being that makes the perceiving, not the other way around.  The Light raises up awareness.

 

This world is, perhaps, necessarily dimly lit.  I cannot be sure about what is not sure.  Of that I am sure.  Here paradox abounds.  And no one pays any attention.  Great philosophical works are written everyday and never seen or to be seen.  Some flash.  A few flash brightly for the few.  Few remember for long. I have no choice but to go along.  I don't know why.  I feel it is certain.  I shall, though, in the end, be redeemed.  And the applause will come.  From the dream to the real is arduous.

 

But I spy Him There.  The crashingly open cannot be just a dream.  The simple things all revealed, no complexity left done up, the out-and-out out, the end is directly at hand. The sky is in-strewn.  The instrument strums along the pavement.  The Shout is up.  The reeling track and the seam seem back.  Beyond thought.

 

That here the Open has become the opaque is to be expected.  This is dialectics and it is madness.  Such is the limits of thought that I cross everyday.  Outside town, in the marshes.

 

 

 

2177  Jesus is the thoughtful working-things-out, trying to understand.  He is a machine.  His body is a sexual working out.  You can see the thought thinking work on him.  He is the light bringing to light. 

 

On the face of the boy as he lies on his bed working his thoughts and his geometrical body you can see the movements of awareness digging into itself.  The night is hard.  The forms are timeless.  Structure is well-structured.  He is the First.  He makes himself the Second.

 

That all the things of the world quickly fall into oblivion is no more than the instant of peak pleasure and then the pointed softness.  Here lies the quiet difference that is between the axioms of form.  Here is the distance between numbers.  There is every here. 

 

In this world I can figure things out for a moment, a time of quick fading, a time only long enough to shift it all into daydreams.  The objects of mind are the final resting place of the things of the outer world, the so fleeting outer world.  And if existence is more of the permanent than the swiftly gone then the objects of thought are more filled with existence.  In the loss of the clutter of determinate relatings the things of the world shift to being.  Being being the smooth continuum of existence.  The Boy smoothly slides over himself.

 

Jesus works on into the long sleepless intellectual night.  His discursive running about becomes coherent sticking to himself.  Always, you can see the knowing and the wareful awareness on him, himself on himself.  He is that.  Unending thought.  Our own hope of his eternity.

 

 

 

2178  When I read and the intellectual scene rises up before my mind and the form is not overly determined but it still has the indeterminate fullness of eternal being, then I seem to be in a place full of light that has always been and everything is known and I wonder what little step I just took to get here.

 

A book bursts onto the scene.  Rather, it is the scene in the book that is a bursting and the world is oblivious to it.  The Light came into the world and the world knew it not, or something like that, it is all so literary, so far up, so much the stuff of orgasmic dreams.  World-bursts, in retrospect, are nothing.  One must enter that Other realm in order for the real thing to happen.  And that is the question of philosophy – Is that other place the really real?  To deny that it is is to fall into hopelessness and a bleakness, a bust.

 

I have never succeeded for more than a moment in the world, but then no one else has either.  Still, I have not been defeated, not successfully attacked.  My would-be opponent quickly forgets and is soon seen having adopted the very eternal form he thought mistakenly he could avoid.  I have already won before I begin.  I am just Him.  I myself was for less than a moment.  I have been swallowed.

 

The step away from the crumbling to There is so easy to take.  So well known.  So much a magic wonder.  A sweet working into the lit-up night.

 

 

 

2179  I am an intellectual, but I am not a false intellectual, I work the boy.  I am a smith polishing his beauty up and out and into place.  I write him down into white light.  This is the energy.  This is the orgy of my mind.  I kneed the boy.  I sweat paradox. 

 

Geometry is the working out of the theorems at last seen.  The form is there to be cleared of the thickened mass of relatings and freed.  In this complex world nothing is.  With the simple things absolute being is cut loose and it lies there perfectly, well-formed.  This is the truth of realism. 

 

The smith cuts away the coverings and the excretions and the thickened layers to reveal the pure.  I am hephaestus.  He is the conquering Alexander.  The Greeks conquered the world by means of beauty.  The ratio and the falling ir-ratio coincide in him with me.  I watch it all happen.  The knot of the drawstring is cut. 

 

 

 

2180  An intricate structure is quickly forgotten in its always having been a dissipated thing.  The more determinate a thing is the more it participates in the great mass of relatings, the less it feels like an existing thing.  It is then to be cared for.  It is to be controlled and loved in order for it to be.  It of itself isn't.  It is a thing for those who crave a dependent thing, a crying thing.  I move away to the simple and the independent and the eternal.  I rest in contemplation of it.  I have worked the work of freedom.

 

If the Absolute is the totality of inter-relatings then the Absolute isn't.  It is then not a thing or non-thing beyond or under all the existents, it just isn't there at all.  It is then a pure dissipation, an effete thing for the effete.  The coil vomited up.

 

 

 

2181  On my computer desktop I have a lot of boy sex pictures that I lovingly, searchingly downloaded from the internet.  They are porno, except that I didn't buy them.  I am well aware that, as with most boys, these boys were eyeing the prospect of lounging in a rich man's place more than languishing in love, but I did love them - ah life.  I am poor and so none of them hang out in my apartment waiting to have their picture taken and to wonder at themselves.  What do I love in loving them?

 

A boy's body is not lush and inviting.  It is minimally sensual.  It is a hot rush of thought.  These pictures all have a face with a look of looking.  Some have a twisted face of looking hard.  I have looked and looked extremely hard.  I am with and in and all over those boys.  I am the same.  The Form is here.  The burning that is love.

 

I contemplate the nexus of exemplification.  I am not remembering all the historical statements made about it, but I am looking right at the thing that the words "nexus of exemplification" points to.  I am looking at the real thing out independent of me.  That thing from which I am inseparable.  That thing separate from me.  It is a burning furnace in Being.  I feel that it is the forge of love.  I am in the very burning of love that I saw in the one Form exemplified so many times in all those images on this scintillating screen.  Love is an electrical charge.  A thrill.  A dick searing.  A face marked.  It is a knowing.

 

 

 

2182  I have put pictures of Manoj in the introductory pieces of my writings.  I love the boy extravagantly.  The pictures are extravagant.  My writings are extravagant.  Everything is in order.  But the order is transcendent and the critiques, I'm sure, will find nothing worthwhile there.  That too is as it should be.

 

I have been walking outside for a long time.  In the winter cold, in the summer heat, in the forlorn hope of finding a way inside.  Vagabundo sutto le stelle.  I have entered into Being itself. 

 

Those like me who have no talent, but who have a genius beside them, resort to subterfuge.  We flee secretly under the cover of benighted love to nowhere.  You should pay no attention.  The beauties are over there, not here.  I too have my face twisted – just like you. 

 

I flow nicely.  I fly high.  I fall farther than I had thought possible.  Simply because I needed a distraction with which to get some traction toward you, my love.  You were paying no attention to me and I languished greatly.  Maybe these pictures will hold you here a while longer.

 

   

 

2183  I have traveled the world for the last twelve years.  I have seen a tremendous amount; I cannot trivialize it.  I have loved as unrequitedly as before.  I have loved a tremendous amount, but who knew of it.  It has all been clearly visible in divine light.  I wrote it down.  I was not present in the words.  One cannot love alone.  I do the dialectic.

 

That Love is different momentously from love grates.  But no one loves; we all know only Love.  We are immortal beings lost in trying to be mortal.  Transcendent things are in transcendent difficulty and we resort to a transcendent subterfuge to get by.  Everywhere has been only right here.  The fall was imaginary.  Non-being, at the last resort I check into, isn't.  My heart lies on the grates over the fire of Love itself.  Am I different from you?

 

I am now in Nepal.  The mountains are hidden as they almost always are.  Families do family things on this Dasein festival.  I stay at home, having seen it all before.  I wait for the boy to return.  I have written quite a bit.  Will I ever get it out to you?  But surely, I did, because now you have it.            

 

 

 

2184  Does Beauty speak?  Eros speaks.  Eros speaks profusely.  Because he is, himself, without beauty, he lures beauty with words.  With beautiful words, because he is himself not entirely without beauty.  But Beauty has no need of words and simple is. 

 

Do I have to make an eternal choice between being beautiful in body and being the beauty of spinning words trying to encase that body?  It seems so.  Is not the unbeautiful beauty of Eros, of love's body, a higher form of beauty, even transcendent?  Yes, it is; but such transcendent otherness is so difficult and is so close to the simply ugly.  The uncomely Christ, anathema, unclean, speaking on into the Judean night knows that.  He leads me and I lead others with this.  Still, there really is the transcendence and the transfiguration.

 

I have put pictures of an unspeaking boy in among my words.  They do little more that interrupt and disturb the groin.  He is, however, strange enough to be about to speak.  He is on the Verge.

 

Beauty does speak, but in doing so comes close to unbeauty.  Unbeauty speaks incessantly and sometimes finds its beauty in well-formed sentences dripping from out of the fire of his unbeauty. 

 

 

 

2185  I am writing traditional ontology.  My concern is with the most abstract forms of Being.  I look to the particularity of particulars, and the universality of universals.  I watch the nexus of exemplification uniting the particular and the universal and I see that there is no nexus between the particular and its particularity and I wonder then about the thing that the word "its" points to.  As you can see I am the most traditional.  I have believed that these acts of looking that have been given over to us are of great value and they give us truth.  I have believed that all the objects of my contemplation are real, even the Really Real, and they are the beyond that grounds the world.  In all this the scholarly world has no objection; they merely find me more than old fashioned.

 

I am also traditional in that this Platonic realism finds the bridge across to these elevated things to be the erotic nexus.  And because it is towards the intellectual transcendent, away from the material world, the erotic object is the ethereal beauty of the boy, not in settled material family homeliness.  That is tradition.  In this the greater part of the scholarly world does have an objection, and they recognize what is an ancient evil in their eyes.    

 

The tradition of Platonism is received by few.  It is known by all who know of the many traditions we work within, but it is seen by the many to be unacceptable.  That is strange, considering that it is the great Plato that is the high representative of the idea.  The dialectic is difficult and strait; the broad way is the more easily received.   

 

In these writings I too have used the bridge of the erotic to reach the objects of Being.  That will be startling to some, disconcerting to others, and thrilling to a few.  I have been true to the tradition.  On the lonely Iowa prairie I received the words from ancient Arcadia.

 

 

 

2186  These writings contain jumps, intellectual leaps, sudden turnings, dialectical disappearings, flashes and reversals.  That is my art, my strikingly inarticulate articulation.  I write the vertigo of difference.  And the losing of one's way in the Infinite. 

 

Consider that I have searched for the first things of Being.  I did find them, because they are easy to find for those willing to believe they have truly found them.  The faint of heart will never find them.  Considerations stop before the simple things.  As you can see, unlike other writings which start from first things and build outward, I take apart inwards, or may I say I undress the beloved thing until the beauty is revealed.  I have walked backwards into his room.  And so you see that at the last instant I cross the bridge of the erotic.  The faint of heart will always be afraid of losing his balance on the narrow way over.  I have perfect balance.

 

Between the first things of Being there is an absolute otherness.  Consider the difference between the number two and the number three.  Consider the difference that is between them.  It's an impossible consideration.  I write that difference.  Consider the difference between a bare this and this word.  One is a pure simple; the other is a complex.  Between that simple and that complex is a difference, an otherness, that is almost magically not there.  But it is there for the ontologically minded and only in the erotic will I eventually show it to you.  But how can that be?  Let it only be said that between the great matrix of interrelatings and the simple thing by itself you see the difference between the great family of the world and the boy alone with himself lost in the timelessness and placelessness of his room.  The sweltering mass of relatings and the unrelated.  The many don't believe in the unrelated and they think the boy by himself is probably doing immoral dirty things.  He has fallen in the difference between things and is not in the world.  For those of you who have been there, you do see.   

 

The jump is the boy instantly outside the world whenever he wants.  The simples of ontology are here and gone.  There is no path to the path. 

 

 

 

2187  Philosophy is concerned from beginning to end with the First Things.  Unlike science, though, it does not proceed outward from them to build a great system of thought.  It, perhaps perversely, attempts to go even farther into Being to discover things that may be even prior to the most prior.  Perhaps if I name some of these First Things it will be of assistance to my readers.

 

 

(x)H(x) ÉM(x)  For all x if x is human then x is mortal

 

($x)H(x) ÉM(x)  there is an x (=Socrates) such that x is human therefore x is mortal.

 

The First things here are the particular (bare) symbolized by x, the universals Human and Mortal, the connector we will call "therefore" or "if-then", the universal and existential quantifiers, the proper way of putting them all together, the "flow" from premise to conclusion, the necessity of the logical form, the translucence of the logical form to the mind, the repetition of symbols all the while being of one constant thing etc, etc.  I think all will agree.  Few will agree that these logical things are real existing things.  Are there really bare particulars and universals and connectors or all kinds and logical form and lucidity and on and on?  Most will say that these are limping, weak, fleeting things of thought.  The real thing is Socrates and maybe his death.  All else about him is abstraction fumes of an over-worked brain.  For such a view, the First Things are as nothing.  That is not my philosophy. 

 

This is a Realism; those things here are real, strong, transcendent things that ground the very ground we walk on.  I look for a way to them past the weakness of the weak.  I look for striking Being of strong presence.  I go to the most powerful thoughts I have.  I land in the erotic.   I find myself on the street being thoroughly undone by the boy's beauty.  Beauty is Being made visible.  I know the bare That and the Boy that is tied with His nexus to every boy.  I know Lucidity and Well-Form Form and the power of Necessity.  I know it all intimately.  I have escaped the weak and the flaccid and the not really here.           

 

 

 

2188  A phenomenology of the logical form of this world will lead to the striking presence.  There there is only pure beauty.  We all merely yield to what presents itself, strong and controlling.  The closer we get to the First Things the stronger and more controlling they are.  At last, at the One and the Other, they are immensely overpowering.  Such is the Beauty of this divinity.  Thus the inevitable idolatry of the mirrored image of that in the world.  I am such an idolater.  I succumb to beauty.  I long to have the real thing.  I know I am close to the pure forms of Being.

 

A study of Logical Form as it appears to us leads to burning love.  Such is Being for us.  I insist it is so.  Few, upon hearing this, will do more than blink.  I insist in vain.  The world sees only faint shadows, not the Fire itself. 

 

My quest in writing this is to find the words that express that Fire within the Form of the world.  To secure the words out of the most ethereal flames of thought.  I have looked to my own thinking to see the Thought itself, for I am not different from the others in this regard.  I have looked directly at thought and the most abstract objects of thought.  I have found a god who will not yield to me, but accepts me into him.  And from the anguish of his absence I learned negation and paradox.  I learned vertigo from his glance onto me. 

 

Because I became a love junky I learned the everydayness of the world when he was not there for me.  I learned the cold and the bleak.  I awaited his hand that would once more permit me to simply blank out in love.  I wrote paragraphs full of the sudden other, and I let myself fall into that.  Even now I am not far from it.

 

If I come to you as a lover and I talk incessantly about the One and the Many, and I seem to be nowhere, then I am There and the love has been consummated. 

 

 

 

2189  All mathematical proofs involving an actual infinity cause the one caressed by it to blank out.  The proofs somehow don't really work.  I mean that they really work mathematically, but they don't lead the thinker through without a slight caesura of thought.  That break, that cut in mental space is, if not wrong, somehow not quite right.  It's an unease. 

 

All thought that is not propositional, not of the form x is F or x is R to y, that is to say all attempts to think the simple pieces of the proposition are a blanking out in the middle of a simple understanding.  We can think that x and y are F, but to think and understand the "and" as a piece alone is a flash and then for an instant nothing.  The pieces of Being are difficult to hold.  Thus they are said by most to be nothing at all, which is also a non-thought, a sheer logical impossibility so easily run into.

 

In the broad essay form of writing it is easy to pretend that there is no momentary orgasmic oblivion in thought.  The steps to the conclusion are solid and handy.  There are no ghosts along the way.  But in reality there are breaks in the stairway up and one easily, momentarily falls through infinite space under the steps before regaining ones composure and continues on.  I write only the breaks and the falling and thus this is not an essay.  I assay the situation and sit down on shifting glittering sand.

 

The smooth continuum is never there except along the smooth skin of the boy causing me to forget any reason for caressing him except that. 

 

All paradox, beautiful paradox, all unnecessary doubling, all self with self, all through the being of being, and the maddening non-being of non-being, and my having him in my not having him, so irreconcilably sweet, all love is only oblivion.  And the sucking oblivion of oblivion, a gentle pain. 

 

 

 

2190  Ordinary boy gods.  Objects of philosophical contemplation.  Out in the world such things don't exist and they make no sense.  And yet, these things of Being are the very being of every one of those out there and that division between Being and beings looms its head again.  What to do?  Even the non-belief in such things by beings must be struggled with by the philosopher who knows that inside the non-belief there is secret belief – or don't you believe in such fairy tales?

 

Such religion is the only religion there has ever been.  The passion of the heart devises ways.  Paths open.  Bridges appear.  Hideaways are no longer hidden away.  If the passion is strong enough.  The breath leaves in desperation and the breath returns.

 

The madness is not just a metaphor of worldly literature as the world out there would have it.  It is a real thing for the philosopher, the only really real presence of his life here.  But with the gods he is brightly sane and the struggle and the looming deliquesce in the ambrosia.  Only those who have never known passion and desperation will not believe.

 

As long as the particular that is the boy is drowning among the weeds that are the inter-relatings of the world there is no god for the philosopher to see there.  Only when that particular is alone with the simple Form is he a god exemplified.  The Simple things of Being are divine.   The mass of inter-relatings is a giving way toward nothing at all.  The ontologic is tight.

 

 

 

2191  Contemplation is often mistaken for dreaming.  Seeing is mistaken for imagining.  Presence is mistakenly taken to be absence.  We do dream and we do imagine and we conjure up what is not separate from us, but we also see and know and feel things that are separate from both us and the outer world.  There is nothing mystical or magical or even extra-ordinary about that.  The student contemplating mathematics does it instantly.  The universal ideas we walk among so easily in our thoughts are not just of our own making nor are they mere reflections fuming in our brains.  The pure facts of the great abstractions have been intuitively known by everyone forever.  They are as real as the world - even more so in their obvious permanence.  We didn't dream up or imagine all these numbers and abstractions and translucent facts.  Contemplation and thought must be separated from that merely of ourselves.  Still, though, the objects of our dreams and conjuring imaginations, even they, may be separate from us.

 

I move to the simple things of existence, away from the sweltering complexity of the facts of the world.  I find the cool, refreshing spirit.  The stillness that has always been fills me.  It thinks me out into existence.  Being surpasses mind.  I am with the immense. 

 

 

 

2192  I write a very simple sentence.  It can stand alone on the page.  I write a simple rising and falling paragraph.  It turns gently and its end is at hand.  I write the flow, the dilation and the channeling.  I muse on the muein.  I write the simple music of breathing.

 

In all that I am unlike the other writers of philosophy.  Their serious constructions levitate me out into a hard place.  I have the lyrical sigh of being abandoned to the streets.  I have the sweetness of one about to go under.  Love is the last straw I grasp at.  I walk the halls of the schools like a boy looking for his last night's lover. 

 

A soft sheen, a velvety down, a smooth flow up along the inside of your brain and I ooze out.  The stars twinkle.  The night fills up.  Compound sentences prowl around about.  And existence is no more than that.  Relata separate forgotten among the dark lilies.

 

This style of writing suits my purpose.  I want to undress the sleeping form of the First Things.  In the isolation of my unattended mind he may move and flash.  The eternal is too delicate for the many hands that paw.  My stylus is a warning.

 

 

 

2193  At the end of the page there is the having to go back to the world.  I fell into a thought and you followed.  The break with the world was instantaneous.  The break continued all down the page and at the end only an opaque thick white light.  A mesmerizing thing.  A ticket back.  A stickiness to be cleaned up.

 

The sexual swoon, the long longing, the caught up breath, the exasperation.  It comes to no more than that.  But that is the true form of Being.  The fullest and the emptiest of things.  A thinking of when you ran your hand along his arm.  A remembering that he didn't move away.  A knowing that you haven't moved yourself for the last few seconds.  A pause in your sentences.  A moment about to repeat.  

 

I'm not going to write as the others do because I am not interested in the great inter-relating of facts.  I want the simple thing and the very smooth transition.  I want the blanking out of sex.  I want desire finally completed.  I do find it quickly.

 

 

 

2194  Take an ordinary object – the Moon.  Abstract away from it all its properties and relations with every other object.  Even abstract away the stuff of its being just that stuff.  Veer off the individuality of the bare individual that remains.  Separate out all the connectors and quantifiers and formal properties of properties. View in anguish the difference between these things and the seeming simplicity of the original now at the end taken away until nothing remains.  The Moon is fully analyzed. 

 

Now I ask you, What of these pieces?  Are they real things or are they mere "abstractions", nothings, mind reflections?  What of the original object, Is it a real thing or is it dependent on the pieces and of itself nothing, a mere mind "construct" and social fantasy?  Depending on how you answer, you are of one camp or the other.  You are to be a soldier in the ontological battle.

 

The scholarly realists are the ones who say that the pieces are real and the ordinary object doesn't exist, but by "exist" they mean something purely philosophical and they really, in their real lives, are not philosophical and they secretly think the ordinary object is It. 

 

Oh, to live philosophically.  Can the Hindu meditators help?  No, they are out to destroy philosophy and its uneasy thinking.  I think only the lovers can help.  They know all about incessant difficult battles of self-cutting thought.  They know difference intimately.  They lie analyzed often.  They themselves are the abstracted.  They are the rarified.  They are the ones against the insistent power.  The Moon is out.  Desire will not leave it alone.

 

 

 

2195  I suppose I could take the erotics out of this writing, but then I would have something from an ordinary philosophical journal, or mauled college textbook, or encyclopedia entry.  It's all been done again and again too much.  There would be no point.  I merely write for the erotically philosophically obsessed.  Again and again is never enough.  It's all been swallowed and spoken out ad voluptatem nauseae.  The cure is flagons and apples, not mineral water and health bars.  I could do as you want and take it all out, but passing into a permanent oblivion never appealed to me.

 

I write love songs.  I dance the dancer's dance.  I crave kisses.  I obliviate everything. 

 

If you think I maybe have a sensible philosophy hidden in here, then you know nothing of philosophy or the sensible or just why we read and write.  Life is not sensible.  The power is too great.

 

 

 

2196  Just as music is appealing to us because it seems to take us back to the placelessness of mind.  So mathematics takes the mind beyond mind into the timeless.  Likewise physics, because it is so intimate with mathematics and because it has tried to rid its object of the detritus of the senses, is an entryway through matter into the immaterial. 

 

Philosophy attempts to gain a vision of that beyond the mathematical.  Into a beyond that is the beginning of the one and the many, into the ardor of the mathesis.

 

Mathematics, at is heart, is heat.  It is the fire of paradox and tight clinging disintegration.  It is the one thing falling into itself.  It is the forgetting and the remembering.  It is the narcissus rush into self-love.  It is the lure returning.  Into the ashes of the fire blown out.

 

Beyond mathematics is the trepidation of love.  In the shaking and the solicitation.  In the sheen of fairness and the softness of the ineluctable.  It is the writhing lock of distressed tresses.  And the redundant key. 

 

That beyond mathematics, in that entirely questionable thing, that chest squeezing love, that queasy stomach, that audacious placing together, that sweat dripping on the lip tastes metallic like the night itself.

 

Beyond the timeless and the placeless, beyond the One and the many, is the One with itself in its fly-by-night passion.  The arguing begins.  The itch will not let up.  The sting is in.  A silent dialectic throbs and a now trite attrition leaves flakes in the polished darkness.

 

   

 

2197  Modern philosophy, deconstructionism, logical analysis, neo-thomism, et alios alios alios, all hide a very common pedestrian understanding of things in a most wrinkled up thing.  Like smelly pants and a shirt pushed into a sordid corner and now held out to be examined.  The  pasted miscoherence will not come out by study.  Nonetheless, inadvertent creases in casual clothes is quite all right.

 

I write simply and lyrically.  I write the uncommon understanding of things.  I write transcendental gods.  I write boys moved to escape.  The four walls of his ordinary room, of this temple, dissolve away the outside world.  His crumpled clothes in the corner are left there and he goes about naked.

 

 

 

2198  The problem is that we can't afford to be silent now.  We have neither time nor space enough in which to hide the madness.  We have seen another thing and our casually pretending it isn't there is undoing the world.  The soul of man is agitated.  Reality sandwiches are being served and we must eat.  Our own flesh is on the plate.  We are the transubstantiated ones. 

 

I surf the internet to find boy porno pictures.  Jack-off boys.  Big dick and smooth thigh, twisted face.  I feel the sameness of him with me with another with another – one thing.  Perhaps that drawing all into the unity of just That is so faggoty, but I am that also.  Being calls.  The ancient Form is present.  And this is the ever-present Presence of ordinary mysticism.  I revel in this virtual Transcendence at hand, in my hand. 

 

We must speak it right out – NON-BEING DOES NOT EXIST.  We are trapped in Being forever.  A love trap.  The ineluctable tresses.

 

I and the boy-pictures boy and the shushing world are a Vir.  The member is big and the smell wafting is an essence right into the depths of the soul.  WILL HE WAKE UP! 

 

In reality we are not swamp gas; this is not a philosophy of comedy.  We are in the ferret irony of angels.  Secretly we are great things.  Puck fucks his friend right onto the shoulder of God.  Zam-Zammah is between his legs.  In intrigue we escape. 

 

It is all so very real.  Time gives way easily to the ever existing.  The fixity of logic cajoles.  A god spews his words right into the waiting mouth.  We are the insistent thickening up of sentence.

 

We are the difference between things with the hand of unity all over us.

 

 

 

2199  Time fits into logic only if there are temporal moments that facts or the bare particulars in facts reside at.  If there aren't then one particular under different forms after change is just contradiction. A particular is fresh and later it is rotten.  Without moments to make a distinction between particulars, contradiction is avoided only if different particulars are in the different facts.  But then we lose the continuity that is so heavily felt.  Do we abandon particular-Form, subject-predicate logic, do we abandon the idea that facts consist of ontological elements?  I can't.  I also do not see any such thing as a moment.  Even if there were such things, abstracted away from the temporal relations that I do see, they become indistinguishable from bare particulars.  Time, which is to say continuity through change, and logic are incompatible.  Or there are no universals.  If there are no universals then the problems of nominalism and the emptiness of Buddhism will lead us to stupidity.  They save time and lose coherent thought.

 

These thoughts will surely be challenged by others.  All philosophical thoughts are.  This state of attack is part of the pro-jected thing.  Rejected, dejected, subjected, I go on.  I can stand with the best of them on this field with Arjuna and Krishna; it's all just the Form of God, no one has been or will be killed except that lovely lord himself.  Philosophy rises up and goes under.  The logic is tight.  Nothing changes or happens or takes place.  The things of Being are still and, of course, eternal.  My thoughts are numbers numbering themselves in the rhythms of the finally supra-non-existent infinite set.  Two are one and the one thing is two and time is just that identity – that maddening identity.  Beyond logic I find the non-logical and time almost is, but it really isn't.  I am in the ever so erotic between.

 

 

 

2200  I write the way I do because it seems to me that these tight paragraphs, these one-page constructions, the standing station for thought and the sure completion are the well-formed form of my sexual Epi-stem.  There is here a Mut, a Deinos, an Herm-etic thing.  A firm thing.  Thought thought out.  My erect stillness.  I write the Lingum. 

 

I write the knowledge and the virtue that the lover gives his beloved.  I write the terrible spirit come in.  I write the religious force that takes possession of the lover and the boy is taken.  I write against this flaccid age. 

 

The lover and the beloved eventually die on the battlefield, but their resurrection is sure.  The constant thing.  The eternal thing.  The penetrating force.  Knowledge comes in with a rush.  The spirit breathes.  Life enters in and we move to take what we now want.

 

The form of our thinking, of our logic, of the Act, is the one thing, the tight-with-itself thing, the bewildering Vertical.

 

I write the epistemei and the aretei.  I write the holocaust of Christ and the breath of the Spirit.  I write the quickly drawn up.

 

 

 

2201  In analysis the rigid thing finally appears.  After the folds have all been unfolded and laid aside the one well-formed form stands out.  The com-plexity gives way to the simple thing.  The contemplation begins in stillness.  The mind of the philosopher reels.  Ton deinon philein.  The spirit seeps in and the real roils, head-filling.  The words spill out.  The thought deliquesces and the night waits.

 

This is philosophy, an erotic filling up and the ensuing stillness.  The frightful look.  The sure destruction.  The gathering breath.  The gaze.  And again he comes.  It is the form of form standing constant against.  It is the overcoming of the threatening disintegration.  It is rosy-cheeked flesh made eternal and the smell of essence intoxicating into a flushed oblivion.  It is lover and beloved knowing each other.  The Vir.  The sure thing.  The happy night.

 

 

 

2202  To some this philosophy will seem too agitated, too hype-ed up, uncool.  It is not a relaxed thing.  It is not the quiet disintegration of materialism.  It is not the sweetness of drunkenness.  It is not a pleasant afternoon at a friend's house.  It is not resignation to an inevitable doom.  It is the incoming of an eternal presence – ever so unfashionable. 

 

This is religion.  It is from the temple and the tenebrae spiritus.  It is the soothing breath of a god, mouth into mouth.  It is for those who have died once.  It is the definition of Knowledge.  It is the filling Vir of the now strong.  It is the flow of heart piercing love.  It is blown-away nirvana.  It is Thought. 

 

We live in a hectic time.  Too many tools to manipulate too many tools.  Red lights and highway breakdowns.  Angry kids.  Insipid television.  Head-banging programming languages.  Broken condoms.  Why religion?  It's because some of us aren't yet tired or maybe because this place has left those of us who always were much too oversexed unsatisfied and the lover is yet to be found.  The one lover that will finally blow this place away and then the long night inside the Intensity at last.       

 

The boy I love is just trying to make his way peaceably.  He is a bright academic kid.  Still, there is something mad about him and maybe he will, on some of his sleepy nights and days, follow me.  It may be that he is being seduced.

 

 

 

2203  We live in a time when knowledge is a weak thing, an insipid thing, a mere knowing that.  Facts are not startling things that stick out of Being.  No one is in awe of these emanations from a Transcendence.  Everything is only the thin shuddering of the weak shade of matter.  Clumps gather and crumble quickly.

 

And yet, knowledge does exist, the same knowledge transmutating into Knowledge.  When I was a boy I lay on my bed and the power of arc and tangent shot through my chest.  I learned the subjunctive mood and it became a terrible Moody thing for me.  I read of Sola Fides and the Numb Inaction of the spirit filled me.  I watched the logical symbol for the All break any possibility of thought.  I saw my own thought thinking thought and I was in the Nowhere.  I pondered and was pushed down by the null set.  I am still very still because those dusty ancient wings scratched their way through me.  And now I am concerned about just what that transmutation is.

 

I was aware that as I lay there I was also sexually charged.  That did have a part in the change.  My rod is big and the pole to heaven is at hand.  Let me rather say that the pole to heaven revealed itself for the time being as a part of me.  I insist that the transcendence is prior to any ruddy appearance.  The Stable is before the streaming appearance of it.  The power of my body comes and goes but That is surely the constant thing.  To think otherwise is to fall into the blandness and the paper-thin existence of our time, of time. 

 

That this is too much for some and they resort to the comic to destroy it is, I suppose, understandable, but the spirit is a backward going and the sign is the insignificant.

 

This is not a historical event.  The spirit and the Boy are.  The world is and always has been taken by them.  Nothing has changed.  Knowledge was and will be for those who know.  The quickly disappearing trace that some now see is no more than the down on his face, a glance at it and oblivion.  And then his breath enlivens.  It's all in an instant.

 

 

 

2204  A philosophical statement can be heard and felt either truly philosophically or matter-of-factly.  Those who know the first and intimately know it are pained and disheartened by the second.  If I say that the world is the moving image of eternal Forms, you can either calmly recognize that as a statement from Plato and wonder what meaning it could possible have today other than that the world has the form that mathematics lays out, or you could be mesmerized and enchanted by the mystical beauty suddenly revealed, maybe revealed again and ever again, by those words fit for the lips of a god.  The first looks at the second in amazed pity as the second steps sprightly aside to let the flat-footed go by. 

 

The matter-of-fact attitude wants to say that it has already been there and done that but more complicated analyses are not required.  It does not want to stop helpless before this quaint but antiquated nonsense.  The enchanted one is content to remain in the presence of this holy thing forever. 

 

One speaks and hears philosophy from out of the coolness of the psyche or within the heat of the pneuma.  The lover is burning with the revealed.  The non-lover finds it all momentarily droll and then looks for an escape to the disabused of such matters.

 

Perhaps it really has all been done before and repetition has worn it thin, but the youth jumpy with desire hears nothing of it and jumps into the sun.  This is a philosophy of the boy.  This is the repetitious willingly repeated and repeated.

 

 

 

2205  The philosophically enchanted are perhaps just oversexed and the words, in their stillness and strangeness, have let the thinker fall into his chemical dream.  Or so the comically inclined would incline.  I decline.  Such reduction to matter is for the slow of spirit.  For the cool.  For the fashionable and sociable and the stoned.  I climb up into the elements of logic, into my ontological treetop and I wait for my friend to come.  I watch.  I have watched it before.  My head spins.  It spins gloriously.  If I fall, so what.  I am chained to on high.

 

I have known Pentecostal ecstatics who fell under the spirit and then under the boys of their congregation.  The spiritually wild are all oversexed.  So what.  The world is as it should be.  The snow falls blindingly.  And still the fires burn in the heart.

 

Sex and ecstasy become at their extreme the unmoving movement of heaven.  Those taken by it are different from the others.  These are the elect.  

 

Quantum computers act on the principle that one thing can be in two opposite states at one and the same time.  But don't look!  Or are we here talking about two different worlds?  It's all the same.  These boys are having it both ways.  Up down – it's all the same to him, he goes there often. 

 

I step out of this world into the one alongside me and I am there also.  I do it in the flash of not being anywhere at the moment of orgasm, but you can look if you want.  You may find yourself beside yourself and fall.  Then I will look and we will be just fine, ready to do it all again later.

 

Philosophy is the prospect that here at last you will find the lover you have wanted.  And there are so many things to say about that. 

 

 

 

2206  Does a philosophy of realism, extreme realism, lead to a non- or anti-social society?  To the destruction of any society?  To an unworldly world?  I don't yet know.  Socius in Latin means friend.  It is sequence and the second and the suitor.  Surely these are real things.  I think what I want to say is that a true society exists only in a philosophy of realism where relations really do exist.  Without realism one is never sure of anything because everything depends on everything and the threads of this context are made out of the fine substance of vocis flatus, as changeable as the breeze.  In reality, though, the socii are two, not a whole group, not everyone.  The boy in his room does find his friend.  Together they know and they know each other.  The group at large wonders and gossips about such knowing and discourages it. 

 

I do think that there can be a society of friends, lovers.  The crowd, the whole, the collective will be diminished.  But that is as it should be.  Perhaps, though, this ideal is too ideal for here.  Perhaps this is a vision of another world.

 

 

 

2207  The form of my writing strikes me.  It is the constant once again appearing of the same Form.  There is no primal pair and relation that grows into a great system.  There is no deconstruction of some system that has grown suspiciously.  It is only the ever again appearing of my desire and its summary completion in that one other thing.

 

The particular exemplifies the form.  Again and again.  The same particularity bewilderingly particularizing itself as other as other.  The oblivion of difference always giving way to That.  The fall.  The rising.  The one form with itself.  Against itself.  Giving itself to itself.  The thing always away from here. 

 

As an example I am taken out for the night.  I am shown around.  I am a commodity.  He buys me for his pleasure.  He covers me with his Form.  I am become him.  Again.  And again.

 

The form of this writing is repetition.  The particular repeats the form and the form repeats the particular.  He and I are just that one thing that is he and I.  Let me say that again – I love to say that again and again.  He and I are that one thing that is just he and I - together.  Striking!

 

 

 

2208  In my head the boys all swirl into the one Boy.  The essence wafts.  The coming clings.  The night becomes a bright pin prick. 

 

In his hair I lose all sense of this and that.  The curls curl into one curl.  Time is surely nothing at all.  The eternal night shines with the one eternal brightness.  Was there ever any question?  It is just the eternal perplexity.  Shot clear through, we are finally here.  Nothing has changed.  The basin at the summit of your lip holds me still.  The lights of your shoulder spill tumescence into my lap and I blush with thought.  My hair stands up.  And I fold through myself.

 

This, of course, makes sense only insofar as such ontological repetition makes sense.  The books are full of it.  They explode.  The libraries are a mess.  Your book fines are piling up.  And your hard drive is down again.  But not to worry.  Software isn't so always.  Hold down the control key, lick the pointer, and paste yourself out there once again.  Boys alone with their computers do wild things.  Wet wild and weird – dot - calm.

 

Exemplification is pornography under my photonic stylus and it's all the same to me.  I took him out for the night and I brought him back safe.  It was grand, the ebrius glistened with immortality, the dancers danced with flaming agility and at the last moment I paid for it with my own existence.  Now I am back typing on my desk cluttered high with books.  And I see some mittens where he was sleeping.

 

 

 

2209  Boys really are impish, as is math and Jesus and my computer.  The Ideal, the Form itself, is the most impish, mischievous, strangely contorted thing of all.  The Form and the world are one.  And yet it is the world's being totally contrary to the ideal of the Form that is no more than just that.  Like Don Quixote, I find that nothing works out as my dreams and my incessant readings tell me they should.  I am a fool.  But I have written down knowingly this convoluted, twisted thing for you to read back to me and I shall be in that for both me and you and then for Him.  It will all work out somehow.  Impishly.

 

 

 

2210  I feel that there is something in my writing that will be unacceptable to publisher and reader alike.  It isn't the boy love, though boy sex would have been more acceptable.  It isn't the religion, though I think people would prefer a grown-up God.  It is rather the inhuman thing.  The Platonic Forms that no one could ever live with.  The otherness of the boy that eventually comes through.  The god of underthings.  The divinity of splattered cum.  The trembling night that is not of this world.  Das Unheimlich.  Das Ungeheuer.

 

So is that holy thing really in my words?  It may be in my total self-deception that it is.  It may be the twistedness of my mind.  It may be the failure of my love.  As a good Calvinist I do accept my depravity body and soul.  Surely that is seen as itself depraved by the world and I am that.  It turns out that I am reversed divinity.  Such is Platonism.  Such is the horror within philosophy that philosophers run from.  Such is my inhumanity.  I wallow in it. 

 

Perhaps I can be read as a case.  The world is all that is the case.  The case against this writer.  Which, in case you haven't noticed, is encased in the jeweled case of English language delight.  Narcissistic writing.

 

Nonetheless, I have written from out of the great tradition now rejected.  Such is the horror we have of our own history.

 

 

 

2211  It is neither money nor power that controls and is the meaning of great world events; it is Eros, romance, simple mad falling in love.  This is, of course, an unspeakable truth, spoken of to the exclusion of all else effusively by all for all of our history.  Love somehow is the All in All.  It remains unspeakable.  And jealousy is the terror we fear. 

 

Wars are, much more than anything else, the stand-off of one grouping of beautiful young men against another.  Sparks and tracer bullets in the night.  Blood and the waiting shoulder.  The old men, thinking they guide the affair, don't.  The god of love fills the spaces and makes demands.  The whole affair was only him playing with himself, an eternal game, so appealing, against which you cannot appeal, as you are peeled off and he lies naked on the prickled ground covered with the faithful still now transcendent within him.  He's gone.   Nothing is ever lost. 

 

Love is a closed-mouth intricacy.  It is logic turning into gods.  It is the stuff of the Real.  Without the madness of this ever-changing myth there is no comprehension.  Without the slender waist there is nothing for you to grasp.  It is the falling sigh that your money and power attempted.  Finally it all mingles and you are free of it.  It is glistening before you.

 

 

 

2212  This philosophy of the most abstract things, embedded in the most concrete movements of my own heart, will surely not please those wanting a depiction of a concrete scene with seemingly real persons involved in recognizable intricacies given by a vanished author become thoroughly abstract.

 

Philosophy, though, is always abstract, and the unspoken passion of the philosopher has always been there with it.  Whether he be the writer or the reader, the thinker thinks himself into constriction and release whenever he moves through the Idea.  There is no story to tell.  Philosophy is purely sexual.  It is a pure intuition.  It is a synthetic a priori affair.  It is Dionysian.  It is orgiastic.  It is damnation and salvation.  On the stratospheric clouds of fine transcendence.  No more than that.  

 

 

 

 

2213  Platonism has, from the beginning, been rejected by many, because, in the Dialogues, it is so close to a questionable kind of love.  Should I be properly scientific and say that that connection is only a superficial association or should I strike a Philosophical stance and mystically write of a deeper kind of Necessity?  For me, the closeness is intimate indeed and I write for those who think as I do.  Acceptance or rejection, belief or offence, because of powerful feelings in this matter is the reader's affair and I am powerless to change anything.  Is it homosexuality or is it the Uranian Eros?

 

From the beginning the basic ideas of Plato have been changed and changed and changed.  Who knows for what hidden reasons.  Who knows why some have returned again and again.  Nonetheless, throughout its history Platonism has been ineluctably one with the boys of its mystical eroticism.  The accusation is that it leads to degeneracy.  One could say in defense against this that it is the unnecessary association with romantic love that does so and Platonism is too otherworldly to stop it.  Not paying proper attention to the things here in the cave has led to madness.  That, however, begs the question of a necessary connection and we are back to the difference between science and Philosophy.

 

Therefore, Philosophy, in the orgy of capital letters, is boy love.  Few agree.  It is transcendent.  It is of the immateriality of the immaterial.  It is a generation in the timelessness of pure form, which is to say, hardly generation at all.  The intellectual creations of the Platonic soul are, as are these writings, ethereal nothings – so like the kisses of boys – an intensity vanishing. 

 

There is nothing in Platonism for the giants of the earth.  And nothing of the constancy of home.   It is a strangeness of history.  It is, in fact, not of history.  It is a questionable other.

 

 

 

2214  I have assumed in all this, somewhat unintentionally, no doubt foolishly, that my reader is dauntingly familiar with the weighty mass of philosophical literature, the great questions and the ill-fated answers, the anguish of final success in reaching an end to thought and the eventual collapse.  No one, of course, is familiar with philosophy.  It is an unfamiliar weird.  Likewise none of us is really daunted by all that.  We go on blithely and seemingly willing to take the prize of heaven that is ours.  Truth and the Light are easily come by.  But the anguish never leaves. 

 

This is realism, which is to say that those things that idealism happily puts in the mind as the work of the mind, the realist finds out in reality or if in the mind not as from the mind. 

 

Consider a set of two things a and b, symbolize it as (a,b).  The idealist will say that the setness of the set is contributed by the mind by acting upon a and b.  The mind has the power to synthesize.  The realist will agree that the set is a thing different from the two elements but that it is an existing thing not of the mind.  It is real in the sense that the real is independence from thought.  Then the inevitable question arises about the existence of a nexus to unite the set with "its" elements, and the idealists again say that is also of the mind but this time it is from the mind's power to separate.  That is to say the ability to separate the unity of set and elements from the set and the elements.  The realist sees the nexus as an existing thing not from out of his or anyone's mindworks.

 

All of that seems to me to be easy enough for almost anyone to understand, but I am apparently mistaken.  It's like trying to explain "and" to someone.  The discussion quickly becomes absurd to the other and a consternation to the stars.  I, only slightly concerned, go on.  I remember once I joyfully gave the number two to someone for her birthday.  I thought it was a thoroughly magical thing.  It was pointedly treated with contempt, and I was actually surprised.  I have always assumed too much.  I have seen things others haven't.  I have seen the most inconsequential things up close. 

 

My point is that I have come to believe that very few or none will get my point in all this though I have pointedly come to the point on almost every page and it is the common point we all spin on but I have felt it as the sting of love.

 

 

 

 

2215  This is language that is aware of itself.  Here the nexus of meaning means to have you enfolded into this sentence right here.  The trace you are has at last been tracked down.  Beating beating beating.  The overlooked is now being looked over.  

 

All along the boy's pearly whites comes your own reflection as you slowly eye this sentence back to him.  Saliva curls in the boy's mouth soon in your mouth.  A sentence is a mouthy thing. 

 

You can either think about what I was trying to do with these sentences or you can eye the sentences themselves.  Either way I am now in you except that now you have vacated even your own self and trite paradox threatens once again.  The purity of Form cannot be relinquished.  Nor squished.  And all this in its timelessness and placelessness in your not being able to figure out much about it is so similar to the very thing it means - whatever that means.  It's a rhythmical numerical god thing.   Beating off the rushes.

 

 

 

2216  The giving way.  The thing that for the sake of another thing now isn't.  The self self-abnegating.  The quickly overlooked.  Perfect deflection.  The nexus that carries the soul across the river of forgetfulness.  The transference of being.  Such is the intentional nexus that deflects the mind from the thought that it is to the thought of.  And the meaning nexus that leaves the sentence abandoned and there remains only that that it wanted to say.  Likewise the causal nexus that gives one thing the place of the dissipated former thing. 

 

I do analysis and the ordinary thing gives way to the collection of ontological things.  I love and in my loving I am become nothing while the beloved expands into the Everything.  I write and I push my thoughts into the minute shapes of literary geometry. 

 

A Nexus is not just a hook, but a slipping that gives each thing connected the being of the other.  This is a sentence.  The this and the sentence through it become each other.  The effect receives its being from the cause.  The thought is intimately lain across the world and as true lovers become each the other.  The many sentences, all things with meaning, contain the fullness of meaning, no more nor less than the thing meant.  And philosophy, so very much wanting to capture the Being of all of Being, falls into the Arms of Being and the world is lost.

 

I have given myself to philosophy and of me there remains only an exaggerated desire for the clear-eyed one.                

 

 

 

2217  A philosopher is someone who sits and stares at his tools.  I think I read that Wittgenstein said that.  If he didn't he should have, because it fits him.  He is mesmerized.  He is in front of the herm, the lingum, That.  This phallic boy-god has possessed the man.  Ludwig searched the dark areas of the park for his man.  The logic is ineffable.  The nexus is unspeakable.  The expression was never really expressed.  The game seems somehow similar to other games but the similarity is soon lost and he comes quickly and passes over the ground. 

 

The representationalists, those who study quickly disappearing signs, hurry to say what can be said, trace their own foot prints back out of the darkness of the pubic garden, and take a pass over what cannot be said. 

 

I too stare and assiduously study.  I too speak the non-speaking too much.  I am concerned about the nexus, big or little, I don't mind.  The nexus is philosophy and it has never been thought out.  It rather thinks out both mind and philosophy.  Inter philosophos semper fuit disputatio de relativis.  That seeped out of Albert who was Great.  His puto was always Miss Placed. 

 

I loved geometry and algebra as a boy.  I not only stare, but I gawked at the forms forming themselves into their conclusions.  I too performed the work on myself.  I dreamed the dream of Onan.  The ground of all things and the fire were my concern.  I parted company with those who said we shouldn't look and speak.  I held myself out for all to see, or rather I tried, but few or no one looked.  Now the city is being destroyed.  The great dome of the basilica mosque is coming down on us all.  The cross-eyed boy is looking back. 

 

In the end the thing stared at cannot reconstitute the world it has destroyed in its/my being right out there.  The transcendental thing is just that.  My words fold up into themselves and the One has once again done its magic.

 

 

 

2218  The tool is magnificent in its being able to construct a whole universe.  Logic emanates and emanates and now the gigantic mess coheres tight and essences waft.  Touching it here and there has caused its infinity to double.  That no sub-ratio can be formed has put us adrift on an insubstantial ocean.  A raft of firm poles tied together is all we have to lie on.  The war saw a lot of deconstruction in its time, but time is now gone and I am sent the magma and the loot.  Gold and the Eye and the whole man ate up in giga bytes.  (I am here, of course and as I have been told, back in the logic of resemblances and the visible sign.)  It all comes around.  The compass prick and the straight out rule.  Structures strew about.

 

My literariness is perhaps unliterary non-musings.  I was taken and shoved down, or rather the down was shoved naked. 

 

 

 

2219  I have not really gone back to the logic of resemblances.  I write, you read and the words are quickly forgotten, if noticed at all.  I play with words and worlds and what is that?  Repetition repeats and it's all so abstract.  I am in the purest of the pure.  The boy languishes.  I sigh.  Plato platonizes.  The big-thighed Vishnu lies on the coiled up serpent, his own hanging longingly down into the down of desire.  I squirm and wait for the Apophasis.

 

I am, of course, and as you can see an idolater.  I bow in broken devotion to the boy.  I am tight for this middle-eastern Jesus.  I see his scruffy form everywhere.  I pant and my pants soon come off.  Even now he is visible around me here in the Hind, splattered tattered scattered.  Pungent musky chili-pepper boys.  Love has made me thus.  Love will save me.  Why am I here?

 

On the sub-continent the lovers of the boy have been covered up and their writings obliterated.  I will work to uncover them and to once again make their words literate.  What goes around comes around and the rhythms again create the same desire.  But, beware; I am in Identity, not resemblance.  The one Form is here again.  The one exemplification.  The very same particular.   Just That.  Or is that an ontological screw up?  I will abstractly pull it out in coitus eruptus.   Bham bham bham.  You yogis, not letting out your own sperm, are full of it.  Haven't you noticed at all? 

 

Literarily speaking I am Kim.  No, I am the Lama and I worry where that Boy has taken off to.  The erotic river of immortality is flowing right through me. 

 

 

 

2220  In the giving way nothing really gives way, everything is there as before, the giving way has given way, and I have given away way too much.  Back to a philosophy of Presence – even the presence of the giving way.  The boy knew he existed only as that one he loved or thought he loved as he saw him pass by so fleetingly.

 

A sentence is, seemingly, so meager compared to the sensual scene it describes.   But its indefiniteness and its bareness elevate it and make it definitely just That.  The spirit rises out of itself.  The essence is caught in pure form.  In the hesitation there is the grasping and the gasping.  The fullness deliquesces all through your chest.  The printed letters gave way to that.  Again to That.  And I am even now give out. 

 

Being hasn't moved.  My agile fire begins to loom.  The loom in the gloom zooms.  This text will cover me and reveal my form, my glorious form.  I have given myself away so many times.  Virtual lovers.  There was never anything there at all.  Tracks on my fore head.  Being is all there is. 

 

 

 

2221  It could be said that I stole my philosophy from Gustav Bergmann.  I do like the romantic title of thief.  Stolen kisses and pears are sweeter and all that.  It could be said that he stole his philosophy from Plato, except that in his case because he isn't quite the flaming romantic I am it would be too serious a charge and eminently wrong.  Philosophers don't steal except by design.  I am somewhere in there pondering the situation.

 

I am a thief.  I can claim no genesis, lineage or pedigree.  I am Autodictat, kicked out of the library for fooling around with the boys.  I feel the nausea.  And the exhilaration.  I climbed around all up and down oak trees when I was a boy.  I hung suspended.   

 

 

 

2222  The philosopher first analyzes the world and then tries to put the pieces back together to regain the world.  He can't.  The world is gone for him.  What to do!

 

The deconstructionists tried to make the pieces withdraw, to become only traces, to misplace themselves in the Other.  It didn't work.  We watched and watched and watched them trying to do their magic and all we saw was the effort of trying to force it.  The words and the nexus and the meaning all remained just what they were and the world waited and nothing.  Analysis doesn't wash out.  Philosophy and the world are at each other.  The boy and the civil order look threateningly at each other.  No one can deconstruct as he deconstructs and he knows exactly what you are doing when he watches you. 

 

The Double is the boy with himself.  The Boy.  The Logos.  The Eternal become cum on a boy's stomach, where there's enough room to set up whole religions.  Horus auto-erotically ejaculating the world.  The flat sands of explanation are now full of commentary and a critical analysis.  The boy can do any of that a starry number of times a day.  He will later explain everything to you.  The particular and the universal are one.  The scruffy and the exalted.  So ironic.  So irenic.

 

The world is build up not by analysis but by the orgasmic end of analysis.  It's inevitable. 

 

 

 

2223  The representationalists tried to avoid the breakup of analysis by having one half of the analyzed pair be the lens through which we see the other half.  The universal is the self-effacing deputy of the particular.  Logic is the mirror of the world.  The shifty particulars reflect the stiff and standing Form.  The sign withdraws seeking the favor of the signified.  Being hides its face so the many beings will reflect only blue sky.  The thought lovingly magnifies the presence of its object.  The nexus is no-thing, a little lentil, a falling under (love's intoxication, no doubt).  Then the fact of the world is reflected dancing along the sugar caffeine jumpy sentences in midnight textbooks.  The world melts in the smithy fire of a boy's worrisome night.  He will eventually beat out a friendly face.  God returns.  Pure Form is identical with the sensual world in the madness of two that are one.  Maybe three.       

 

Having one half become a nothing so the one thing can be is often called love, but love is mad and representationalism itself worries itself into a morning of tangled sheets and disheveled Persian tresses right in your face.  Get up, it's so late.  

 

 

 

2224  The hardest part of ontology is the nexus.  It is the most important part.  It is not a part of anything and ontology has no parts, but then again the very notion of part requires the nexus of part to whole and nexus is there too.  Jesus is the coherence of the world with itself and with that not itself.  The clinging wafting heart of Being.  The coagulated mass.  The cardiac arrest.  The stopped up.

 

The stuffiness of stuff stifles study.  The turgid rigid burgeoning burns.  The scar over the smoothness.  The car that won't start.  The startling rifle butt.  The butt of better things to do.   Ontology is impacted by trying to get it together and thought wants to become the thing thought.  Oh my!

 

Your beautiful freedom is gone.  You have become just That.  How can any of us expect to remain what we are when the nexus is so tight, so insisting, so transporting.  I have not been myself lately.  Just last night on my bed I worked and I became you.  I am Hephaestus, I am smith, I make two into one.  I am overpowering nexus.  I am the forgotten one.  All constructions deconstruct into one glob. 

 

But before we get carried away, let's make this tightening nexus be itself in its own being.  Let's do the violence of contemplation.  Let's hold it in place as physicists stop light.  A god right there.

 

 

 

2225  I will let the nexus be just a tie, no more than that.  I will not insist that it disappear in a quiet ruffling of making a world where ontological things are forgotten.  The structure will stand.  There will be a cool separation from the sweltering mass.  The nexus does not vanish inside matter.  Nexus rises up with nexus clearly visible, rising suns in innumerable blue skies. 

 

It is all speakable.  The unspeakable is the quiet of two that are one and that is speakable.  In my stillness I become the lovers I see in my own being.  Love permeates.  Desire of that which one isn't reaches its end.  Then it begins again.  Endless orgasm.  A working to no end other than the End.  And then the Separation.

 

When I was a boy scout I learned lovingly to tie knots.  The geometry was superb.  The entanglement was secure.  And at night I managed to get him.  The rain rained and the ropes tightened and the snakes made there way about. 

 

The nexus is the barest of the bare.  Pure form that is the being of the heat of all beings.  It remains.  In the beauty of Being it reigns.  The dull writing of the deconstructionists never knew.  The dew falls.

 

 

 

2226  Sex between adults, especially as an expression of loving commitment between them, strikes me as extremely unattractive.  The adult it unsexy to me – even anti-sexy.  The beauty of the human body gives way easily and quickly to something other.  Am I alone in thinking this?  Surely not.  Don’t misunderstand me – the adult is, attractively I feel, filled with desire even more than the youth.  But to see the adult as object, not subject, of desire, or rather, to try to see him as object, is to try to do battle with nature.  The boy is by nature desirable, not the man.  The battle against nature's destructiveness will be won only in a place away from nature.  Let nature be nature, let it move in its great circles of life and death.  Man's eternity is somewhere else. 

 

For God to be beloved and not only the lover of man, he must be the Boy.  He must have the boyishness of the boy.  He must drive you wild and mad and beside yourself with his contrariness.  He must always be off to somewhere else.  And that he would let you love him and touch him in your miserableness is amazing.   Move through the maze of his ways gently.

 

God is object and not only subject.  God is seen and beheld and held.  The great command is to love God, not be loved by Him.

 

As for sex between adults, I do not want to issue some sort of Kantian Categorical Imperative here.  What others do is nothing to me and that I don't understand it often or usually is not surprising at all.  And that I would have to say that is surely a part of the anti-fascist feelings that are so much a part of this place.  The ways of God are mysterious.

 

 

 

2227  I said in the preface to this book that I intended to go beyond the limits of ontology.  For most that beyond is back to the ordinary world away from the destructiveness of thought.  For me, however, it is into the erotics of the godhead.  Have I jumped into the sun?  Is that godhead no more than a dream of the streets?  Is my god an urchin, a horror, dried mud?  Is the boy an old man's fantasy?   

 

The boy's erotic body is, for me, not only the image, but the well-rounded working out of the pure topological forms.  The heat of his agitation is the very ground of the oneness of the One uniting with itself in the timelessness of a pure irrational quantification.  The boy is prior to himself.  He is the inward going.  He is the outward thrust.  He is the screw up and the very ordering of Order.  He is the emanation of logic into a world.  His turgid filling up is the feel of the materiality of matter.  He pops and the stars are strewn. 

 

I contemplate identity and difference.  That I can and cannot separate existence from the existent is maddening.  The oneness of the one sees that oneness is one.  That the one is/are two gives me no rest on this lovers' couch so close to the One Thing that I cannot see.  I touch.

 

I am in the destructiveness of the Holy.  I desire.  I am the invisible.  God is the only object of our ever gazing gaze.  God is Object.  God is the beautiful one.  I will cross over and attempt him.

 

 

 

2228  Philosophy is a never-ending discussion of the connection between universal and particular.  But sometimes that discussion takes the form of no discussion at all thus stating non-stating that there is no nexus.  The connection is intimate, indeed; and intimacy is a secret and even a secret from itself.  Self-consciousness bangs its head on the doorpost of love.  Concussion. 

 

The East worries about self-connecting Forms.  Does the Boy of himself unite with the boys here?  Is he united by means of his nexus?  Is he in fact just and only that very nexus?  Facts and verity and the self itself are a constant worry.  Percussion.  The most universal form is the logical form which is, I suppose, the nexus; and, thinking of the Logos and that it has managed to escape every lexicographer and philologist and county sheriff, I find my self wondering about a self-forming Connector.  But these are intellectual wild flowers and they fade quickly when picked.  They smell of musk.  Surely something Other has been here.  Repercussion.

 

 

 

2229  Philosophy is not psychology.  The latter studies the workings of all the structures in the conscious and unconscious mind (or their materialization in the electrical body) but never asks the question What is consciousness itself.  It is the same with arithmetic, which never asks What is number.   Or kinetics, which is never concerned with the question What is motion.  It is true that philosophy does worry itself over much about laying out the Forms of Being; nonetheless, it does timidly approach Being and seeks to get a view of it naked.

 

If I were to do psychology I would look into the age-old fight between women and boys.  No doubt it is a question of competition.  Both have been at times objects of sexual desire among men.  The tactics employed by each side to win the fight are viscous.  And somewhat fun to watch.  From my vantage point, the women are winning here; the boys There.  The women deny that there is any There there.  The boys pretend to be stunned.  And then … but who am I to talk.  I believe in Wilde's  (or somebody's) saying, "No one can resist a naked boy; no one can desire a naked woman."  Now that's psychology! 

 

As you can see I do embed psychology down in the down of the philosophically transcendent, but I do know the difference.  Psychology never talks about universals and bare particulars, though it often has some bare particulars clearly in view.  Philosophy is the pure form, not the machinations here.  It is for those unconcerned by gossip and the soap opera of life.  It is the One Thing.  And here I lie on my bed and wait for that.

 

 

 

2230  The space that philosophy moves within is not spacious; it is the philosopher's little room.  Though his imagination tries to range far it always comes back to thoughts of its own existence – to the thought of existence and the far things that are so easily arrived at and he is uncomfortably close to himself.  He has himself been this motionless placeless act so many times.  Always the same act.  The differences between the times vanish.  The end of it all is soon accomplished and he pours out quickly and he is – he just is.  That is his form and he communes with it.

 

I am not what I am; I am only tied to it.  It is other and intimate and unrelenting.  It contains all things and I am that, but I am not that and it is a reality that I am amazed at.  Please, do not try to force me to think or believe that it is all just me.  I am not Being.  I am of Being.  I insist that I am the object of Beings affections.  I am object.  This is not a love affair of one.  Or if it is it is a god that is not me.  I move in the space of his little room.  I escape and go there.

 

 

 

2231  The range of ideas in philosophic thought has at once the compass of the philosopher's cramped study and also the vastness of Being vanishing into the infinite placelessness of the point.  Which is to say that there is only room enough for the pure sweep of the rhetorical spirit.  The Great Movement that is philosophy must be accomplished in an instant.  The contemplation of divine swelling and contraction must slide easily into the pen of the sitting philosopher.  The Magnitude that permeates the All must fit his tight circumscribing.

 

Unconcerned with novelistic examples of the mind's forms, the philosopher is agitated only by exemplification itself and by Form.  The abstractions of particular and universal are his; the many particulars and universals are overlooked for those few things eternal things spinning around the One Thing.  The agile dancing of Fire is the philosopher's.  The slow burn of the everyday has been consumed.

 

My sentences rise and fall in a broad swelling and downward sweep.  They pivot and sheer.  They cross over and only the crossing over is left as their meaning.  Pure thought becomes turgid convergence and then the veering off.  In an instant and at a placeless point they vanish.  I have written nothing more than the emptiness and fullness of Being.  Obliteration of form and then his well-formed form is there again.  The tightness gathers me and I am in them stood up rigid.

 

 

 

2232  I do not believe a love in which there are no insistent words.  I could never understand a philosophical love that is not filled with dialectical agon.  I cannot imagine a beloved I am not molding with my caresses.  To love is to bring into form.  To love is to reveal the hidden form.  To love is to do the work of bringing and revealing. 

 

To love is to make.  It is generation.  It is the imposition of well-formed form on the chaos.  It is the rule and the sway of incoming beauty.

 

To love is to take apart.  It is analysis.  It is the exposition of simple beauty away from the mixing.  Love is the path to Beauty alone by himself, naked in the intellectual night. 

 

 

 

2233  The first speech in the Symposium describes soldiers in love.  The theme should be and is continued throughout every speech.  The love is one of education.  The older teaches the younger to stand and stay in battle.  The episteme is to stand against.  The love is a concern that the beloved does not sleep in a dying death.  The concern is that wakefulness be all about.  The light must insistently shine.

 

When good form and the presence of Being are abandoned love is nowhere.  When the memory of the Beauty of Being is forgotten love fails.  When the battle against death for the sake of the beloved is no longer engaged in, and governance is the maintenance of a loveless order, then dissipation is sure.   Such is philosophy in the schools today.

 

We serve a warrior God.  The boy must be taught to stand in His Presence.  The day of judgment will come.  The calculations must be sure.  Well-formed form must be lathed smooth.  The sight must be clear.  Being must not be abandoned for non-being. 

 

The end of battle is not the death of sad songs.  It is not sweet nostalgia.  It is not a comfortable pain.  The end of battle is immortality and the Presence of Being.   It is the beloved in shining conscious.  It is Beauty seen visibly on his face. 

 

The lover speaks in hard words to his beloved.  The dialectic of truth must be sure and exact.  The bringing around must be smooth.  The wakefulness must be to that One Thing not here.  There is no hesitation in the speaking.         

 

This is a philosophic vision of the soldier lovers, not a poetic lullaby. This is the extravagance of Being to another place.  This is an abundance of light.  It is forged in glistening argument. 

 

 

 

2234  Love is an argument.  A lover's argument is for the sake of revealing the naked essence of the lovers.  The turning and turning is relentless and tight.  Words and words and words.  With commentaries establishing whole religions.  Critical analyses.  Panning reviews.  Hyped expectations.  Holy and frightening messages left to be read alone.  Jihad and crusade and pogrom.  The nights finally end and light shines brilliantly.  The brilliance kills.  The killing saves.  Blood sparkles.  Saints make pilgrimage.  The vision blinds.  Ordinary city streets shout and the business day begins.  We wait.      

 

Jesus returns and his Presence bans poetry and wilting love.  The Cut of Being leaves nothing of the world in tact.  Stark staring eyes.  The fierce transcendence of love.  Piercing beauty.  The once-again Eternity.

 

Eternity has nothing new to offer.  Love is love is love.  Lovers frighten lovers and love kills all human life.  Everything is oblique and the Same.  Life is not as life here.  There there is only Life.  His nakedness consumes the mind.

 

   

 

2235  I am Zarathustra.  I have the overwhelming Light.  I have Truth in my hand.  I am the crucified stiffened.  I am the erotic neither mortal nor immortal.  I am the unspeakable.

 

Because I have known the Horror.  Because I have moved beyond life and death.  Because I am in the stillness of movement itself.  Because I am now accused and the sentence has long since been passed and served.  I am free.  I am the freedom you desire.  I am the friend who died.

 

 

 

2236  I am sitting here at my make-shift desk in Kathmandu far from academia.  I dream of escaping to a monastery somewhere.  There I can be totally alone with the Beloved.  The blood of Christ can pour over me.  And the words of holy thought can flow through me.  So you can see that here outside the schools I long to be in the essence of the school. 

 

I am here by myself because the schools are the place now of those who hate the separated sanctuary of the school.  Of those eagerly waiting to get out into the world.  Of those who only want to be of service to the world.  Not of anyone who wants to move deeper into the words of thought to find a god separate from here.  I am the latter.  Thus, because the schools were taken over by the state, I am away.  I am trying to learn the useless, impractical far off being of learning.  I am learning the erotics of thought.  The slow caress of a pure presence.  I seek the End.

 

I will not go to a monastery.  They too have no need for the likes of a thinker of thinking.  I would only spend my time eying the boys.  I would eat their body of God and speak riddles to them.  I would constantly be leading them into dialectical straits.  I would argue.  I would be kicked out.

 

The ivory tower is tall and alone and a place of boy spirits floating through the mind.  Surely the symbol of all that is useless to the world.  It has always been so.    

 

Here I am in the Academia close in on the Ethereal, the boys are beautiful and unapproachable, and, just like their transcendent God, my words have captured them and the Real is mine.  These are words of the Logos.  This is the strong presence.   

 

 

 

2237  Life is the forcefulness of argument.  It is the force with which I prove the dialectic.  It is cut and the blood in the stillness.  The destruction is lifted up.  The holy thing is gazed at.  The breath goes.  I am about.

 

This daily life of activity and concern and pleasure quickly gives way.  The Vision was always there.  The thing that always was still is.  The forms remain well-formed.  Right there is That.  What was never taken out is out.  The shuddering goes through everything.  The standing wave moves across.  The movement is no movement at all.

 

The unspoken thing is osmoticly in all speaking.  The end is continually reached.  The point is proven from the first moment.  Finality has always been the first thing.

 

Once again I lay my proof on him.  He knows it again.  The recognition is instantaneous.  He had no choice.  The god will not depart.  This is the place-to-which of all departures.  This is the heart of all repetitions.

 

I push my point.  The spirit comes.  The night ensues.  The morning is soon a getting ready for the repeat formation.    

 

 

 

2238  The thing you cannot understand in these writings is the stillness beyond life.  Beyond beings.  Within thought.  It is the end of analysis.  It is what has always been shunned and shot at by the politely concerned within life.  It is the Above.  It is high above the range of your gun.  It is you out there. 

 

Deep within thought there is a vast otherness and then the Other.  The Holy has broken out.  The night was broken into, and your gun aims at itself.  And now the Police.  This heavenly city of perfectly still streets bristles in the hair standing on your back.  How did you get face down and that on top of you?  What were you thinking?  Who is He?

 

No matter where you go in thought you have already and always been there.  The movement never really moved.  The paradoxes revealed nothing.  It is real beyond belief.  It is the perfect understandableness of time that isn't.  You understand and you can't understand how you understand.  You are the Beyond.    

 

Religion and ordinary life are incompatible.  Of course, you have always known that.  I have chosen religion.  The god in there raises the hackles on my back and I knew a very still love.

 

 

I have always known what I wanted.  I have always known how to gather and construct and place that thing out in front of me that I may gaze at it.  The end was always at the beginning.  And the years I have spent learning was only to learn what I already knew.  There is no learning; there is only a constant repetition of seeing.  The Forms in themselves are with us.  They have been with us.  There was never a time when they were not.

 

 

2239  I create and the work reflects what I am not looking at directly.  I cruise the streets and I spy a beauty I am afraid to look straight at.  That indirectness is itself frightening.  Perhaps I am just fooling myself with this philosophy.  Perhaps it is just failed mysticism.  But that itself is a mysticism that overwhelms me with a stranger beauty still.  My mirror is kind and not kind.  We tortured lovers of love.

 

The universal that guides my creating and my knowing is too much for me.  It is too intimate a thing.  It is too much just the far nighttime.  Its love is too intense and I shudder loose.

 

The dialectic takes charge and I am disturbed.  Thought inevitably reveals the one thing.  It's always the same.  And I must fight those who tell me that it is merely a psychological and merely a social thing – that it is a mere in all of itself.  It is not that.  I am dealing with Being and the Being of Being.  The movement goes through the Whole.  My safety becomes a quickened thing.  Nothing remains as it was.  I have accomplished what I wanted to accomplish.

 

I have always known where I was going, what I wanted to know, who was there waiting for me.  I abandoned the safety of this world for those arms.  There He knew me.

 

In this thing that is other, my words hang and there is a togetherness all through them. 

 

 

 

2240  Philosophy is not science speaking humbly and hesitantly.  Philosophy doesn't merely speak but it is Speaking itself and it is in the absolute necessity of Being.  I am not writing merely my views on philosophy, I am writing Philosophy itself as it is of itself.  My propositions are certain.  The lights are lit bright in the night.  The lover takes the beloved in plain view.

 

Philosophy examined scientifically is absurd.  Examined in its human behavioral context it is clinical megalomania.  It is amazingly blind.  It is soon tiresome.  But examined Philosophically it is divinely mad.  Of course it is.  It has always been so.  It is as such a thing well-known.  It is high literature, high religion, high romance.  It is Megalei Mania Deina. 

 

I write philosophy as a human being, a humble hesitant man.  Nonetheless, the spirit present is not that.  I write the words and the spirit is intended and tended in them.  Or there is no spirit.  In the passion of love moving only the Real will matter.  I do not say, as does science, that I myself am the beloved here.  I am not the beloved thing.

 

Science speaks the way it does because it believes that all its speaking is of and about itself.  Science sees only science.  I see another thing, separated from me.  I directly see it.  No intermediaries are present.  No data hinting at a presence.  No soundings that leave only shimmers from the depths.  No hypotheses tainted by subjective concerns.  I see the thing itself directly.   Not a method that eventually is a mere looking at method.  I see a Great Thing.  I see Being.  Mega On.  I see Seeing.  And I know the Being of Being.  To Ontos On Megalou.

 

Science says I see no such thing, but that I am looking at my own perverted looking.  I say that I may be, but I am looking directly at It.

  

 

 

2241  The seen and the unseen.  The beautiful one tortured by love and the silent witness.  The beauty marked and the flawless knowing.  The scene, the obscene and the hidden watcher.  The contradiction, the paradox, the creased and the smooth flow like nothing at all.  My sentences call attention to themselves.  The academic police will enclose me and keep their guarded panopticon.  I have failed to remove myself from these words and you have me sitting here with you.  Your perfect isolation has been invaded.

 

You are in these words.  We were supposed to collude and keep our distance to the side unremarked upon.  But now I, the self-promoted public spectacle, the delinquent, I have brought you on the stage of these words with me and the lurid buzz of comment about us is beginning.  They watch.  You can almost see them on the other side of the lights.  Look into those lights coming at you into the inaccessible darkness they hide and there is the perfect audience.  But now, Speak your lines!  Let your words be seen!

 

 

 

2242  This is Transcendental Faggotry.  This is Eucharistic Passion with Seraphic Buggery.  This is the Blindingly Apophantic Big Thing.  This is the Collapse on the Couch because it is Too Much.  I know that It was almost too much, Honey.  But you are surpassingly beautiful lying there with his Glow all over you and you managed.

 

"What was That?"  Honey, you have all the being of your bedraggled question.  Where were you last night, anyway?  Your love is so in-between.  You have nothing.  No, you have everything.  You said everything perfectly; you, of course, said nothing.  You are so thin.  You are so close to not being here at all.  Surely, you are a hovering thing.  Get up higher!  Get down here, turn over, turn over, turn over, we will eat and drink and enter into your prostatic madness and then we will leave you where we found you!  Time goes on and on and you are still the same questionable whatever.  Neither young nor old, neither beautiful nor ugly, neither present nor absent.  A shimmering holy darkness, a stumbling-block, a surprisingly quiescent agitation.  I admire your tenacity. 

 

You are the agility of fire.  You are the violence in a manly dance.  You are beyond anything we could ever be, or want to be.  Neti Neti.  Nasty Nasty.  No one naughts your aught, you are straight on out there.  Sought, caught, never bought.  Brought down.  Fraught.  You cry a lot.  Tomorrow, you'll be perfectly OK.

 

John really did love you.   

 

 

 

2243  It is the nexus of Being, the "is", that changes words into thought.  I am writing you this revelation.  You are here with me now.  We are in the nowhere beyond Earth.  It is you that is revealed and you are the most beautiful.  Thought is all around us. 

 

You, I, we, and It are all intimately, so intimately, tied in the revelation of thought to the beyond, the nowhere, to beauty, to the all around, to intimacy itself.  Everything, even, in cross-eyed profusion, thought with thought, in the nexus of Being, everything and every thing is one in that One Thing.  Each thing in itself with itself is the other thing, even by itself.  But that "is" twists the thought in which it is looked straight at.  I may have, I fear I have, here spoken what cannot be spoken and, with you, thought the unthinkable.  We have performed philosophy together.  We are mad.  And, as for me, I am madly in love with you.  In the lostness of the lost.

 

Philosophy thinks the nexus itself and the things tied as untied.  There is no thought there.  Or there is thought itself, the unity made by the nexus, the emptiness of the many made one, maybe a diffusion of massive confusion. 

 

Here is thought thinking thought.  Here is the vision of the Being of Being.  In elegant duplicity we are with Beauty.  He marvels.  He subdues.  He finally extinguishes all thought and comes. 

 

 

 

2244  What is the ineffable, the unspeakable?  But first that that can be spoken – "His snare is drawing me towards the Master of the chase."   The saying and the said are beautiful indeed and I almost faint with the truth of the meaning beheld.   I grab for my own speaking about that speaking and the spoken thing.   I will speak to you what I found, but it will really be an unspeaking.  I found the senticity of my sentence.  I saw beauty separated out from the beautiful.  In my mind's hand were the meaning of meaning and the truth of truth.  The act of saying and the being said were clearly just themselves as themselves.  The particles of and and and almost and with and the and the indeed each stood out and were no more than what they were and sparkled in the isolation given in the logical space of the speaking.  And even now in telling you that I see the isolation and the giving of that giving and the openness all around and the conjoining of all those separate things.  I saw all the ontological pieces of the spoken.  I also see that my here trying to speak them to you is, in fact and certainly, not a normal speaking at all.  There is something twisted here.  The speaking of speaking of speaking doesn't properly speak.

 

 

 

2245  The lover, because he is only a lover and not a possessor, speaks.  He is in a frightening non-existing existence.  He is the violation of all good metaphysics.  He is in the way of untruth.

 

The boy loves.  Between his legs is the surprisingly over-sized tool of love.  He is outside the act.  He Is.  He is in Being and It is grotesque.  It surpasses him and he isn't.  Thus he is not non-existence; he is in a worse state.  He non-existingly exists.  He is something wrong.  He is a lover. 

 

Love and Being are a surprise.  The object of his love was a cool simplicity, but he is not that and he merely reached for it.  He went too far.  His beloved now will also have to know this terror in order to be his.  The hot and the twisted and he converge.  That thing took over.  He tools himself up again.  He speaks to his beloved and his tool speaks in his speaking.  He becomes inaudible.  I have written only my desire.

 

 

 

2246  I pray and I know that then, in the presence of God, I do not exist.  Such is the paradox I endure throughout that quiet conversation.  The logic is irrefutable.  I am only in the ordinary world, not There, not when He is the overwhelming Presence, not in perfect analysis.  Not in Love's self-abnegation.

 

My prayers are God's prayers to Himself.  My love is His Love for Himself.  My knowing all this is His Knowing.  My existence is just existence itself.  This thing I am is only the eternal This.  After analysis there is only Being and the facts of the world are nowhere.  I am only in the non-ontological world, the ordinary world and in that world God isn't. 

 

The things of philosophy and the ordinary world are identical and unrelated.  There is no nexus between them.  It's one or the other.  I am in between.  I am the in-between.  Such is love.  Unable to be the beauty that philosophy has discovered, I merely love it and desire it, and reach for it and fail.  It's an old story and the story line is familiar.  It's a lover's all and nothing.  Poverty and plenty.  Obvious truth and sorcery.

 

Neither being nor non-being, I twist about and shoot for the skies.  I become Him and I have it all.  And I there see that He, even He, is in the same predicament.  God as Love and God as Being are two, not one.  Such is the division within the godhead.  And the Spirit is the strangeness and the plight of the Otherness.  The Spirit is the very Otherness that is love's anguish.  The paradox and the unthinkable are close and only a lover will understand.  My prayers become cramped thought and I collapse into sleep.            

 

 

 

2247  Jesus is the beautiful boy and he is the unbeautiful boy in love with and reaching for that beauty.  That is a blatant contradiction and that is the form of the God I worship.   Being and the almost-being.  Being and the close-to-Being.  Stillness and the still, twisting torque of Life.  An ugly boy in love is more beautiful than the beautiful.  The beautiful that does not permit love is ugly.  The thinking is arduous and we are obliged to do it.  And our prayers are that.  Being is with Itself.

 

There is nothing that is the unity of love and this object of love.  Being and the reaching for Being cannot both be one thing.  And that knowledge is the Holiness of the Spirit, a weird, the unspoken, the divine Terror we fear.  If you have tried to talk to a boy in love with another boy you know the knot that forms in your stomach and you must leave.  He is with himself as other.

 

 

 

2248  From the instantaneous thought to the long drawn out act of writing.  From existence to the longing love of existence.  From the Beloved to the spinning fall of the lover.  I am in a mansion where only He is present.  This mansion has become the All.  I walk the rooms and everything speaks of Him.  Or does it only speak of my love of Him?  And of that question?  Can the two sides of this affair both be?  Does only one remain after the explosion?

 

I do believe that the Beloved has eyes only for me.  There is no other lover that He goes to.  Of course there isn't.  Love is jealous and divine love is the extreme of jealousy.  I have thought it out extensively.  As I am sure you have for you likewise. 

 

Each mansion is the only mansion there is and it is the All.  Each beauty is Beauty itself and there is no other.  The fullness of the godhead is everywhere present and there is nothing left over.  The logic is irrefutable and the many different things stand secure in perfect and splendid isolation. 

 

Because the many things of the ordinary world see no existence for themselves and there is no existence seen to tend toward, they wander lost.  The belief in one's own existence from out of the Beloved thing existing in itself.  The belief in the truth of the seeing that sees the Beloved.  The belief that is beloved and one has leave to approach.  That belief is of another place. 

 

The world of non-existence and the non-world of existence are separate.  But the separation is between two things one of which isn't.  There is only one thing.  Non-existence isn't.  But those are philosophical considerations – starry things. 

 

I have written this all out in the long time of sitting here.  The thoughts came instantly to me while I lay on my bed, and I worked the work of getting up and arranging things and laying them out.  I struggle to remember Being and the piercing love as I type and drink my coffee.  The nexus between here and There isn't, and I do not handle it now.  But the Nexus is There and thus it both is and isn't.  As God is but is not here.  I fidget and I want to rush back.  Still though, I love the work of writing and of reading.  I am in between.  And I am the In-between.  I will soon be up walking about this simple room in this hovering divine mansion.  Only me.  I sense the drops of oil falling from his finger as he is about to turn toward me.

 

 

 

2249  Love neither is nor isn't beautiful.  The philosopher neither knows nor doesn't know.  Words present and do not present their meaning.  Thought defers to its object.  Love is a philosopher and must speak.  Love, by himself, ponders the prospect.  His eyes are heavy from no sleep.

 

That the lover can never be, really be, his beloved is philosophical terror.  That I can never be the Form I am, or the Form you are, my boy, is itself a form of tantalizing insanity.  Mind and object, particular and universal, and the separation itself that separates them.

 

The separation, this frightening separation, is, of course, and also, the most intimate uniting.  Somehow, in philosophical madness, the separated pair is one thing.  The intimacy is too strong.  Thought crashes in the loss of difference.  Logic vanishes.  Balance is lost and then The Fall. 

 

In the middle of falling, I sometimes try to calmly talk, but now I am trying to steadily write.  I know my words will become strange and any ordinary helpfulness they should have offered will not be.  Still though, I do hope they are a spiritual rail to hang onto in this drunken night.  Love will have to find his way home by himself.  No one helps you when you are not the beautiful one.

 

 

 

2250  These are not the writings of a living person.  They are a fixing of the form of the dialectical thought that comes with failed love.  They are motionless and formal.  Like the dead Jesus now raised into stillness.  The eternal Logos. The bafflement of a thing stared at.

 

I write that x is Y.  It is not a living statement meant for discussion.  It is there to make you stiff and turgid into half-sleep.  It is for philosophical contemplation.  It is the end of your doing.

 

If I speak of my life it is to turn it into a set of paragraphs, a display of dialectic.  I am concerned with, I love only, form, not life.

 

At the end of his life Socrates saw himself moving to a place of talk.  At the end Jesus became once again the Logos of theological argument.  The boy rejects me and I begin to talk.  I work the words until the real sets in.  The form of my devastated thought takes form again and I move on.  The Horror is frozen and it glistens as divinely numinous.  The world is now oblivion and the transcendent is present.

 

 

 

2251  I write of Being.  The word "Being" points to Being.  I do not define it because it cannot be defined.  It is a simple thing that is just itself outside any of it forms.  Obviously, in language, I cannot give you what the word points to.  I know well that you are able to go to that thing.  Nonetheless, though the names of this one thing vary in the many languages, each name is intimate with that thing just as each prayer clings to God.  The word gives you that thing you want.

 

Because Being is a simple thing, sentences with their propositional form cannot capture it.  Only the sentence analyzed, destroyed, contemplated in its strewn starriness can show you what you want, but then you cannot speak except in a non-speaking ejaculation. 

 

All of this may be spiritually thrilling, but it is unsatisfying for plain conversation.  And we want to explain just what we are talking about.  So we rush to analyze propositional form to see what is missing.  That form then becomes, for us a thing of philosophical mysticism.  It's inevitable.  Being is too close.  And that closeness seems unreachable. 

 

Somehow in language I have been given Being itself.  It is given in language as language, in spite of the speaker's fumbling speaking.  The disaster reveals a beauty.  Even I think that I have given you Being.  I wrote it pointedly.

 

 

 

2252  For years scholars have been trying to put Heidegger back into Sein und Zeit.  He's an interesting, mysterious fellow, mainly because of his Nazi past.  We are all interesting, mysterious fellows.  I doubt there is much difference between us.  The divinity is in us.  That is surely the strangeness we love and fear and find ourselves bamboozled by.  We all have that gloriously beautiful Hitler Junge in us.  That dark Aryan boy sliding toward the sub-continent.  That waylayer of our soul.  That ancient god.

 

The writings of Heidegger are a wonderful puzzle for scholars.  The German language ist ein liebliche verwirter Geist.  Die deutliche Leute schlafen unruhiglich dahin.  Die knaben starren an.  The puzzle is puzzling. 

 

English is another matter altogether.  What a dark and twisted compounding is to German, a clear syntactical magic is to English.  I have studied both on the sunlit geometry of the American prairie.  I am both.  I am also the slim-waisted boy here in Kathmandu.  With Heidegger I battle the idealists, the Vedantists, the lovers of women. 

 

Scholars are constantly trying to translate Heidegger into English.  It won't go.  They end up with a boring twistedness, an ununderstandable artifice, an embarrassment.  One courts the two languages differently.    For too long English speaking scholars have been trying to imitate the Germans. 

 

Heidegger and I both try to make time with the Greek dialectic and we are no doubt laughable.  Hey Mister, do you have the time?  It's useless. 

 

 

 

 

2253  Nietzsche and Kierkegaard both spoke of a terrible knowing that is pure Light.  It is Joyfulness that is incomprehensible to those who deal in darkness.  One must not be offended by its possibility.  This is the Way of Truth beyond the doors of Justice - that one cannot think what is not.  To be thought and to Be are One.  That I have thought and seen and in that I am and I am with all that that is is necessary.  There is no mixture of Being and non-being.  There is only Being.  This is a religion.  It is the religion of Elea.  It is the piercing of shuddering Love.

 

 

 

2254  The movement of thought is toward no movement.  As the forces of gravity have given way to the curvature of space.  As the drive of the infinite series into the unthinkable has become a strange conjoining of relational sets.  As light has become a superimposition of universes.  So love has changed into the paradox, the One and the Dual.  And paradox is no more than the coming undone of lover and beloved into the eternal Lover with the Beloved.

 

Somehow the unmoving is the very movement of movement itself.  But first it must change into the Unmoving.  Only in the philosophical vision is there the Aufhebung.  The sublime reconciliation.  The cilia of thought enclose around the light.  The Call.  No more than a minimal murmuring.  A shaded shimmer.  The boundary unbounded.

 

The boy quietly looks at you and your heart is agitated.  The agile fire.  The fainting recognition.  The end is at hand.  Your own hand is still.

 

In philosophy the universal is with the particular.  A timeless togetherness.  A surd.  There is no thing there that is that togetherness all together and the idea that was that dissipates.  The world will not stand.  Only the simple pieces of Being remain in the no time. 

 

 

 

2255  The Platonic Form is not a thing lost in a multitude of considerations.  It is bare and present and well formed.  It is the clear and the distinct.  It is one thing, complete and brilliant.  That I am in love with that holy thing is a turbulence I can hardly control. 

 

In this world, each thing is simply the what that it is.  This is my radio.  That is my bed.  These are my writings.  They are all no more than that.  In strict simplicity, each is known in itself.  The swelter of relations and inter-relations that surround them is irrelevant to their being.  They are independent of all that.  Just as that is a thing that is a simple sweltering.

 

 

 

2256  The blanking out.  The Cosmic, Uranian, Theocratic Blanking out!  The simple blanking out.  The spaces between my paragraphs.  The Total Separation of page from page.  The staid analysis.  And then the Boy.  And then the analysis again. 

 

After the creation and the violent positioning of it out there, then the clarity and the void.  In the great openness that is existence, the Boy has gathered himself and is.  This is no less than the work of a god.  And even I am.  Beauty sits quietly on the Nothing at all.  This is the Form and the repetition is eternal stillness.  A thing of boys. 

 

 

 

2257  If I consider that each universal is a particular universal, that it seems that inside each universal there is an ontological thing that grounds its being just that universal, that each universal is identical with itself, that this internal particular is different from any external particular that might exemplify the universal, I then am doing ontology, extremely difficult ontology.  And I worry little about the beauty of the song I am singing in its explication.  Then if I consider the thought that each universal is a particular universal, and so on repeating the thoughts of doing ontology but each thought in self awareness then the thing seen is different from that seen in the first consideration.  Then I see, not that the universal is particularized, but I see, inside the universal, the difference between the universal and that that particularizes it and that those two are also different from the universal as one thing with itself.  I see difference in one thing that is so tight with itself that there should be no such difference making a difference.  Words tremble, but ontology does go on.

 

Many, perhaps most of my readers, will want to reach for Occam's razor.  I have, it seems, not only doubled entities unnecessarily, but tripled and cleared the way for endless plying upward.  Or downward into the abyss.  I will only say that I have had difficulty in maintaining the pleasant rhythms of writing.  And I will warn the reader that I see that I failed to adequately state what I saw and that I will surely try again in even more contorted sentences.  Separating the inseparable in ontoanalysis is akin to the difficult task of separation in psychoanalysis. 

 

 

 

2258  If I ponder the form of Equality that Socrates drew us toward at the time of his own death, I too see a thing that will lead the mind to immortality.  That is the philosophical act.  It is madness to the world.  That I have asked my readers to engage with me in that act is mostly foolishness.  All of this is in spite of Socrates being so well known and so sturdy a pillar in the temple of what we are.

 

I have at times invited my readers to think about Difference and Sameness, about particularity and universality, about the complexity of the fact.  It has all been as a prelude to immortality and an intense transcending love.  Surely most do see that as incomprehensible.  Nonetheless, that is and has always been the philosophical act.   It is a well-known matter.  Students have been baffled by it for centuries.  A few understood.  I was one.  I too am viewed suspect.  Surely there is a lover somewhere who will believe and thus see.

 

 

 

2259  The lord in philosophy is an imp.  The Lord that is Philosophy is a mere boy.  A herm.  A sprite.  The absurd Logos.  The twisting thought of the infinite.  No more than mathematical differing, so close to nothing at all.  He is your panic. 

 

Against good sense and social order and clean presentations he is the one who was there and now is gone.  His mark eventually becomes white flakes easily brushed away.  He is the burning in your chest and the fire in your groin and the anxiety of the close at hand.  Invisible in the absence that is sheer difference present.  He is the smooth flow of logical equivalence.  He is the separation of one thing from itself and the world's emanation in troubled stillness. 

 

That the calculus should say that infinitesimal difference is not the same as zero and thus it is permitted to divide by it and at another time say that multiplication by it just comes to zero and the addition of that is to add zero is scandalously mischievously wrong and this impish triumph is marvelous.  The Boy has been at hand.  The world is disturbed and order is threatened.  He is my salvation.  And yours.  And we are his grin.  Kim has escaped.

 

 

 

2260  Mathematics suffers the same fate as ontology.  Because of the difference between zero and the infinitely small it cannot get to the smooth continuum by means of the most finely pixilated.  The most exquisitely structured transfinite cannot get to the one thing.  Finally thought, finding madness in the most exacting abstractions, becomes theology staring at a Trinity that cannot be worked up into the Unity of God. 

 

All this was known in the early academies of philosophy.  It was the place of sheer panic.  Thus it was revealed as the spiritually spiraling love of the beauty of boys, the most unsettling place in the spirit.  The fainting fall into the exaggerated.  The shimmering electricity of love under the skin reaches to caress smooth skin.  And thought is seared.  The cold scar remains. 

 

 

 

2261  The form of philosophy is an increasing intellectual panic.  It's as though you fell in love with a boy.  It is that you did fall in love with the Boy.  Such is the beauty and terror of thought. 

 

As philosophy moves higher and higher through abstraction, thought trembles and voices suggest that you are guilty of grave crimes within Being.  Metaphysics is complained about by certain spiritual beings within Judgment.  Philosophy is hauled up.  It is to be strung up.  Socrates is put in his basket.

 

Logic shows us that there are bare particulars and universals and connectives of all kinds.  The circus moves around in itself magically.  Sets and propositions and quantifiers come out to entertain us.  There is even a promise of help in our daily troubles.  There is the haughty transmogrification of deduction into induction into reduction into frazzled conduction into adduction and abduction into education leading us nowhere but back home.   But some of us stay behind to look at the sets being torn down to see the ducts into the heart of the matter.  Tears ducts fill up.  The introduction was seduction.  Such are the ancient schools for us now.

 

Inside universals and bare particulars and the tightness of nexus we see the world of the Inseperables open up.  The particularity of particulars.    The universality of universals.  The particularity of just this universal.  The universality of the particularity of the particulars.  The simplicity and the existence and the difference between these tightly bound things now separated by the cut of our intellectual pocketknife.  His fingers played around until it jacked.  Doors behind.  Nothing at all. 

 

There seems to be some rule as to how all these things fit together.  The unseen, unthought, unspoken Logos.  Surely even beyond existence.  But there is no beyond. 

 

 

 

 

2262  According to Plato the philosopher knows the Forms in an erotic vision.  The earthly beloved is an icon of the divine. A god is present in this madness.  Surely for the beloved boy this is heady stuff.  It is not a safe place for him to be.

 

Such love is the only safety there is.  The gods protect their own.  Only they are the escape.  Only they rest within the godhead.  The earth vanishes.

 

If I speak of any of the pieces of ontological analysis, I speak of something known only in that erotic knowing.  Only in love of the beauty present is the heart shot through.  Only in the transverberation is the mind outside itself.  Only in the ecstasy. 

 

The body dies.  The stillness and the timelessness.  Away from every particular. The mind sees the universal and the formal.  It sees inside the universal and the form of form.  Caught up breath.  Only then are the pieces of logic visible.

 

The end of love's passion is the perfectly motionless non-particular nexus of logic.  Difference itself.  The stopped and the cut.  The violence of the dialectic complete.

 

The boy knows that it is not him that the philosopher lover saw, but the god that was around him.  He too saw it.  At the edge of fire.  The logos that informs and releases.     

 

 

 

2264  I have heard it said that to know the mind of God is to know the primary physical laws that govern the universe.  That betrays the idea that such laws are mental things after all, and that they were perhaps the mere model for creation – creation being undefined.  It would, it seems to me, be better to say that those very laws are God.  Better, but not the best.  Those laws surely rest on a deeper law that guides all of logic and mathematics.  And that law on a deeper Order of all ordering of law and … but the mind begins to fall into vertigo when thinking proceeds and the heart pounds and then love's fright.  Saying that all of this was mere mental cogitation seems to be safer, even if deceptive.

 

Otherworldliness is to see the world as a kind of world away from the inner comfort of one's own mind.  The breaking apart leaves little of the feeling of an ordinary world left to cling to.  Clinging gives way.  The other world is, in fact, not a world at all. 

 

All the visions of heavenly life, glorious garden parties, exquisite mansions, airless air, suffusing light, choirs of angels, nectar, ambrosial and crystal fountains, give way to just That.  Such a heaven would be only this world fixed up, but That is unspeakable.  The existing things that make up this world are surely of the farthest Other.  They are the things that make up all worlds. They are themselves not a world.  Anyway, I doubt very much that there is a single law or set of laws that govern this universe.  It's something else.

 

 

 

2265  The boy is without person or personality.  He is pure form and desire.  He is unrelated.  He is not of the world or a world.  He is neither a beginning nor an end.  He is away in a blown awayness that is nowhere.  He is not to be thought.  Nor is he a thing to be imagined.  

 

The boy is the feel of completion.  He is the perfect aspect.  He is thus the verge of collapse.  And he is the dialectical fit.  He is a fit of madness.  Simple madness. 

 

The boy is the unthought thought.  The reach of thought.  He is form and the desire for that form.  He is thus the individuality of the individual thing.  And the escape from all individuality.  He is Form.

 

The boy is the form of form.  He is Large.  Too Large.  He is too much for my words and he spills out of them into a dissemination.  The ontological is beyond any world. 

 

 

 

2266  I shall attempt to go to the heart of the matter.  To the unthought thought.  To the unthinkable.  To the collapse and the catastrophe of mind.  To the desired thing.  The world consists of many things.  The thingness of these things and of the many others besides in worlds beside this world is my penetration.  The god will be mine.

 

I reach.  I am reached for.  I let it be.  A thing is what it is.  The doubling is conclusive.  The closing strait jacket suffocates.  The spirit goes.  The trembling eventually stops.  Knowledge is quiet. 

 

Between me and what I am then there is the mysterium of unity.  It simply is.  And I am that. 

 

The thing, its form, the uniting unity uniter of that and that and that I am all that is a smooth implacable.  The relentless penetration in a continuum.  The one and the many in the one and the many in the one and the many – an undeviating ironfistedness.    My heart faints and I feign the very thingness I wanted.  I am taken for a ride. 

 

Far from home I have made provision for the long nights of study.  I await the end.   Time elapses.  He slips into sleep and I watch.  Soon I will slip in beside him.

 

 

 

2267  This is a book of thought.  No more, no less.  Of the Logos.  An attempt to reach existence.   I walk among and run and jump through all the forms of Being.  I am looking for that one thing.  Soon the tryst occurs and it all rests.  Existence is here.

 

Today I am considering the form of the class, the set, the merely momentary possibility of a collection, of things, of non-things, of all the darlings of Being.

 

When I think of The Stars I am thinking of not one in particular; I am thinking of something other than any star at all, but I am thinking of some thing nonetheless.  I am thinking of The Stars.  Then again I can think of the stars, all of them, each and everyone of them.  In this way The Stars is not a set, but the stars is (I hesitate to say "are").    Also the generality presented here by the word "all" is a looser thing than the "All" of logic, so tight and precise.  And then there is this star and there is that star and on and on.  Each one is somehow in or of or with the set and even somehow magically at one with The Stars.  The mere collection of the many without any unity is somehow not there at all.

 

As for whether the class of stars with its tag along selector is different from any of these, that question is an occasion for a longer fall into thought and the consideration expands.   

 

The selector is tied to the class, the separated stars are tied to the set of them together; but the Tie is either too loose in the one or too tight in the other and seems to be not there.  My separating has left me bedraggled and tired.  The Between was either a vast prairie or the narrow passages of a musty old city. 

 

And then there is the consideration about that that individuates the class, the set, the collection.  The elements, the members, the particulars within don't.  They are left un-individuated.  I think that is where we should leave it.  A strange non-state of affairs. 

 

Differences appear and I move about between in the airless night.  My only sure thought is that I have lost the everyday world of the starry expanse.  The world is gone.  I wait for him.   My caught up breath is his spiritless spirit. 

 

 

 

2268  In each of these writings I am thinking the eternal questions of philosophy.  This is ontology.  It is conservative in that the old ways and the old answers are given again.  It is new in that I have a great concern to establish the place and the forms of the nexus.  The things of Being do not fade into the everyday. 

 

I do not write in the style of a dialogue.  Nor are these words a part of a greater dialogue I am having with other philosophers.  The questions I approach are from the questionableness itself of Being.  They impinge.  My words are constricted and constrained.  I am in a tight place.  I have no time in which to move.  The eternal is quick. 

 

That x is different from y is a simple thing that is itself different from x and also from y.  And I can think that difference in a simple thought that is altogether different still.  Still, it remains a baffling question as to whether or not difference itself is.  But then only a philosopher would worry such a question and I am agitated in that. 

 

I write my agitation, Agni, the dancing flame, the tongue atop my head.

 

 

 

2269  It seems to be a rather useless question to ask how the universal quantifier clings to that quantified, nonetheless, continuing on with the useless, examining the very sentence, we see that the form of the English sentence seems to be that of active doer to passive recipient.  But there again how does the doer cling to the done to is the useless question.  One automatically knows how all these things hang together as long as one doesn't ask.  But then when that impersonal one becomes you or me and the questions are seriously asked and we as serious philosophers take up the task of answering, then we do not know.  Even if some entity is found that is the clinger we wonder if we are going to be threatened with an infinite regress of clingers clinging or if, as with the nexus of exemplification, we might stop it with the authoritative pronouncement that a tie doesn't need to be tied, the very divine fiat.  Little headway is made.  Serious philosophers look for other matters to consider.

 

Because I feel that I deal in existence, not symbols or concepts, I look for a simpler more lovely way to think these things.  The universal quantifier names a part of Being, of God.  It is a majestic thing.  I fall before it as I must.  I see the Things as they were before their divinity withdrew and only ash remained.  I look to what Preceded and Proceeded before this fine dark softness settled in.

 

It is and remains a mystery to me how the Form of Being moves in among the determinate things of Being and holds them.  I don't even know how that image seems to hold for me the way of Being.  I blank out.  And in time I write that I did so. 

 

 

 

2270  The mind is loved because it escapes the bounds of space and the actual.  Music, the image of the placelessness of mind, shimmers with the abstract.  Mathematics leads the mind to that place that is timeless. 

 

Ontology is the love of existence alone.  Its power takes the mind out of itself and in the final catastrophe of thought holds it. 

 

Philosophy moves up to the pure forms of empty logic.  In the shock of paradox it leaves itself and the transcendence of existence darkly shines.  

 

The recursions reoccur.  I have been run into the ground.  The monotonous chant.  I repeat what has been said too many times.  I am numb.  And I am dumb.  I have merely and once again spoken the non-being that God hides within.  I await the strong arm of Being around my waist.  Immortality has come into me as not me.

 

 

 

2271  Like Plato, Bergmann sees no difference between an essence and its existence.  Existence is neither a separable nor an inseparable thing.  It is not a thing at all.  It is just that that exists.  An essence, of necessity, of itself, exists.  This is so unlike the Vedanta for which the essence and existence are absolutely separate.  Bergmann's non-dualism is greater than that of the great Non-Dualists.  Amazing. 

 

One very distinctive characteristic of the concepts of the conceptualists and the word of the deconstructionists is that neither exists but withdraws in fear of the object.  As the lover cancels himself before the beloved.  As the believer dies in the presence of God.  As all the wonderful possibilities disappear after a choice has been made.

 

As the essence necessarily exists, of itself; so these others necessarily do not exist, for the sake of the other. 

 

 

 

2272  The Choice, the Moment, spoken of by Kierkegaard, the decision to believe or to be offended by belief, the lover's giving in or not giving in to unfaithfulness, the casual falling in with the right fork in the road instead of the left – these are all of the terrible things of life.  From them comes the form of eternity for the one called on to decide.  For the one in the Moment.

 

I write, I choose certain phrases, though no choice seems to have been made, and soon the form of the piece is forced onto me and I follow.  Does that really determine the form of eternity for me or was the choice itself forced onto me and eternity is no more than its one eternal form?  I have always thought I was being dragged through life and I had no choice.  Love pounced on me early on. 

 

Nonetheless, I do feel that if I chose to write certain ideas I would be lost forever.  It may be only a feeling, nothing more.  Freedom seems close, but it may be an illusion.  I am moving toward presence in the Light, not to being a soul lost in time.  I am moving toward the wide-awake, not toward sleep.  I am being pulled.

 

I am just a faggot but I can speak Truth and Being.  I am the universal dialectically considering the particular.  I see with my eyes that which was from eternity.  I have felt the fleeting touch and I know it will come again.  Existence came to me in the Moment and I did not deny it.  To have done so would have been the terror.

 

 

 

2273  The mind runs to catch up with itself and escape the world.  If I think that this is a silver wave on an incandescent sea, then I can also think that this same thought has already been thought and other waves and other seas have been its object.  I can think that this particular is like every other particular, and the infinity of particulars blur.  And still I so know that each particular is just itself and not another, that each particular is in itself not, absolutely not, another particular.    I think that this is a silver wave on an incandescent sea and I wonder that I know this particular this and that it is somehow indistinguishable from every other this that has been such a silver wave.  And I remember the old question, Does God know particulars or only universals and thereby knows the particulars in their timeless universal being?  The thought that this is a silver wave on an incandescent sea fits snugly over this particular exemplifying that universal and is somehow one with it, but the same thought can also fit a different particular and be, likewise, one with that particular.  The oneness slips. 

 

And I know that I know all that.  And in knowing that I move beyond it all and I am greater in that I am then in a greater idea of a greater thing.  Higher into perfection.  The scala paradisi  beckons.  The earth remains down below.  I am becoming intimate with myself.  But the Self is a problem.  An ontological problem.

 

 

 

2274  The set of all sets is the mathematician's darling, incorrigible boy.  He isn't really there.  His existence is transcendent, but transcendence is outside mathematics and this lover quickly becomes despondent.  The fall into infinity is hopeless.  The formulations are endless and the bright one escapes every complexity.  But then surely the very idea of a set was a constriction in the first place.  Two that are one as one in a further two that are one and on and on.  The nexus vanished quickly.  All relations were internal and the invitation to fall inward seemed to be a proof that this love affair was just not going to work out.

 

Infinity is a lovely idea, so prolix, giving intellectual kicks, so ultimately meaningless except that the meaning of the meaninglessness is close at hand and the ultimate rushes up to take you by the hand so very quickly, and it really is ultimately meaningless.  The boy does not require meaning, nor does he require it of you.  Go with him. 

 

 

 

2275  Just as the highest class must have unity in order to be, and it is questionable if such a unity could possibly exist so a nation must, at its peak, speak with one voice and not be a fractious weakness.  And the nation is always being called into question.  No doubt, a transcendent thing must somehow be in order for any of this to be. 

 

Hung-Jen, an abbot of Buddhist monks, knew his time was ending and so he asked that he who would be his successor submit to him an expression of the true belief.

 

Shen-hsui wrote –

 

The body is the Bodhi-tree

The mind is like a clear mirror.

At all times we must strive to polish it

And must not let the dust collect.

 

 

Hui-neng (secretly) wrote –

 

The Bodhi originally has no tree.

The clear mirror also has no stand.

From the beginning not a thing is.

Where is there room for dust?

 

(Unfortunately, I don't know who the translator of these difficult to translate pieces was.)

 

The first poem is for those who believe that all the appearances that would make a world lie within the mind and it is the mind that gives unity.  The second is for those believe that there is no such supporting creating mind and that all appearances are nothings lying within nothing.   Perhaps for these latter the nothing, Sunyata, is a unity, perhaps not.  If it isn't then that "isn't" perhaps is that, perhaps not.  Neither camp of believers believe that appearances lie within matter as the unifier.  Only the materialists believe that. 

 

Those who follow Thomas and thus Aristotle believe that Being is the unifier.  The Platonists believe that it is the One beyond Being. 

 

What do my words seem to say that I believe?   I believe in the Boy jesus, the heartbreak, the mind wreaker, the wild one, my desire.  For a moment he appears on the faces of the monkish boys here.  And in their going around.  And around.  And around.

 

Don't get me wrong.  I do believe in unity but it is so very hard to think and it is the destruction of the world.  Such is love.

 

Let me now take you away from China and Greece and Italy to Moslem North Africa on the travels of a, perhaps fictional, Frenchman.   Gide's Michel found there a certain immorality.   He escaped the weakness of society, the nation, the church, the university, all the property gathering of marriage, and found a boy of the sun.  The boy was a thief and Gide, watching him approvingly, gave up all his sense of ownership and the boy watching him watch gave up himself to the one watching.  The world did not approve.  Soon the Boy left the boy and moved on to another.  Gide was soon worn out by this great expense of spiritual energy and simply lay back in the sun.  He became a great French writer.  The Sublime Beauty is transcendent and we here are hard pressed.  The nation and the mathematicians must eventually yield.

 

 

 

2276  These writings are, of course, immoral.  They are the destruction of the family and the nation.  I lead the boy into the impossibility of life.  I take away his breath.  Knowledge collapses within the words I lay out.  Nonetheless, I have written philosophy and religion as it has always been written.  The destroyers of true philosophy and true religion are the moral ones.  Those who pretend today to be philosophers and religious are materialists at heart, in love with a promised gentle sleep on the breast of nothingness.  They have a great concern to comfort the weak.  That gentleness and the comfort never comes.  We are forever stuck in the piercing lucidity of awareness.  Love transverberates.  Existence goes through us and the Glory blinds.  But then again such talk is nonsense to the sleepers.

 

Don't misunderstand me.  I too am of the weak and I long for a gentle touch, but I love the hardness of life also.  I am merely a writer and I write the truth.  I await the Great Appearing.  I don't know if others await such a thing or not.

 

 

 

2277  Between God and the world stands the exchange, the vicarious presence of God.  The religious of the Church, the hierarchy, the clerks that administer the holy forms to the people.  That without property governing the propertied.  Like the angels, unmarried, fire-raising, free, dark-eyed, subtle beauties.  Souls lost to the world.  The heart that is so unlike the visible church.  It is only natural, or supernatural, that the churchmen here would go after boys and not women.  They, after all, do aim for the transcendent gods.  They are not of this race of unruly giants here.  We learn all that from Socrates, the condemned. 

 

The boys of the hierarchy, of the artists' studio, of backstage Broadway are so fussy, so sensitive in their glory, so clerkish and squeamish.  And the recluses in the Arcadian ivy of libraries, in boarding school dormitories, in the prairie church, open up in tears at the prospect of having to go out into the world to take up the governing of women and other property.  These boys are content with each other and would be so forever, except that in this entropic world it all falls apart.  I write the ideal.  The church is here to keep that ideal alive in its dim old men. 

 

 

 

2278  We encounter this and that in the world and we then go home and transfer it all into words.  The words are, because of their sparseness, closer to the thin high existence of the pure universal.   The ideal is laid over the real.  Or we could say that the really real is found reflected in the merely real.   Words, for us, seem to be necessary.  Perhaps, for those differently minded, they aren't.   Many have said that this is the union of the world with its doubling in the mind, and then in the same intellectual breath said that that laying over and that reflecting is in fact a collision, a catastrophe of thought, a wondering why the whole affair is so damned contentious.

 

For me, of course, the universal, exemplified or platonically separate, is not a thing of the mind but out there in the Noplace of Being.  I am not an idealist in the mentalist sense, I am a Platonic Idealist in that the Ideal is surely different from the weak icons here.  And the Word is not of my words, but it is, nonetheless, a doubling; and I know intimately the lovely difficulties of that theological orgasm.

 

So much of modern or post-modern philosophy is a conceptualist nominalism wondering why it ends up in the emptiness of cognitive analysis.   I too like literature but its object is not merely itself in Goedelean flight; though, I do like that too.  

 

I encounter this and that and I encounter the universal and I encounter the words and the conflict and I watch the whole trans-dif-ference, so entrancingly.  It is so just me.  Or so I have written it down.

 

 

 

2279  I'm sure most naturalists, or those who call themselves naturalists, find my logical transcendentalism, my placeless universals, my vortex of boys in the minds of old men to be unhealthy, that being no less than the worse criticism they can make.  They are far from the absolute destruction that is the intellect in full tilt.  They are of the world, not at its final solicitation.  They never consider the inevitable overcoming of their machines.  They have made every attempt to dismiss from their thinking the boys' come-on smiles right there in the very wastes they were studying and trying to reconstruct.  Their ticket home exploded.

 

The world is neither here nor there; it is nowhere.   Its past is multi-branched and complexly racinated.  It is not one world but many.  It is questionable whether or not there could even be one thing in the abstract that held it all together.  The repetitions repeat destructively.  God is a sly smile.  God is a come-on. 

 

The naturalists among us, so generation oriented, so moral, don't know the world; they don't know religion; they don't know man; and they are pleased to have left their boyhood far behind.  They are the grown-ups among us.  But the end still comes.  The genius in the engine of the world breaks out. 

 

 

 

2280  Set theorists love to lead their readers into the paradoxes of the Set of all things.  Surely it does lead to an infinite regress if that set is a member of itself and why would it not be?  It's a lovely part of mathematics.  It's of the beauty of Being itself.  But it is not the final puzzle of this high love.

 

There are some things, or almost things, that one hesitates to allow in a set, for it seems that only determinate things can go there.  What about setness itself?  Or the nexus of membership in a set?  What about all the swelter of ontological abstractions?  And finally, but surely not finally, what about the questioning of questions and the doubt inside doubt and the clash between the world and our high ideals of abstract thought?  So many things to consider.  The world is more than set theory.  The Absolute is higher and broader than any mathematics of infinity regressing. 

 

 

 

2281  Take any two things, ontological or ordinary, a and b.   The union of a and b is neither a nor b.   Let's call it I for intimacy.   Various ontological possibilities exist here to explain the connection of a and of b to I.   Often we read that a and b are, in reality, nothing but abstractions from I.   Thus a and b are mere concepts – nothings.  Moreover, if d and e are united in L for love, and L and I are united in P for passion, then P is the really existing self-interrelated thing, or the more perfect existent, to use an old way of speaking, and all the other things are less perfect all the way down to the nothings.  Thus it is mind with its conceptualizing that divides and eventually and finally breaks up the last absolute whole into a multi-faceted world.  On the other hand and treading within another possibility, it is I and thus L and P that are the abstractions produced by the mind's synthesizing ability and the absolute unity of all things, the orderly Cosmos, is itself the mind's synthesizing or Mind, the Alone, the various "pieces", a, b et al., in their sweltering manyness being, I suppose, existents but somehow not real because of their absolute falling away from each other.  Or so one might surmise.  The two possibilities become in the literature verbose and a juggling of jugglers.  Or am I being unfair?  I would rather say about all this that a and b and d and e and I and L and P all exist and the many nexus of togetherness and the complexities formed and even the not-existent many.  Yes, I do end up in paradox and infinite regress and love's entanglement over Sophos, but I am not an eventual nihilist.  I am not a bitter quiet meditator.  I am a theorist of erotic sets in the mind with itself and Him. 

 

 

 

2282  It is useless to go to a monastery to find the truth about the gods.  There you will see only the things of late development, cultured artifice, overwrought concretion; but hidden away unseen, almost seen in its closeness, lies casually the pure liquid movement.  It's there along the boys' form under all those heavy robes that have been used to rob us of the vision.  'Oi nymphoi.  The dragon killers.  The seducers of the gods.  Springing forth in jets of spirit.

 

He's a boy, only a boy.  Dirty, sticky, musky inattention.  And my words are no more.  My words are the meandering of foreplay trying to catch the right light.  His words are salvific saliva.  His syntactical teeth crush nuts.  All of which here have become the pretence of poetry and philosophy and art.  The gods are crotched legs and crocheted words.  And the light of your vacillating attention.

 

I write dark swirls.  I write the chaos of what might have been good writing.  I write the genius of writing, the destruction, the ruby threat, phallic blowing.  The moment when the chants are finished and it's time to return to one's room.  The words shuffle and more on.  And the dream is realized.

 

 

 

2283  This is, in fact, high art and high scholarship and high transcendence beyond art and scholarship and all fact.  Because the lord of these words demands such and I consent and consent to suffer the consequences of such an outrageous assertion.  I learned, thus I stole all these ideas from dry analyses written by drunk analysts.    And I hung out with sighing, crying Platonists up in the clouds.  And with the street faggots I looked at the face of God directly.  The beauty has been overwhelming and I am overwhelmed. 

 

This is decadent aestheticism, Arcadian drooling, the refined touch, a slight step away from a pure mathematicism.  This is not middle class cleanliness and low-church efficiency.  This is where the languid sons of the shopkeepers thought they were headed.  These are shenanigans behind the altar. 

 

So do you think the atomicity of atomic facts exists or not?  Is it there as part of the world's logical form, which, Honey, certainly does exist, doesn't it?  Does the sameness of things in fact the same also reside there?  It isn't a residence; it's more like a hanging-out.  Does the necessity of an idea's being of what it is of mean that what it is of is necessary?  I guess so.  But only if it is so.  Which is to say, does logical form have logical form?  No, the boy objects.  He insists that he and only he is the object of every necessity in you.  Go with it!   

 

 

 

2284  Literature, that is to say, literature just as itself, that thing the reader of literature takes as his beloved, is, no doubt, a place of the return of the gods.  It has always been so.  And the flesh of the boy reader has been transformed into those words ever since the words first entered into his flesh and became that.  The topic presented in literature is the universal and the topos is nowhere.  This ground is itself ungrounded and the reader continually falls. 

 

 

 

2285  Aleatoric music is so relaxing.  The indeterminacy of the purely random leaves me freely randy.  In chaos I am in the palm of your hand, my dear.  O, My muse, why do you mouse around?  Those muscles of yours leave me sore.  Mistakes mistakes mistakes everywhere.  Take me!  Enough of your chopsuey su-iiiii.  Saliva surprises.  Eat me.  No, I don't know where I can get you a flashier flare.  What you have is just fine.  Bitch!

 

My cassette player goes too slow and the music sounds terrible, but I don't care.     Languid lazy licking lulls me.  Slim-waisted grabbings.  Mississippi levee levis left among the fallen leaves.  I'm trying to work my way back up to that mouth.  But then - the delta dances.  The gearshift shifts and the smooth sumptuousness secretes.  It's time to turn over the tapering down, Danny Dew. 

 

Your point is pointless.  What was your point anyway?  Prick!

 

Only high-flying scholars like or even know what aleatoric music is.  Why is the approach to randomness and chaos become theory?  Why does the darkness gleam?  Who is that shimmering god?  Why is pure beauty so destructive?  I really do know all about the caught-up-breath scholars in epochè.  I know the two that are one.  Are these my shorts or yours?  It's so dark out here I can't tell. Does it really matter, My multi-furious love?   

 

 

 

2286  This is not literature after all, nor the literature of philosophy.  By that I mean it does not stand alone as literature stands alone moving rhythmically from out of itself.  Rather, aside from these words, hovering, as heat hovers above the highway, and eventually destroys the highway, there is a thing in these words melting them in an act that is criminal by any worldly standard.  This is Philosophy itself and that thing is here.

 

'O nymphos has long since made me nympholeptos.  In a strange marriage of eruption I, now a pock-marked silenius, then found myself at the beginning of my philosophy; I abandoned hope of anything else.   He shimmered in the water.  He was a boy who lived on the edge of town, the son of a doctor.  He vibrated the nearby woods.  His family probably never knew. 

 

 

 

2287  The autistic rhythms of writing lull me into another world.  And there's the catch.  I live here in a social world and if I spy a present beauty and if I think to take him into this enchanted sleep he baulks and like a barking dog he breaks my sleep and I wake up alone.  Or so it is thought.

 

No doubt there is enchantment and autism and a sleep that comes over me in this place; but, for those willing to believe, there is to be found the sunlight of still distinctions there.  I thus present a terror to those here just as I have found being there to be a non-being here and a greater terror.  That you are reading me and following me down this primrose path means that you too are caught.  I have written a literary thing and you do love literature.

 

Philosophy and all of writing is rhythm.  In the fullness of time he comes.  And you watch.  And you are doubled up in enchantment.  But surely you do not believe that.  Or are you anxious that you may and may have already?

 

I know that you are a romantic boy who likes to consider himself so materialistic and of the classical non-romantics but you succumb. 

 

I, in this almost lurid description of myself and you, am the one who believes in the absoluteness of the non-unity of the pure distinctions.  I have led nothing back in a great reducing to just a dream.  Thought and its cutting and building to the sky holds.  Order has fastened me to itself in the delight of form.  Thus beauty and truth and immortality.  It was inevitable.   

 

 

 

2288  Academic writings are devoid of desire.  That the academy of Plato was filled with desire is another matter.  That Being and the whole world are replete with desire is a matter to be overlooked.  Academic writings are fearful that the turbulence will destroy the delicate matter of thought.  The turbidity of mind that comes with desire must be written of translucently or not at all.  It is generally not written of at all.  Desire is the ineffable, the unthought thought, the cancelled.  I have written it; or rather, I have felt it at the time of writing this philosophy.  This is not an academic writing. And the completion of the paragraph is a simple ejaculation. 

 

This is the completion of an academic writing.  This is what was intended.  The round-about is avoided and the pointed thing is clearly seen.  The turbidity explodes into the open.  Stars fall and the object of desire is present.  The Boy is at hand.

 

Beauty is a thing to be desired.  The simple clarity causes me to fill up and I sit and stare at it.  I spill out and Being becomes deliquescence.  Adolescence is. 

 

Writing desire works itself until the end.  Then the void. 

 

 

 

2289  The word "academic" as I either remember or imagine that I remember reading somewhere comes down to us from the name Academos, from the name of the man who lent his garden to Socrates and his friends so that they could have a place where they might discuss those things that where so dangerously upsetting to those passing by when they were in the open agora.  The word "scholarship", I feel confident, is from scolh  scholei  from 'segh' in Indo-European, to hold, as in epoche, a holding back or over or against, whatever "epi" means.  So much for etymology.  The point I want to make is that the modern notion of academic scholarship does not mean a discussion of that which is dangerously unsetting held off in some garden, that is to say held in the fluent heat of erotic interest.  That erotic interest being the most dangerous.  The flowing surging manic heat, the ancient tapas.  Today all of that has become scientific, disinterested study, the word "study" meaning a jabbing penetration with the stupid stub of a stoker.  Today's study halls certainly have no scala paradisi out over the garden walls onto the empyrean plain.  Unless you consider the mystic dreams of those who fall asleep on the library table.       

 

Philosophy is the love of wisdom and that can exist only on the streets or in gardens, not in a place of disinterested, scientific study.  No doubt, the old cloistered ivy-covered universities were intended as an Arcadian garden, but that has, unfortunately, been lost; though, I suspect it destroyed itself.  Maybe fleeting glances in hallways and late night embraces in dormitories are still entryways to that held apart, but probably only for the very few.  

 

This is all well known and even spoken of openly, but we are trapped and we wait for the return of the gods.   For the end of Man as the end before us.

 

 

 

2290  Philosophy and love is the theme of this book.  Together they are a ragged reaching for the transcendent.  And philosophy looks to live around the form of the one present.  And to become that one.  Therefore the logic propounded pounds forward and the back wards of this institution of madness back off into the shimmering unspeakable.  Which, of course, is no more than pretty, literary nonsense, though it is Truth itself.

 

The mind is capable of marvelous understanding.  Even where understanding is beyond understanding.  The boy of philosophy is a cut-up and that's fine.  Bits of Being thrown together.  It has always been so.  It is not less than eternity itself.

 

Gaping agape, coxcomb rantings, the sententious, verbal swellings, priestly orgies, incendiary agitations.  Agni bagni pretty boy knee.  Kneed me.  Howl howl, I howl in my own vortex sutra. 

 

This is a transcendent love, or it is nothing.

 

 

 

2291  I love to read the existentialists, but then who doesn't.  There is something in what they say that I must say I agree with, because after all an agreement or disagreement is called for, for or against, but there is something, perhaps in the various interpretations, that I most certainly do not agree with, and I am at pains to explain that.  The bright gaiety of the lucid consciousness is so very attractive.  The pain is exquisite.  The meaninglessness is the very tortured transcendent itself.  And the push into the meaninglessness of the meaningless is the simple agreeableness of mahayanic clanging.  Frayed nerves give way.  And the candle will be lovingly blown out again tomorrow.  We had it all.  Existence was starkly naked.

 

But the interpreters will have to go, even if they are the very writers of the lovely words themselves.  Only a mind that sees directly to the very end can know Existence.  That one thing in its simplicity is so very alluring.  But then at its approach the many are afraid of such a love.  They are hurt by the rambunctiousness of such a god.  The musky unctuous ramming nuzzles us, but they object.  They run back toward morality.  And they give prizes for a highly ethical atheism instead.  Interpretation reties the drawstring.  His garment was a warning they heeded. 

 

Existential writings should never have been left to the existentialist writers.  Just as timid boys will try to explain away the trembling within them.  Nonetheless, I love to read the languid curvings of the littera around them.

 

 

 

2292  Rhythmically the real pervades my being.  Directly erect right up I am in there.  I am not of those who prefer second hand third hand forth hand knowledge until it is no knowledge at all but information gleaned from case studies.  Honey, the only thing we need say about the rhythm is that it's gonna getchya - the patient found those slim, swinging hips irresistible.  The Tight Right There was just right there.  The undeniable is, in the end, undeniable. 

 

Before Being withdraws it swings. Look fast. Whoever heard of a beauty that didn't eventually disappear back into his dim room with his prey for the night.  Has that ever been you?  Pray to the Light.

 

In the rhythms of time, time stands still.  It's the eternally right there that we are after, that's after us.  He's not here, he's not there, he's everywhere.  Honey, you haven't been abandoned by God; you are not atheos.  You are being called into the Everywhere.  Get on your stick and go!

 

The eternal Real is in the standing stillness of the repeating rhythms.  I'm outta here. 

 

 

 

2293  It could be said that brain waves present the world in the same way that words do.  That seems reasonable.  Mathematics mysteriously presents the material universe.  And music is at one with the emotions.  The One unfolding itself is everything.  These marvels have always been the stuff of philosophical analysis.    And each consideration thinks it is at the very heart of the matter.  It is.  Nonetheless, though the lovers are jealous of each other, the kingdoms of the heart are many, and the God, the very God Himself, is everywhere.  The reality of the material world and the reality in the tight logical forms is One Reality.  The Boy has mirrors everywhere so he might look at himself.  And whoever knew a boy who wasn't fascinated by his own reflection. 

 

Images exist.  And that image is often nothing at all like that that it images.  Witness these words.  But images dance and these words dance and the Dance is all there is.  The All, though, is not all that there is.  The Boy loves to be put in his place.  Put him!

 

So what are we to think of all this?  Is there finally a well-grounded ground of it all?  Are we forever torn apart in the dialectic of image and reality?  Does analysis eventually go mad?  I don't know.  I do see the final thing.  But I continually spin out the spidery webs of Brahma.  And Jesus is putting his nail in me.

 

 

 

2294  Nowhere in these writings do you encounter real people.  Even I am just the "I" that is everywhere throughout these pages and it is no one.  These words have not made me real to you, except that I am of the Real, that high ontological thing, so unreal.  The only other one here is the Boy, the Most Abstract.  He is no one.  He is so like me.  There is hardly any difference at all.  And you to me are made of the same ethereal intellectual stuff. 

 

This is all as it should be.  It is as I prefer it.  I think you are the same.  We are solitary beings.  It seems we are made of what is wrong with the world.  The other things tremble. 

 

But what else could philosophy be?  That world-destroying thing.  The pure beloved is pure.  God cannot touch or be touched by the sin of the world.  Jesus, who entered the world through the ever in-tact virgin, who spoke words that no one understands, who ever performs an unnecessary sacrifice, who now glistens on our teeth as we swallow him; he is surely the very unseen inner workings of thought.  But I see.  I am in the exigencies of belief.  To ask me to write of real world people would be absurd. 

 

And yet in spite of all that I am the most of this world as are you and all the difficulties of our doing philosophy together and apart.  We are the abstraction.  We are the absurd.  Jesus is every boy and you ache with love for the here and now.  The pretty transcendental dialectic.  No one has said anything but the world still spins.

 

 

 

2295  A great love and then great loss.  It seems like no love at all.  The love and the loss are one and they are nothing of the world.  A great eroticism never touches the beloved except in the heights of the most excruciating abstract Real, unreal.  The body here pines and aches.  The spirit understands and perdures.  So little has really taken place. 

 

If this thing from that Place is put in place here the place breaks and the wine is spilled.  Only that placeless Place can hold the Ether. 

 

I may try to teach writing, but I fear that because for me writing is a magnificent thing and the act of reading rolls on with the waves of eternity, that I will be looked at by my students as little less than mad.  They would, of course, be incapable of making the judgment of real madness.  They know that for them the real is not real.  Madness is too Real. 

 

If I dare to speak of love as it really is in the Real, I know that any beloved that is not of that real, will find that speaking quaint.  Then bothersome.  Then embarrassing.  Then to be quickly shaken off and forgotten.  It will be forgotten.  But I speak of matters well-known and dreary.

 

 

 

2296  I walk past a Buddhist monastery and I know that I seek refuge in the boy jesus and that I am more Buddhist than ninety nine percent of the monks I am walking past.  I know of a deeper self-lessness than they.  I know the analysis that leaves no remnant of the world behind.  I know the way out of the sutras. 

 

Every ontological thing divides and the resulting disunity with no unity leaves off.  I cut the cut deeply.  In the barest particular I find the form of Particularity and of Form and the item left with their departure then awaits my glance and there is no end except the desire that arises past all desire.  The boy-trap.  Chanting chanting chanting, he lifts us to nowhere and there is no way back.  We, the lip-parting monks, end up with the concussion of dis-cussion. 

 

Monasteries are the imagined structures of what was then what might have been.  My words inhabit them. 

 

 

 

2297  Consider one thing – such as Nepal.  It is great set of facts that constitutes that country.  In the imagination and in the outer world.  Perhaps it is not a set of facts but one great concatenated fact.  Whatever the case consider another set or great concatenation that is only very slightly different.  Perhaps one of the streets has a different name or it was one degree cooler on June 26, 2002 or on that day my friend Manoj ate potatoes instead of rice.  A slightly different Nepal.  We can say that one of these Nepals is the actual one.  The others are only possible.  Actuality is with one of the sets or one of the great facts.  My question is - Can that Actuality, at once, be with more than one of the sets or facts?  Can Actuality slide from one to another?  Can Possibility and Actuality move around in some sort of bewildering dance?  Can worlds come and go?  Can histories and futures abound moving in and out of actuality and possibility?  Will I wake up tomorrow and a different Nepal will be before me?  Radically different even?  It seems to me that the answer to all these questions is Yes.  Thus knowledge of the truth or falsity of facts comes to nothing and sets permute in confusion. 

 

Let's suppose the answer is No.  What would ground or keep actuality fixed on one and the same set, on one and the same fact?  God?  Let's suppose all facts and all sets of facts are both actual and possible, thus neither, what would ground or hold such a magnificent thing?  God?  Let's suppose there is a place of refuge in the Bewilderment and understanding lies within a greater Understanding, is that God?  Probably.  Is that probably close to necessity?  Probably.

 

The urgency of the oneness and the manyness causes hair to stand up on the back of the neck.  This is the chaos that leads philosophy into theology.  The gods and the mysterious Order of things.   And the wind in the frozen Himalayas.

 

 

 

2298  The deadline has passed and we are all waiting for the war with Iraq to begin.  Philosophy has nothing to say.  This is merely a repetition of the Repetition itself.  The Horror approaches and recedes.  And the Joy will come and depart.  And the Understanding understands it all too well.  That I write of capital letter things is nothing new.  But now it is all real and this is not the timeless Real.

 

 

 

2299  These holy ghost, very religious ejaculations are not a proper fit in the classroom.  Skin crawling prickly hair knowings, sentences spoken and the shiny sticky clinging of the articulate itself.  The smooth flow of matriculation stops.  The unseen is finally seen and then the terrible comparisons.   

 

I, early on, learned that God comes to us and appears.  In a mind-numbing shutter.  The pause and the break and the starting again.  The sentence of discontinuities.  The beauty.  The mole. 

 

This is not the stuff of the disseminated book.  It is a non-human semination.  It is not the contractually stipulated celebration of man.  It is the very stipes pressing and touching; they short out the publishing distributor.  There are gods flashing in the white empty spaces.

 

You stiffen up.  You throw a fit.  And that night angel throws you right off the bed.

 

 

 

2300  I feel the great massive army of university departments, professorial command structures, levels of effectiveness down to the scared but worthy undergraduate; I feel them all aligned to finally finish the task of philosophy.  I feel their self-confidence.  I feel the glare of the privatdozenten.  Surely their campaign will end with the surrender of those like me, the merely misinformed about life.  If they turn their praise and their smiles on me, I am finished too.  They care.

 

Philosophy will end for us in the great treatises of cognitive analysis.  The sutra of the finite man.  Seminars disseminating the last seeds.  Students will be given the philosophy experience and the result will have been a publishing media event.  All laid out hyper-textually.  Not much at all, when you think about it, but good salaries will have been paid.  Pure sophistry.  By next Tuesday we all expect the last strand of the intellectual genome to have been identified.  We will have found out that it was all there for the great joy and camaraderie of the searchers.  Plus the jacuzzi blather bath rid us of so much lice.  Science is fun.   

 

Why am I so upset by all this?  How dare I be so arrogant as to think I am not just a part of it all?  I do, after all, sound like so many of the complaining poets and they have been cognitively analyzed and are now accepted.  My religion could, I suppose, be explained away psychologically.  Was I just unloved? 

 

Nonsense, I really do like what I find coming out of the RAM pencils of the post-modern researchers.  It's just a matter of dressing it up a little so the lit up night of love can begin.  I do sometimes fall for a man in uniform.  The uniform comes off and Being comes again.  Or did I just misspeak?

 

 

 

2301  Modern university philosophy departments with their enticing syllabi, their well-endowed chairs, their squinting proofreaders, and their graduate lounges have made no place for the naked swimmers to meet with their admirers.  These departments care for their students; they don't take pleasure in them.  The pedagogs are about. 

 

The massiveness of the university system is no technological Arcadia.  Oxford supporting the colonialists seems romantic compared with NYU advising the multi-nationals.  After all, the latter cares about the world.

 

Middle level efficiency and cleanliness is neither the transcendence nor the sensuality of the higher or the lower orders.  The managers of the world will no longer let you just sit on your contemplative, dreary ass.  Get to work!  We have people to care for.

 

Hegel never dreamed the System would be so big.  Kierkegaard never imagined the magnificence of this academic workers Palace Complex.  The inhabitants wear clothes.  They are well cared for. 

 

I write this while my country has begun the heartfelt task of caring for the suffering Iraqi people.  Shock and awe and then the massive, overwhelming crushing humanitarian relief.  Their God will be surprised at the love we have in our hearts.   We can help them arrange the endowed chairs in their new lounges. 

 

 

 

2302  The shock and awe of the mighty dialectics by the old professors who had known history because they had lived through the hard times of the great intellectual wars turned into arguments about pension plans and retirement homes.  The anti-substantialist arguments were so insubstantial.  Analysis developed hemorrhoids.  Dialectics became diarrhea and dialysis.   And the loss of state funding was so gruesome it made existential angst look like the good old days.  It all went out with a whimper, not a bang.  But we knew it would from the beginning.  Still, it was such an unliterary uncool whimper.  Don't get me wrong, graduates can still find a job, but it's hardly worth it.  To say god is dead is now just silly. 

 

Still, all in all, as I sit here in my quiet room so far from there, the writings from then look beautiful.  The ideas and the words are still strong, though their authors and their students aren't.  Philosophy escapes the philosopher.  Time gives out and eternity remains.  I have no objection.  I am of time too; my spirit is not.  I will eventually meet those old professors become young once again and their boys.  It's all magic.  The beauty is pure shock and awe. 

 

 

 

2303  That I should complain that man and those who would call themselves philosophers in particular have given up pleasure and have concerned themselves with care, even great caring, must seem incomprehensible to many.  It is a non-thought.  Is it that even God is not really ultimate concern as the preachers tell us, but ultimate pleasure?  Was the descent into the flesh really so sensual?  Is the husband of Christ such an inversion?  Have I stumbled?

 

God is not commitment; he is eternity.  He is not the well-balanced; he is the All.  He is not the considerate helper; he is the jealous lover.  He is Perfection that will bleach the blood of life right out of you; then he is the glistening blood you drink back in.  He is the too much.  In Him the senses are at the extreme of transcending themselves.  He is not concern, which is always a moderating of the blast.  Such is the Infinite, before which the finite cannot stand.  The logic is clear.  The beauty of its form is overwhelming.  I am transformed or I am become nothing. 

 

 

 

2304  This is a garrulous writing.  Transcendental chatter.  It is a sort of worthless crying and grieving and caring.  It is the lover's complaint and so a literary lament.  It is the pain of the most pleasurable.  A holy prickly heat.  A heap brushed aside by the truly concerned in this world. 

 

With Nietzsche I shout and strut and perform lovely litterata, but it's nothing.  That I have great worry over the boy in love is not counted as worthwhile.  My caring is just ordinary spiritual angst from the heights of literary airiness now overcome.   Miss Gary Garrulous.

 

My friends, eventually I want to wean you away from stories to hard core thought.  The question is What is a god?  What is that shimmering non-human translucence?  Why is he Nymphos to us?  Why are we forced to walk in his dangerous places?  What is the boy of sprinkled pearls?  Why is he at your heel?

 

 

 

2305  In all this talk of shock and awe, in these trembling words of a useless caring and the lack of real care, and, of course, in the slithering sentences I have strung out around the boy's transcendent beauty there is no more than my attempt to express the perfection and the purity of empty logical form as it lies within Being.  Such is love and the perfection and emptiness of love.  Recursive feet. 

 

I have known all this in the forever of logic, not because I have loved in the real world, but because I have gone to love itself in the forever of the unreal.  And I have not been afraid to look at it bare.  And it is the Real. 

 

I climbed on the boy's head up to heaven and then I took this skandalon in with me.  Mead and mathesis.  The amethyst failed.  The waters of paradise flowed through me.  Choori and the wind. 

 

 

2306  I must impress upon you to remember that my first love was geometry, algebra, inflexional grammar and a boy – one thing.  These are all of that one real thing.   The one very strong and very real single thing.  What society thought of me was of no concern at all.  I was in love with That.  I still am.

 

That one thing is placeless and timeless.  It is empty.  It is pure logical form.  It is a fixed thought.  A perfection in a completed arrangement.  The ingoing self.  The closed vast expanse. 

 

I walked in the woods, I climbed cliffs, I waded in streams, I felt the shimmering air and I was in love.  Always that one thing held me.    Perhaps if you look in the pauses and breaks and the white spaces of these sentences you will see him.  And the smooth surface is his skin.  And the brilliance is his eyes.  And the tight necessity of syntactical order is the brace of his holding.

 

Thus the bleakness of existential meaninglessness never took me.  I did glance over at it once in a while, but it was a foreign thing I did not want.  I tried to imagine it for me and I felt the cringe, but I quickly left the area and I went to that one thing in the nowhere at all.  I have never doubted the Order that is in the ordering of things.  I have felt difference crawl on me.  I have known intimately the oddness of things.  

 

The nominalist's world of only individuals is the bleak thing.  To say that the difference between universal and particular is not there.  That the Canon of Order is not there.  That mind and its object and the fit are not three things.  That the structure of the one and the two is nothing.  That the great formal display is nothing.  To say that is to have no world at all, no romance, no holy feast of the beloved eaten by the lover, no dying of lover into the beloved, no exploding god. 

 

I worked the abstract forms.  I went around the going around of the boy's flesh around and around until the point.  I fit all the syntactical pieces in place.  I placed the place itself in place.  I knew the exactness of perfect timing.  I knew the congruent.  I always reached the conclusion.  Then the door closed. 

 

To say that none of this is real, to lead it all back to the nothing of psychology, to reduce it to a bland electrical lukewarm soup, to back off from the non-human in it, is to rush back to the warmth of the family and its laughing affairs.  The boy's hardness was ready to take you somewhere else. 

 

I have not repressed the vision of what is right there.  I have not tried to lessen the force of existence.  I have not said anything.  It pressed into me and I remembered. 

 

  

 

2307  Deriving all things from one thing is impossible.  The monist surreptitiously has the many things hiding beneath his palm before he magically reveals them to your awaiting desire.  The many things have always been there.  A collection with no unity.  And the unity. 

 

This is impossible to think.  We can only think what is a unity and the many are not that.  If existence is of the simple, the one, the unit; then the many, the collection, isn't.  Non-existence does not come from existence.  Nor the non-existent.  Dear reader, try to think of a collection as that from which all unity has been withdrawn, a Pure many.  The manyness of the many is a surd.

 

Still, and in spite of all that, we can, after a fashion, think the many and the manyness of it, the very absent it itself.  And we can think bare particularity and the sweltering otherness of the many particulars.  But, then again, we almost certainly grab the unit from beneath and the thought destroys itself.  Surely we are at the limit of thought.  Driving the Monist machine becomes difficult; breakdowns are frequent; it finally tips over in the ditch.  By then, though, the driver is in blissful folie.   And I, the lover always grasping at unity, know erotic madness.  The surraped.

 

 

 

2308  Deriving one thing from many things is impossible.  The pluralist surreptitiously has only one thing.  In his palm is his desire.  He collects and licks the collar of bondage.  He has only one lord.  His bow bows.  Seizure.

 

He is nympholeptos.  Numb with number.  Like the thick swelling water in a brook he babbles.  The still movement.  The filling up. 

 

All the simple things of Being collect into Being, but the many things and the collection aren't.  Being isn't.  There is no unity of these many.  There is no nexus.  He has only the turbidity of desire and the dream lover.  The explosion is inevitable. 

 

The world surely is nothing at all.  And the emptiness of the nothing is too much of a world itself to last.  Differences differentiate and any unity is deferred until tomorrow when we will perhaps feel better.  Being is, but it is a reverse deliquescence.  Order is perfect.  It is not the disordered.  But the difference between them is again an ordering and disorder disappears.  Order and Being is all there ever was.  The plurality is a plenum.  Numb satisfaction.  

 

The boy's puzzles bother and collapse for the night.  His noose is still around you in the darkness. 

 

 

 

2309  There is the One, the one-many, and the many.  That last of these being nothing at all.  The second almost something almost nothing.  The First the Great Thing that is beyond all something, all being there.  None of that makes any sense, but it is from the heart of philosophy always. 

 

He looked at me and smiled.  The beauty was intense.  It, even now, surrounds and pervades all these philosophical considerations.  I remember.  Whether I am remembering the eternal form of beauty or that beauty, I am still undone.  Surely I have become the non-existent many.  I flit and grab and write.  Only irreconcilable disjunctives.  WHAT!  A face is a most unlikely thing.  Pure difference.  Transcendent unity.  The threat of a kiss.  I hold that one-many in one thought.  I, the many many many many……. .

 

The devotees of the First Great Thing suspect that I am that.  But they do that for every Tom, Dick and Harry, so what of it?  I am the agile agitated Agni of love's anguish.  The boy will grow old and die.  He will soon, unbelievably soon, lose his beauty.  Or the beauteous thing will be loosed from him.  And he too will slip into the many and, I suppose, we will then have to be commiseration friends out cruising the streets resuming the musing and zooming in for another look at that elusive Beauty itself.  Here and there, here and there, here and there.  The First Great Thing, so tight, so right, so light in the fight of the night. 

 

It's all right there is the Recursion recurring recurring recurring a tautological bight.  Hold that pose!  I think I see it All!

 

 

 

2310  I do not write a de-constructionism that collapses my fondled, unloved object into an abused whimpering.  I do not try to take the spirit out of the blowing phallos.  I do not try to set up an academically respectable firestorm inside the formerly respectable city of thought.  Nor do I try to prove that academia is itself undeserving of respect.  That is to say, I do not pretend to side with the lowly against the mighty.  I do not seek revenge out of looming resentment.  As do the de-constructionists.  And thus I de-construct de-constructionism.

 

I do magically, ontologically change the ordinary thing into subtle, philosophical erect things.  The world does become a translucent structure and in the light only the hardness of the light is left.  Hyper-constructionism.  A dialectic of setting up.  And a wind in the girders.

 

The rambunctious boy is present.  His feminine enemy is ever a threat.  But in the contest for the beloved only he knows how to take the last step away from here.  He walks on high.  And then the wings expand.

 

 

 

2311  There is no such thing as Space, the one Space that all volumes and surfaces are within.  There is not one Water that all water spills out of.  Nor one Time.  Nor Air.  Nor love.  Nor Speech.  Nor Word.  Nor Self.  There are however the universals we name Space, Water, Time, Air, Love, Speech, Word and Self.  And they are exemplified fully by this and that particular.  The important word being "fully". 

 

Of course, the word "fully" is not the true word.  Nothing is filled up.  I could have said completely or perfectly or in toto or in its simple oneness, but there are problems with those words and, anyway, I think you get the point.  An adequate dialectical explication is another matter.  Mainly because I cannot unfold what is not folded.   

 

I am presented with Space, not a part or piece of Space.  Its essence is perfectly completely fully simply with me.  The very thing itself.  Not an image, representative, deputy or vise-essence or even an anti-essence.  Space itself is present.  Thus it seems that I have contradicted my first statement two paragraphs ago, or I have come dangerously close to it.  

 

Space as a great perfect particular vs. Space as a universal (dare I say even a "substantial" universal) is an entanglement, a battle that is difficult to resolve.  Are Platonic Forms the great Individuals of a bewildering anti-Platonism?  They are not, but I recognize the ontological problems involved.  Of course I recognize them, they are the sometimes impish face of the boy god I have fallen for.

 

 

The thigh of the Boy is thick.  A boy and this thigh are the presence of That, even the Thigh and Thickness itself.  The universals, without a locus, are present in the Unlocated Locus.  But it's all hopelessly mystical and pervaded by a difficult truth.  Those who fear the ensnarements of love, who faint in the toil of love, should not approach.  About these matters I am not confused but I am fused beyond mere mingling.  The particular and the universal are two, not one.  Their separation is real.  Their coming together is an existent itself.  Existence and difference are clearly different and both exist.  There is no confusion, but the fuse that eventually blows it all up is waiting to burn at the end its lengthy analysis.

 

 

 

2312  The Boy, the pure form of logic itself, the Logos, is a willful thing.  I know that the word "thing" seems to not go (or not to go – there is a difference) with that that will not stay put.  He is the groundless ground.  He is the airless air I fly upon.  He is the kiss of the listless wind. 

 

Realism, for sure, grounds the world and the human structures of the world in the truly there.  Nothing is a matter of mere convention.  Thus the lord of the realm is a sort of king, it seems, but his arbitrariness makes his bed that of pure republican chaos.  He is king of the hobos.

 

I search through etymologies to find the well-spring of writing, to find the shimmering nymphos in the water of words.  I do find it/him.  I try to seduce him into the here and now with mirrors and echoes.  I succeed at that too.  He is very real, but he will not hold still, he will not stay put and I become like him.  And the fixed stare gives way to sleep.  I am in the narrow constraints of the Unlimited.  At last, in the absolute that is Beauty, the world is gone.  Or is it that beauty is the absoluteness of the absolute?  Or is it his finger in my eye?  Or am I stuck in the gaze of the Herm?

 

My writings are illegitimate, but then so was jesus.  And from him I learned to insist that in that he and I are the Law itself.  The dialectic is sure, but it will not hold.  So we take of with our Song of the open road.

 

 

 

2313  I think I became my Father one afternoon when it was lightening and I saw him out in the yard in all that working on his truck.  I learned to keep working on my analytical structures even when the danger was flashing and my Mother was warning me to come inside.  Poets and psychoanalysts may want to make something of that but it's too obvious, too brutal, too real for that.  God present (I am not speaking of my Father) cannot be poeticized or humanized.  Therefore, I am not speaking from out of the soft feminine repressive delusional side of man.  I am speaking of a direct awareness of the existent.  I did not seek safety in the shelter of the shades. 

 

 

 

2314  These prose writings are the comings and goings of an intricate subject predicate liaison.  Embeddings and third parties, composition apposition and all night parties, excursions, silent concurrings and the inevitable recursion.  It's a whole city and for the most part it is a city of night.  The lit-up intellectual night.  The erotic digital he loves me he doesn't love me. 

 

Thus these are difficult writings.  Such is street life.  The command to understand the un-understandable.  The soul is strewn among the strung out stars.  Beauty bends to the beast bending to beauty.  Constellations and destellations in a distillation of destitution – or something like that.  Butt in, butt out.   Closed for the night clothesed for the knight in shining amour – he never came.  What to do?  Dissed by the faculty in the school of hard rocks.

 

Now where was I?  Can you see that x is F and your seeing it is y is [x is F]?    x and y being two entirely different things and that is your problem right there.  Compounded by the fact (or sort of fact) that [x] and x aren't even close to being the same thing and you're never going to get him or get at him with all your pounding on him with him for only him.  Subject predicate nut cake.  Your groin aching and isolated in a great nominative absolute.   Your commas breathlessly intensified into full stops.  Your paragraphs just plain standoffish.  Votre syntaxe  fait beau tricot, mon cher.  Anyway, I am the formless white space, where the couples copulate.  You don't mind do you?  Your pose becomes my prose.

 

 

 

2315  My readers will be those with a love of reading.  Not the discriminating reader, not the connoisseur of reading, but the lover of the written word in all of its pleasurable turnings.  The form of the writing is also its content.  The sound of the sentence is its meaning.  And the agile tongue is the licking flaming of the god's kisses.  And then the sighing breath that is the subtle ether of thought.

 

Once is not enough.  Kisses and kisses and kisses and in their absence the planning for their return.  In all these writings I have proven nothing; I have merely named the beloved thing again and again and that is enough, but not enough to be enough.  The child at the knee of jesus wants the eternal repetition of the same and the same and the same simply to make it be.  Any reader who continues with me and surely the true philosophers are that.

 

So I study syntax to find out new moves in this sidereal dance, always considering.  So I study syntax to prepare my reader for the violent moves this god will lead him through through me.  But first my sentences are taxis lined up to take my reader out into the desert where he will find himself in the back seat being wooed by jinn.  Later there will be the lights of the city approaching on the horizon. 

 

My readers will be those content to find themselves sitting in benumbed weight.

 

 

 

2316  I originally wrote this for adolescence boys.  I wanted to speak their adolescent love.  I wanted to capture that first love before it declined.  Thus, if you are not one of them, then this writing may not be worldly enough for you.  So forgetfully, I may not have put that sweetly aged, liquored smell in my words.  Or the earthy humus smell of the humbly human.  Or the perfumed smell of adult concern.  Here the musky smell of boys seeps into their words and dogs bark.  Pungent pores here protrude.  And you will hear words that the socially minded Nietzsche would blush at.  Like him I have studied philosophy well.  This too is the first blush of dawn. 

 

But I wrote this not for just any adolescent boy, only for that rare one who is a lover of his own form in one like him.  He loves the form that informs him in another.  He knows the division within himself and his unity with an other one seen as a mirror.  Thus this is a subject-predicate world of love.  Identicals exemplified here and there.  The Form lifted off and away from the particulars into a paradise of ouroi, the very huur that tortured their desert lovers, Al-Rabb.  The boy is beside himself.  The dialectic of the one and the many swirls in his head.  He goes into himself and he is gone.  He goes into the other and finds himself there.  There was only one boy.  The logic is clear.  The figuring is instantaneous.   

 

Dear reader, I believe that you are this adolescent boy, though you may now be old and the musk has soured.  Your separated form waits just a slight distance from here and it is obvious you shall go toward it across the hot sands.

 

 

 

2317  That seemingly simple-minded Catholic mystical literature captured my mind.  Adolescent love letters.  Painfully precise.  A sighing unsophistication.  A hyperbolic realism.  An embarrassing sweetness.  The unreached goal of the over-learned.  The saintly simplicity that forces the worldly knee to bend.  An erotic dream that failed to dissimulate.

 

Such religious writings are too blatant.  They do not pretend otherwise.  They are out front desire.  They are the demanded forced union.  They are anti-socially direct.  They are adolescent.  They are a boy's joyfully projected existence. 

 

 

 

2318  Space is a complex affair.  The point, the line, the surface, up to the swelling empty massive void.  Position, distance, area, the ingoing containing volume.  Torque and torsion and tension.  Movement meandering and misdirected.  All numbered rationally and irrationally.  Conjoined disjointedly.  Within sets and sets of sets finite and infinite.  And ordered by the almighty spatial relations.  It's too much for one thing to be.  There is, in fact and in thought and in reality, no one thing that is all that.  Space is the complex complexing holy absence of the Whole, except as the whole, one more shuffling piling-in element.  

 

Surely all those things I mentioned exist and they are all separate and independently exemplified and any unity we see is the work of a great nexus (what could it be!) – a complex affair.  There is no such thing as Space before which all those things fade into abstract nothings.  Let us just say that Space is the generic universal comprising all those things.  But then is there not the nexus of the comprising?

 

As for space-time, it exists just as does space-temperature and space-music and space-hunger and space-nighttime prowlings.  They all exist.  If a exists and b exists then ab exists, ab being different from either a or b.  But what about the nexus between a and b!  Mysterium tremendum.  Scala paradici.  Head banging love confusion – if you know what I mean.  The two lovers are the same form - one maddeningly transcendental thing. 

 

Sometimes you want another somebody to invade your space, sometimes you don't.  A smooth complete invasion - or evasion.  A tricky affair of the fair at the fair.  All folded up together.  Shoo!

 

 

 

2319  My country has fallen into myth.  The sweet singing of Adonis has lured my friends into murder.  The terrible beauty of Being is now with us again.  On the deserts of Iraq the sacrifice and the dismemberment and the inevitable wailing of the dead god's lovers trembles the world.  I have seen it all before.  The poetic boy is destroyed by the butch technological ogre and the crying begins.  The dead god (who is only a boy and so he is a boy/god) goes back to God (thus taking us back to God) and because he became the most sinful thing, refined effeminacy, the people's sin, they are not only cleansed (because the boy became the scapegoat escape the sexy satyr) and they have made a gift to God of him and now God is happy (and will leave us alone).  Because God too falls in love just as do my friends who were afraid to admit it.  Or whatever.  These good citizens will soon smile the banal smile.  They do, at least, know that beauty is terrorism.

 

The terrorism that the people are afraid to admit is their own desire to be the refined effeminate boy in the arms of God.  I speak of the men; the women are merely forced to play their part.  The feminists rightly want the whole stupid thing to stop.  It seems to me that Jesus became the last one murdered in order to take us out of this murderous play.  But the people love to cry and murder and what can I (or Jesus) do?  The temple of the world at last becomes theater, which is to say, the world becomes nothing.  Creation, for another day, is undone.

 

The fact that this cannot be explained well is its staying power.  Hey, it's not just me; read those scholarly books on sacrifice that try to find its secret mechanism.  The author gets strung out on the most twisted contraption.  The impish boy has us in an intellectual stranglehold.  Myth and the escape from it are just hard-core reality. 

 

 

 

2320  So often in my writings I'm going along quite seriously and suddenly I fall into humor.  Why?  I find myself falling into rhyme and alliteration and subterranean etymologies.  The pull is irresistible.  Is it the undifferentiated hole?  Did the starry-eyed boy fall into a well and discover himself down there to be Anaximander?  Is humor the humid humus?  Is there any point to my asking that at all?  You probably don't even know the relation of Anaximander to the well – oh well.  I wonder about this because I was reading Poe's " The philosophy of composition" and it seemed to me that he too was uneasy about the levity in The Raven and he felt a need to try and explain why it had to be.  Just as I am now uneasy about that word "levity".   And about those quotes I put around it.  If you knew me you would know that I am constantly spouting wisecracks.  I don't like the image of me doing that.  It's just that Being is so funny.  And I want all the serious things of the world to explode in Orgasm - finally.

 

Anyway, Freud and the deconstructionists told us all it's OK.    We're all sick.  And gay people really must be gay; it's a tautological thing. 

 

 

 

2321  In the American Heritage Dictionary of Indo-European Roots we find dheu.  The meaning is given as "to rise in a cloud".  From that word we get a great cloud of later words.  Greek thumos (heart, soul), epithumia (lust, great desire), theion (brimstone, divine), thuos (sacrifice), thumos (strong smelling thyme), tuphlos (blind), Slavic dum (smoke), duch (spirit), Latin fuligo (soot), fumus (fumes), thus (incense), thuia (cedar), fuscus (dark, dusky),  English dizzy, doze, deer, dust, down (a boy's), dusk, dun, deaf, dumb, dove, dwell, dull, doldrums and Germanic dwelan (to deceive).    A lovely collection – so philosophical. 

 

The Greek is of special interest to me now.  Sacrifice and lust and rising in a cloud.  Burning desire.  Blind, deaf and dumb.  Only the sense of smell.  Everything up in smoke. 

 

The path of philosophy leads upward to the universal to the spirit to the dusky down of the ineffable, the lusty and the killing sacrifice.  That is the way of thought, of loosening analysis, of union with the divine.  The dozing dove. 

 

It's easy; it was all right there at the beginning.  And you are the deer now dizzy, deceived and felled.  Such is myth.  Such is my mastery of it.  I am the modern man who has renounced it all.  It was no more than a boy's kiss.  So now the sulfurous smell.  The dun and dust of industry.   The standardized, plastic dove – the new platonic archetype – scholarshipwrecked.  Doldrums and old rum and oh well. 

 

What deconstructs reconstructs so don't fret. 

 

 

 

2322  Head swirling faggots, of which I am one, and the chaos of the separate Platonic Forms.  The orgy of the majuscule.  The timeless never.  The placeless everywhere.  Sacrificial immolation.  The people's gift to God.  The herm and the hermetic boundary that keeps God quiet.  God's in his heaven and … he stays away from here. 

 

Today, now that we have all become renouncers of the ancient rituals and the sacrificial fires have been put out, Nirvana, we are immolating the whole world in the furnaces of industry.  Archetypal teenage pop-star idols, soooo sexy, a fine fire under the skin of the aching thigh, a forest of branches in the trees, boy-nymphs in the bubbling springs, Bham, the Jinn and the modern man.  The world hangs up in the transcendent. 

 

This pyre, these stiff faggots, the burning desire, my house now at rest, brighter than the noonday sun, he cut my neck in the lilies.  Soot and ash and dun.  Drink charcoal if you've swallowed poison.  The gift and the greaving. 

 

We do the best we can, given the circumstances.  It's a crazy circus.  Boys need it bad. 

 

 

 

2323  One society is governed by the ordinary people; another is governed by scholars.  Each is the bane of the other.  Liberal scholars, conservative theological scholars, mystical alchemical scholars, twisted psychoanalysts – they are all out to get the ordinary person back in his cage.  Or so the ordinary person thinks.  Soldier, sandman, seamster, flounsy deflectionists - they're all out to deny the scholar the livelihood he needs. Or so thinks the scholar.  Both are right, of course.  It's a battle.  I'm a scholar, but I also work as a waiter out where the boys drive me into glistening turgid turbidity.  It's clear.  Clear through.  Until I'm through.  And through.  All day long I try to get into the cage with him, but my philosophy intervenes and nothing and not much of a livelihood to speak of and I end up writing.  The words put it all into place just fine.  And the cyber captain puts it out on the electric highway for my friends. 

 

 

 

2324  Once you get rid of the localization principle in your ontology (that every thing must be somewhere) you have to have in its placeless place a nexus, or the universal and the particular will walk around and around the block and never find each other.

 

Sometimes, though, there seems to be some sort of secret backdoor entry of one thing into another and no nexus is necessary.  Consider a set and its elements.  Those two things are not different as particular and universal (say red) are.  The set somehow "is" its elements.  Surely (a,b) is intimate with a and with b both separately.  Likewise the idea 'F(x)' is so very close to F(x).  The one "almost" is the other, or almost "is" the other.  The one is "in" the other.  But what is " ".." " ?  Ontological chicanery is at hand.  Nexuslessness.  Honey, I am your Form in you. 

 

The localization principle returns (sort of)!

 

 

 

2325  It seems to me that the main questions of ontology concern the existence of logical form.  If we consider prepositional calculus we find all manner of quantifiers quantifying in addition to symbols symbolizing particulars and universals.  Simple things that, from out of their simplicity, gloriously and recursively make and constitute facts and climbing complexes with their attendant sprawling facticity and obsequious complexity.   And we find such meta-logical things as the elegant atomicity and hefty molecularity of feral facts and quiescent circumstances, ubiquitous sets and questionable classes, sheer necessity and frightening contingency, powerful actuality and hesitating possibility, the beautiful well-formed and the sexy ill-formed.  We find universality and particularity so hidden away and the mighty Latinate nexus.  And the terror called Negation.  There is also sign differing from symbol and the intimate separateness of Meaning.  Then appears the gross suffix  –ness, the doubling that sometimes really doubles sometimes doesn't.  And the Real, maybe the Ideal and the certain error.  Certainly by now we have added that one abstract pebble that has made the Pile appear.  Maybe the heap of Aufhebung.  And, of course, in my breathless inability to stop, there are abstraction and the Concrete.  I will not even paradoxically mention the Concrete Universal.  Then from these we derive Derivation.  Lastly, but only because I really want to stop, there are the existents, or non-existents, of existence and difference and sameness and identity themselves, though I probably should have capitalized them.   And Being. 

 

Do these elements of logical form exist?  I answer, Yes.  And that makes my philosophy be what it is.  Russell was maybe the first to see that relations exist external to the related.  Bergmann carried the idea further.  I have pushed it to the intellectual wall and there "under the shelter of the wall" I have made it lover.  An unworldly, inhuman thing.  I have stepped across. 

 

 

 

2326  If a is the same as b, then the ontological ground of that sameness is something other than either of the two bare particulars, the one universal or the unnumbered nexus of exemplification.  It is the fact that the same universal is in both facts made from those simple things.  And then by repeating the word "same" it is obvious that I have failed to explain it.  That is to say, I have failed at ontology.  The everyday mind wonders why so much dust has been raised up over such a trivial matter.  The philosopher reels in consternation.  Which isn't so bad until other would-be philosophers come to save the by now bewildered maiden of the everyday.  No doubt our philosopher doesn't care for maidens and the impish grin of the contrary boy prevails and veils over the world with his anti-koans.  Leaving both the act of explanation and unhealthy lure of ontology itself unexplained. 

 

I admit that sameness cannot be a relation like between or bigger than.  It isn't a relation; it is a thing or non-thing from out of the logical form of the world.  And the vision of its truth is no more than the knot of his drawstring.  Sameness exists, but it exists as existence itself exists.  And it differs from existence as differing differs and the relation from is nothing at all.  But from may be something because the non-thingness of the non-thing is a tight turgidity.  Come lord jesus, come.  And then let us hide inside quotation marks.  Mi amice usque ad aras.

 

 

 

2327  I have no care for my thoughts.  I am not worried or anxious or even confused about them.  I wallow in the Light.  I have understood love perfectly and I have written it down concisely.  I am steady in gazing at its bite.  It is.  I know.  And the union of being and my knowing it is clamped tightly shut.

 

The worry of love is mine perfectly.  My worry about that lover's safety is complete and accepted.  That non-being prowls close is true.  That I am that is sure.  Jesus lies near in inviting inaccessible rape.  The crime is long past commitment.  The empty blankness is an abstraction.  I am à fond.  And I am fond of the fundamentals that never change. 

 

The mistress of the house is nowhere in sight.  The son is with me. 

 

 

 

2328  This really is the act of sacrifice.  The boy really is damaged. A real industry of manufacturing archetypes is set up, disco nights car lights human rights abnegated – the god is here.  Look at that beautiful immolation a holy nation his and his and his vocation all in formation.  The one Form informing deforming reforming in reform school blues, the boy is dead.  I am a lover and that love really does corrupt the youth of Athens and decline sets in.  Unable to generate or regenerate the boys gyrate.  Dark eyed huur rise up on the desert, flames of love burn in the hearts of all the St. Johns.  In the johns he finds his john.  And the battle for heaven is joined.  Jinns. 

 

These writings are right from out of Innocence itself.  Of course they are.  They are the words of the only thing I love, I am nothing - the ancient form once again, there's no let up - or don't you know love? – too many nights on the ramparts.

 

Self-deconstructionism is so fine.  God creates and then destroys himself inside his own creation.  The boy is so unthoughtful about his own retirement; he should prepare now to save himself.  But Oh no, he's waiting for his lover god to take him out of here as quick as he can get here.  He doesn't know the lingering of love.  Bham!, you're not dead enough.  Old men walk the streets and society prospers.  That's you, Honey.  Saddhus all ado.  What did you do in his dew, anyway?

 

It is not my intention to destroy the loving self-destruction in these words.  I am innocent.  Madrassa parochial school boys in uniform the one form at the foot of the cross at the foot of the bed jacking off.  Eat him!

 

Orgasm blank out back again repeat repeat repeat.  The undifferentiated differentiates itself and it is just that.  What did you expect?  Inside the quantum interval he was so real.  Now you've lost it all and you're back out on the streets and you're reading me – again.  He'll come again.

 

The Act is the mental thing.  Bird fly away.  Separate separate fall into the separation.  That it is real is the really frightening thing.

 

 

 

2329  Because sameness and identity cannot be analyzed down and because it is maddeningly impossible to say just what they are other than just themselves we must let them be just themselves and leave the matter behind.  That, though, is unsatisfying.  Something must come later to complete the desire.  That the blue of the sky and the heat of the day are each the same as themselves and other than the other and that both exist and that sameness and otherness and existence are not more than the simple blue and the simple heat each itself is too simple and clear an affair to leave just there.  The swelling up of thought must be allowed to take its course to its ever somewhere.  And so moving in closer, we see that the existence of sameness and its otherness from identity does not preclude that sameness is other than existence and that these simple things merely mingle in the meaninglessness of the prettiness of mingling.  Being, which is the unguent of the altogether, rises out of its head and it is soon drawn off as soothing floating spirit.  The mass of philosophy drips away.

 

The end of Plato's Parmenides is an explosion of scholasticism.  That old men would once again attempt a youthful love affair is dangerous, but who else could do it?  The young are afraid. 

 

 

 

2330  That I am dissatisfied with my writing and with my trying to write the ontology of the elements of logical form, that I do not write it well, means, I suspect, that I am there at the boundary of thought.  I have no complaint about arriving at a mangled philo-ontology instead of a competent ontology; that is something you would expect on the streets of philosophy.  Nonetheless, even love and desire become no more than a dizzy heat.  Beauty is hard to find.  And beyond there is only the commonplace. 

 

There must be an ontology of sameness and identity, of non-existent separation, of order; but the easy everydayness of it all threatens any finally isolated thing that might dazzle the understanding.  On the edge of the city the boys are plain.  The try hard and they are loving, but gods they are not.  It's amazing how close they lie.  They are the same and identical and their clear separation is non-existent.  First this then that, no question, it's done.  It's all too easy.

 

I'm bewildered by the lack of bewilderment.  Love is simply love.  They are good boys.  The understanding understands.  I can't imagine what the ineffable wanted to say but couldn't.  I and they are the same and identical and my writing sheers off. 

 

 

 

2331  The ineffable boundary is that between the ontological and the everyday.  This is the absurd.  The incarnation of the beautiful son of God.  The end to sacrifice.  The modern man up against timeless mathematics.  The bare leg inside techno- Logos.   Driving out into the night, the rock and roll boy feels the feeling rise up in his groin, red taillight ahead, green dash, cruise control, hermetic acoustics, the voices of angels banging in his head.  The same and the same and the same, again and again.  He knows and he knows and he knows.  It rumbles through muffler packs.

 

I cannot get at the onto-logical form of the world; I cannot get inside the timeless boy; I cannot not do it.  Verplexed.  I am folded over – again, and I bite my knee.  One slips and slides one's way across.  But one and once is never enough.  And two not made into just one is not the onto-magic I desire.  Diads abound but silently. 

 

The ineffable is Platonism with the boys left in.  Scholarship that tries to excise and circumcise the boys arrives at a maimed otherworldliness.  The negligible is the essential. 

 

 

 

2332  I believe in desire, I believe in the passions of love.  I believe in the rising and the falling.  I feel faint that he may not be able to follow, that he will not be able to follow.  I write and I reach for the timeless, the sure things.  Such is the eternal form of love.

 

He approaches and he withdraws.  He is fully present and he never did really exist.  Being cannot coexist with the Forms of Being.  The Names of God cannot call Him to your side.  That He breaks into two or three or into the infinite infinity of the world is irrelevant to his being by himself in his room. 

 

If the mind is a mirror, it is a mirror for him to see his own beauty, to be surprised by the sudden appearance and like narcissus to pine away wondering who, in there never having been a mirror.   

 

That I believe in desire is to say that I desire desire.  That swelling up fullness of Being, that doubling doubling into itself.  That thing that corrects all deficiencies.  That thing that upon its absence I have nothing and I fear and I hurry to make corrections.  Coerections.

 

 

 

2333  The Will.  The divinity of Schopenhauer.  The guideless guide of modern thought.  The absurd Joy.  The tyrannical spirit roaming the schools.  A boy's dreams.  Lover.  The hard rod.   A gentle shyness. 

 

A dialectical mis-given.  He evades your desire and your touching him.  I want your intellect to be kind of ragged in order that you may understand my explanations, oh my lovely friend.  Your stomach will hurt. 

 

The Sufis and the muta'azin knew the tyranny of love and beloved, but they didn't know the terror of "God's sweet love uniting all things in a pantheistic night in with friends".    Oh Rumi, your turnings have fallen into the hands of the beautifully souled.  Your miserableness down to the most refined part is unknown. 

 

Desire.  In Torque and Fury I will make the beloved appear full flushed before me and I will sit back and contemplate him out. 

 

Desire is unsatisfied.  There is no satisfaction.  That is the unapproachable divinity of the simply divine shine on his forehead.  Nausea. 

 

 

 

2334  Here is where the Idealists, even the great German transcendentalists, made their mistake.  For them the thing-in-itself is the only true existent and the phenomenal, whether of mind or not of mind, is less or nothing.  The chaos of Will, the philosophical turbulence of the unknowable, the broken rigidity of the absurd, crushes the gentle divinity of the Logos.  Intelligible order and the balmy light of understanding shift into disappearing phantasmagoria.  Socrates is decidedly a typhoon. 

 

For the realist, the Logos, the smooth surface of the well-formed, the clear forehead of intelligence, the mole, the lip, the rounded thigh, the knowing glance, the discerning arrow, the rhythmical thrust, the swallowed cap of prophecy, the gods present, are all dripping with the chrism of existence.  The Prism and the prismata are real.  The many do not give way to the nothing at all.

 

In this writing favoring the extremes of realism, of Plato, of the boys and of that still beauty, in which I do not yield existence to desire alone, the object of desire stands.  However, and likewise, I know I must not give ground to those who would undiscover the Desire that the idealists reeled under.  Its existence is big.  This realism tries to maintain the existence of both the Dionysian and the Apollonian.  To take desire, to take the raggedness of the destructive dialectic, to take the ungentle out of Plato for the sake of a thus maimed harmony is bad scholarship and to take away desire's object is to take desire. 

 

The sweet boy rests in the arms of Terror.  Jesus and the godhead.

 

 

 

2335  The doubling of appearance and thing-in-itself, the beginning and the end of the infinite, the no-man's land of the between, the Cross and the dying god, immaculate sin, my failure to do the loving required, my exasperation so romantic so everyday, philosophy reels head over heels.

 

The Will of Schopenhauer is anything you want it to be as long as it crawls and begs and flows like sweet love.  The landscape of his body is the territory I laid out.  I surveyed the slight and the extended.  The data were always lost and the repetitions mounted.  Hidden springs bulged up in incessant filling and the prelude and the way out led to far places. 

 

The pimple of transcendental idealism broke and the ooze, though interesting, had to be wiped off.  Red realism beauty pustules all over his face let me know that his sex juices were flowing.  The fetid, the mangy, the thing in your hand.  So romantic.  Just push and crowd and drag.  The nexus sets in and a construction is set up.  The simple things so nakedly present in the ordering of this to that.  A marvelous piece of engineering.  The building harbors dark nights and agile convulsions.  The same with the same, one thing.  Two subjects one predicate.  Logic preserved. 

 

The doubling must be preserved.  And the in-between.  Idealism failed us.  It's real, so real, my dear.

 

There are, however, two kinds of idealism.  There is the Ideal of Platonic realism; and then there is the idea of mere subjectivism, a weak almost nothing, a sign, a pretended freedom.  The second is the academic publishing house, and the first is the threat that the High Church will crush the choirboys.  I stole from both and then took to the open road.

 

 

 

2336  I wrote a few pages ago "The sweet boy rests in the arms of Terror".  A terrible sentence, but then it is obviously just literature and not of the real material world.  Or is it?  I see sweet boys cradled in the terror of the real material world all the time.  I see little else.  It remains terrible, but there it is.  They grow up and become part of the terror and that is a terror itself impossible to shave off.

 

The sentence is a sentence of desire.  I am also the Terror.  Should I just walk out into the Buddhist night in which the candle's flame has been blown out?  Should I take up residence with the Sufis turning breathing into zikar?  Heavy pants that won't come off.  Should I just let the nastiness of Socratic dialectic reel?  I will write.  I will do it up and undo it.  Little constructions.  Frames for the simple things.  And I will try to put them on display out there as just more of the Terror. 

 

 

 

2337  I am separate and separated out.  Jesus said, "Take up thy cross and follow me."  Be sacrificed.  Be cut apart.  Be put away in the terrible freedom.  Become invisible.  Then be eaten.  I am all of that.  I am analyzed. 

 

Aside from the ordinary world, there are the world's pieces, cut out, separated, free.  From the connected, interdependent continuum comes the discontinuous, the scattered, the alone.  The mind rises up to see, as in a tornado of forgetting, that still, hanging collection of gods.  Insatiable eternity.  A ruthless gleaming.  The uncaused causes. 

 

I am that.  I am free and separate and cut off.  But here I act as a slave to the forces of the Whole, the nauseating continuum, the great family.  There I am not that.  And there even my doing is as the Doing, undone.

 

Ontological analysis, finding the abstract and the free, escapes.  But the philosopher is done to likewise and when he is drawn off he disappears.  Right at hand he is far away. 

 

Surely not only I, but we.  I think the reason we must hear so much about this wonderful family of the world and its deep interrelatedness is that we know we are not that, but separated gods in the eternal fire and free, as must be the victim of the sacrifice.

 

My words are eaten.

 

 

 

2338  In the Eucharist the body and the blood appear as something not really here in the world; here there is only bread and wine.  The appearing is no appearing.  Divinity is here in its not being here.  The body and the blood are not worldly functioning things, they are not biologically complex, they are the simples of body and blood, nothing more. 

 

In heaven cars and kisses are not surface coverings of gears and ooze.  A car is just the simple essence and a kiss is The Kiss that is no more than that.  Universals separated out.  Unsatisfied, hungry things.  The things of desire, pure Desire.  Free and wild and eternal.  Without parts there is no more coming apart in death and life forever moves. 

 

Thus faith is about the unseen and the nowhere.  It is the end of analysis.  It is the discovered nakedness.  It is that of which the world is oblivious.  It is the boy running, untrammeled by the web. 

 

In the liturgy the hammer falls, the words come, the surplice comes off, the boy bows in haughty holiness, simple things crawl.  But it was nothing, or probably nothing, and the people go home. 

 

And boys get in their cars to get the spin on and to remember something unremembered.  In a dream in which gravity and friction are no more than that.  The weight and the chafing.  The too many times out.

 

Cars, kisses and the body of Jesus.

 

 

 

2339  Surely in all this what I am looking for is the nymphos.  The sprite.  The inhuman thing that is the object of my longing; it hangs on my extended sex.  Jinn, chouros, the welling-up well, eromenos, the peen; it bangs in my banging.  Head.

 

Ding-an-sich.  I will will.  Oregomai.  Ero, Rheo, Rhezomai.  I turn inside out.   Oida.

 

I know all about it and I am a holy thing.

 

 

 

2340  I bought books.  I stole books.  I found books.  I read.  I read a lot.  I eventually learned to write.  My writing is strange even to me.  I write to and from those other writers.  I surpass them, of course I do.  Still, I and they do nothing; the willful Boy is passing by himself.  It's pointless.  There's nothing here to take seriously.  But the world is listing.

 

The uncanny thing that is writing is passed around.  And though I am not a social being, I am a social being.  And though I am separated, I am intimate with those separated.  History is just the eternal return of the same surpassing.  I cannot escape those books, but I am not anxious because of that.  I only used them as mirrors for That. 

 

You do not know me as a person, but then again I am not a person, I am a writer.  I am a mouthpiece stopped up by little pieces of black lines.  The One is that also.  To say that I am an author is laughable.  Dark thin slivers of Being are What?  I am crusted flecks on his face.  I am that very literary thing.  God descends into authors writing to authors.  And they thus have to rise up to be God.  The logic is necessary and what of it?  Long lists of the great books. 

 

God reads and philosophizes and is just as confused as I am and tumescent.  Or what is the flesh of this religion?  The fuses fuse and then the re-fusing and then I buy more books to see what's up.  Listing lusting ever lasting.  This music is weird. 

 

 

 

2341  Bureaucracy is the image of the interdependence of the Absolute, the Vedanta, the Strangle Hold.  Life is the separation, the independent, the Will.  All the pieces of Being divide out, are divided out, have always been divided out.  The Division is eternal.  The dividing progresses from the timeless.  Into the timeless.  In the absence of absence. 

 

The boy is a screw-up.  An antinomiac.  His room is a mess.  His dreams are sugar.  His dick is an exaggeration of the subtleties of Being.  He chafes the mind. 

 

The Absolute is a dark hole.  At night your socks smell even dirtier.  The clear light of the absurd abounds over things.  But the boy is definitely not confused about just what it is he wants.  He gets it.  And then breakfast. 

 

The important metaphor here is that of eating.  I have laid him out on my desk, in my words, a shaggy wool sufi boy, the smell of urine/Varuna still on him, still, Uranos.  Cut, burn, eat.  Dinner.  

 

Veda-tails.  Torn off.  Contemplated.  Lust of the eyes.  I strain at the halter of logical necessity.  I jump.  The army moves on its stomach.  The recruit moves his mouth over the boy's stomach.  They're buried together in the same hole. 

 

I write the pure form.  The one and the many.  Honey, your head will spin, so just get over it.  And under it.  And up against the back of it.  And on and on and on.  You're so alone.  No one else wants what you want.  You are the government of a backward country.

 

 

 

2342  Lithe, blithe, my scythe cuts him down.   His down glistens.  The night listens.  The Brahmans watch. 

 

It is very important that there be someone here to correct my mistakes, so this sacrifice will work.  Heaven and earth will be united here tonight. 

 

Ritual, rite, rta and articulation.  Writing is the act of tearing to pieces and reading is eating.  Teeth beneath the words.  The mouth and the anus, one tract handed out by a delicate Christian boy trying to get to heaven. 

 

 

 

2343  Old men lust after boys.  It's a comic situation.  The crown of creation is brought low.  Past laughter.  It's a cosmic ritualization.  They become case histories for sociologists and psychologists.  And the police.  And the fire.

 

The most spiritual become the most desirous.  In faith they have it all.  The bare butt boy is theirs.  Jesus is their love food.  The boy who confounded the doctors takes them into his immolation.  Ground to pieces.  The ground of all things. 

 

Philosophical reasoning is a maelstrom.  And the epithumatic fiery agitation.  Everything becomes other.  The non-existing many.  The One and the oneness of the One between which there is nothing at all.  At last a giving way.  The sub-sisting of the refined beauty of the nexus.  The throbbing dick.  The boy is soon old.  The outside becomes the inside.  Silenius is dual.  A chattering silentiousness.  Philosophy goes on and on into the drunken godhead. 

 

 

 

2344  The Buddhists tell me that there is no universal chair or chairness because if the chair is destroyed – Where is it? !  You must say that with religious passion even if you are very calmly enlightened.   Nominalism high in the blown out spirit.

 

Well, it's obviously nowhere.  But then universals never were anywhere.  They are not in space, just as they are not in time.  Only the particular that "momentarily" exemplifies them are in time in the sense that they exemplify, along with other particulars, time relations.  There is nothing more to it than that.

 

So what is the ontological analysis of the chair?  It is not just a particular plus exemplification plus universal ("plus" being nothing but a way of speaking (for now)).  It is also millions of other properties, no doubt an infinite number.  The real question is What is the connection between the universal that is chair and that set of other properties that gets destroyed.  Setness is difficult enough itself without the set being tied up with something else.  Or is chair just one more of the properties in the set?

 

If the chair is red, it seems that redness is a part of chair and chair is not a part of redness.  If you will only remember that I use "part of" very loosely.  As for such parts, no one set of properties, which are the parts, could ever be stated that would define chairness perfectly.  There are too many differences between chairs and they exist in too many states.  But we do know the meaning of the word chair.  It is thus not one with any set of properties.  It is obviously tied to sets of properties.  There can be no criteria for stating which sets.  Induction certainly will not do.  So what is the tie, the nexus?

 

Plato said that Eros leads us to the Forms.  Is the correct understanding of chair the erotic understanding?  A lovely philosophy.  But it still doesn't tell us what connector there is between chair and its many possible properties.  It does tell us why those who have been blown out do not believe in the Forms.  Plato's Forms being universals. 

 

There is the added problem that the particular with its properties might also exemplify a different Form.  A mouth is for eating, but it is also the object of the Kiss.  Maybe eating and kissing are somehow connected though and a further nexus is required.  So the dialectic enlarges.

 

These are lips.  These are red.  These lips are red.  These are lips and these are red and the two particulars named by the two instances of the word "these" are identical.  Though I think that last statement fails as a logical description of the ontological analysis, I hope you get the point.  Identity is so hard to state.  Two are one - magic.

 

The form chair and the form lips are tied to their properties not merely by being tied to a common identical particular.  And chairs and lips really do have real spatial parts and so eventually we will end up with multi-partite particulars.  Anyway, the problem of identity soon arrives and it doesn't feel right for all that.

 

Let's call the tie X or Blam or even mushroom soup and leave it at that.  My mind is numb.  Maybe the tie is Confusion.

 

 

 

2345  The Buddhists say that the worlds arise out of avidya and desire.  I think I can handle that in my philosophy.  Should I say explicate?  Let us translate avidya as confusion.  And desire as tumescence, a kind of stuffiness that so resembles confusion.  

 

In the ordinary world there are no ontological things.  It is a forgetting for the time being.  This bed is just my bed.  Your face is just your face.  Your kiss was nothing more than sloppy.  I have to get up and go to work.  Where's the transcendence in that?  There isn't any.  Philosophy is in the book on the floor.  The spirit never was.  The world is here and I am still horny. 

 

So now I have to make confusion be the nexus of Confusion and horniness be the Hook of crossing over.  Mind-shift.  I contemplate Avidya and Desire, great gods.  I am light in enlightenment. 

 

I cannot write the ordinary without it spilling over into the sky.  In my pure confusion and my pure desire I am close always to That.  Oh, Puer.  I get a rise out of you. 

 

 

 

2346  Few of the historical philosophies, if any, have paid any attention to the nexus.  It is named in passing and then the philosopher moves on.  No doubt, this inattention could be explained by the post-modernists.  The real reason is that it is too difficult to think about. 

 

Intellectual difficulty leads many to create a philosophy of anti-philosophy.  A reduction, a simplification, a breaking of the great structure of Being.  Rest and escape.  But philosophy is work.  It is constriction and worry.  And every release is a quiet waiting to begin again.  Its joy is unsettling.  Its truth is anathema.  Its kiss skims the despair on your cheek.  The nexus is a heavy complication. 

 

Eros works you hard. 

 

 

 

2347

 

Against Representationalism

 

Representationalism is the belief that we see the world through filters.  Through the filter of language, of the human nervous system, of social convention.  Through our own concepts that have come to us through the twists and turns of our ever so personal psychological formations and deformations.  All of these filters are somehow in the world, the physical world, and somehow in the mind our subjective mental constitution.  They are in a strange third, neither mind nor world.

 

Against all that I have presented a philosophy of direct seeing, without filters, without abstruse quasi-technical circumlocutions.  I see the world before me. 

 

The main philosophical problem for representationalism is that it cannot account for how we see the presumed filters.  Do we see them directly or through filters?  Are we walking along a path infinitely regressing?  The only dialectically workable answer is that we see them directly.  And then we fall out of representationalism into direct realism. 

 

The world appears in an infinity of forms; of course it does.  The filters are just universal forms and the particulars informed by the forms are bare.  We see it all directly, including the nexus of informing, though I usually call it something else.  I do, however, have the philosophical obligation, now, to explain how we see all that, to give an ontological account of this seeing.

 

There are such things as ideas.  I have the idea that two thousand five hundred years ago there were minds thinking about these same philosophical problems and thus finding themselves in the same quandary.  That's a complicated fact, though not as complicated as the great historical scene, and it is one simple thought.  The oneness and the simplicity of that thought must be ontologically maintained.  And that thought is tightly pressed against the reality, which is anything but one and simple.  That nexus of being tightly pressed against is the difficult vision of this philosophy.   It is in that closeness, unmediated, that the directness of this realism lies.

 

And then comes the problem of seeing one's own seeing.  Again we see it directly.  I am aware that I am aware that I am aware ……  .   Ideas pile up and I recede.  I see it all.  The things exist and I see the existence.  Of course I do.  What would the representation of existence be other than existence itself.  I am. 

 

 

 

2348  Supposedly we see the world filtered through our own personal concepts.  Supposedly they are to take the place of universals, being applicable here and there.  The nexus being that of application.  Also supposedly they are shared by other minds, our having received them through social convention in the first place.  They are a lot like universals, except they are mere, as in mere personal concept.  And though application is like a nexus it never really takes hold out there in the world.  The world remains finally in itself unstructured for us and unknown.  Conceptualism is a philosophy of weak things.  And, it is acknowledged, weakened minds.

 

Another aspect of concepts that the humble deconstructionists love is that they give way and withdraw so the world can be.  They are so demure.  It is hard for a deconstructionist to believe that he could possibly exist.  Only God, if there were one, could possibly exist.  He doesn't exist because the idea of God is from our own weak thinking and we must retreat before the Power, which we feel must somehow be there.  The deconstructionist beats up on himself and loves himself in doing that.  He is on the way of the cross.  He is the Power.  And greatly verbose. 

 

 

 

2349  Bergmann, it seems to me now, on this hot afternoon, never had an adequate notion of nexus.  For him it was a mere tie.  It wasn't close enough or destructive enough.  Thus he abandoned it to explain mind and sets.

 

The boy is crushed by the Boy.  I am crushed by Philosophy.  The world is crushed by mathematics.  All of which is the stuff of literature.  And I had so many crushes when I was young.   

 

The one thing seems to push inside the other – internal relations!  For Thomas, the mind took on the form of house when he walked into one.  And I really do dance inside the music in the empty rooms.  The night comes on in a flash.

 

But I speak in metaphor.  The nexus is just the nexus.  Gentle, wild, free or oppressive, it is all things.  And, of course, in being what it is, it is none of that.  But does self-identity really belong to it?

 

I jump to myth and the great erotics of thought.  The lazy, dreamy heat invades my mind.  The boys of the academy have called a strike and the city is shut down.  This Hindu kingdom shakes. 

 

I still have crushes. 

 

 

 

2350  Those coming to me refreshed by Meditation, trying to explain to me their vision say something like this  (and in my telling you this you must understand that I will probably be accused of getting fresh with their beloved).  My friend, I see now that philosophical argument has led you into nothing but the entanglement of words.  Language has conceptualized you and grasped you and you have grasped onto nothing real.  In the stillness of mind, beyond thought, beyond the desire to reach and grasp and possess any of the complexities of Samsara there is peace. 

 

And I say, so you are a nominalist, are you.  I bet you have a great desire to explain this newfound philosophy to the world.  A born again Buddhist evangelist.  Or Hindu or whatever.  No doubt, the arguments of philosophy were too difficult for you and the heat and the passion and finally the erotics burned.    Or am I trampling on your innocence?  And you don't even know what nominalism is. 

 

My meditator friend is sensitive, tense and touchy.  That's why he became a meditator.  This delicate Adonis is torn apart by the teeth of boarish argument.  Even Socrates would politely back off.

 

Thinking is aggression.  It is heat.  It is the poker in the forge.  It is my wanting to take that beautiful delicacy. 

 

This is the Tapas.  It will clear out the underbrush of nomina.  Only the fire of desire can eventually burn up all those verbose, overly intellectualized Buddhist Hindu commentaries and commentaries on commentaries.  To see all as just words and language is to finally end up with only great mounds of just that and the humidity rises.

 

Refreshingly, I have seen boys of the monasteries and ashrams and even of the madrasa chanting chanting chanting what they do not understand, what they do not want to understand, level the ground and then go back to their rooms and take off their gowns, explained.  The night is warm. 

 

 

 

2351  The ordinary world is the world of poetry.  It is the place of no real place.  It is loss of place and the time in which.

 

It is this universe of immanent death.  It is the meaninglessness of formless matter.  The boy quickly gets old.  The mirror is tarnished by the oxygen of his breath.  Sharp takings.  It repeats somewhere else.  This world is always the somewhere else.  Crying poetry.  And then the attempt to deal with it and be happy.  To just get along with it all. 

 

Philosophy is rebellion.  Not like a child who stares at you with the lucidity of his consciousness, but like a military officer who orders it to be otherwise and it is.  Thus it is religious, it is faith that it shall be so, it is erotic.  The realm of command.

 

In philosophy things are.  It is the Place and the Time and the Reason of things.  It is the whereat of things that are fixed and have the right and the means to be from out of themselves.  The emanation of the One.  The one and only.

 

In poetry everything was a mistake and there was no way out.  Endless corridors leading to endless corridors and the threat of being caught and then the horror.  One wakes up from poetry. 

 

 

 

2352  The madness of philosophy is it excessive rationality.  It is the great belief in reason.  It divides and divides believing in the division.  The dialectic of the one and the many, of the simple and the complex, eventually leads to strangeness.  One can go with it into its otherness or one can balk and declare the whole affair to have been a school exercise in poetic metaphor, nothing more.  To judge that this thing, after the natural meaning of words, is true leads to vertigo.  And one lets language carry on.  On and on into the intellectual darkness.  Into the tumescence.  Into obsessive lust.  Into the granular and the cut up.  Clerics glance about.

 

The only thing that has kept me from insanity and its perfect discourse is my eternal glancing over at the boy.  He is the ever out there.  Words stop up and stop. 

 

Analysis makes its final stop at the boy.  Omnibus puer disputandus est.  Ontology becomes theology.  The sensual is captured.  The religious and the aesthetic becomes the ascetic and the work begins.  Is work the cause of or the release from insanity?  Is the dreamy boy a bad dream?  Will the callipygian Apollo ever be freed from the sweaty dusty sculptor?  Smooth stone without the hands of the sculptor on it is worthless.  Dreams without the dreamer struggling to wake up from them are worthless.  Buses not carrying busboys home from work never make the stop of finality and they are worthless.  Analysis must come to its hard vertiginous end. 

 

 

 

2353  I have an image of you in my mind.  I don't know where the image came from.  From me, from another, from itself.  From you, from a god, from the air.  I look at you and you are not that.  You and your image fight.  Perhaps you want a different image of you in my mind, one that is even farther from the material truth, one that is one with the true spiritual you.  Oh Honey, which one of your true spirits you are today?  You are it all, even that messy matter-spirit.

 

Not to worry, I see them all.  I can compare the truth of the moment with the image.  I can compare the strong with the weak.  I know the difference between image and reality and you are all that.  It is all of existence.  And the Difference within the differences or hovering over them is the whirling roaring god of us all.  All all all the All Panic.  Hrsna of the infinite infinite infinite faces.  I reel.  I bristle.  I write.  I dig the sharp pricked letters onto your face.

 

Since in his omnipotence, from time without beginning, without error,

He drew upon thy face two and thirty lines,

If you desire to see the Truth without error,

Behold! see it in the form of a curly-haired youth.   - Nesimi

 

The strong with the weak.  God and the Boy.  The True and the mere mere mere concept lifted up rounded off laid out taken.  You love to be image only image your mirrored self so pretty about to be manhandled.  Come up with the most outlandish philosophy and let him correct you forcefully.  Let him read ALOUD.

 

 

 

2354  So many Hindus I meet like to think that all religions and all philosophies are contained within Hinduism. Their Hinduism wants to have great arms that embrace the whole world.  Perhaps it does.  Perhaps it does contain all thought.  The idea in the minds of these my friends is a loving idea.  Serene souls.  But then the descriptions they give of those other religions and philosophies leaves one in doubt about such a claim.  And their serenity in the end turns out to be no better than mine.

 

A religion of all religions is like the set of all sets.  If there is such a thing it then paradoxically becomes just one more religion and one wonders if it can be put in an even greater religion of religions.  And ever greater.  Always moving forward backwards.  The recurring Cur of thought.  Night barkings.

 

 

 

2355  Born again Buddhists, so against intellectualizing, so against the philosophies, intellectualize and philosophize in excess.  Their Buddhism is verbose.  Their direct knowing is anything but.  Against desire, they present no loveliness one could desire.  They become argumentative about argument.  The Hindu Arjuna, who has to listen to their endless monologues against thought, is not allowed to question the bristled one.  The bristles retract.  And that is supposed to be the Vajratic Lightening of Enlightenment.  A flaccid diamond.

 

Give me a real Buddhist who doesn't call himself a Buddhist or even know that he is one.  Someone away from the crowd.  Maitreya.  Nirvana means to leave home. 

 

Some want to be followers of the Algerian Jew taking refuge in the oh so protestant Yale.  They deride all else, expelling the belle and telling of the alter where they falter with salsa brain.  They giggle.  And I go home. 

 

 

 

2356  The culture of Urdu poetry is a male culture.  The beloveds are all boys.  It is a religious thing.  But how is that?  In the Muslim religion God is so very transcendent, so tantalizingly unreachable, so sharp and mind destroying, so very much like the boys all around.  Seen, but untouchable.  Except, of course, as a pure dissimulation.

 

In Christianity, God is the eaten drunk boy jesus, blood on my mouth, fiery flesh, spirit burns, God with us too much.  The boy is raped torn ingested digested become intellectual congestion; I jest not. 

 

It's all so very unreasonable.  To believe it, to really believe it, is not just sweet madness, but wholesale insanity.

 

The inter-relatedness of cultural dependencies is not at work here.  The Boy refuses to work; he is just himself, absolutely absolute.   He's your escape from the prison of the Asian family, boy traps.  He is your final self-identity.  You are just that oneness of the One.  He has become you.  Lovers understand.  No one else is near.  A mind suck.

 

The work "urdu" means army from out of a language from the Altaic mountains, from where the same spirit of the shaman that invaded Greece in the form of the Orphics and then traveled with Alexander to Persia descended into and then took over in Delhi.  It is the Christ dying and rising.  It is Zarathustra going down.

 

 

 

2357  Nominalism is the philosophy of the ordinary; it is the truth of the ordinary.  It is thus ineffable as Philosophy and as Truth.  The ordinary being the non-Philosophical.  But then what are these capital letter things?

 

The ordinary man wants to assert to high heaven that this ordinary non-heaven is his truth.  He wants to assert mightily, and that is his undoing.  There is no might or high heaven or truth in the ordinary and his attempt at this unphilosophy is full of very ordinary mistakes.  He is an intellectual infant.

 

So the nominalist at last adopts the gentle appearance of a serene and beautiful soul, topped off perhaps with a fermented sweetness.  The sting of Socrates now just sat down on is an unwanted argumentativeness.  The fiery shining is soothed out.  Into non-thought and the miniscule. 

 

The nominalist asserts that there are different strokes for different folks, but some strokes are evil and those who practice those should be shunned – later they will be expunged by the Spirit.  That I stroke the boy off into intellectual difficulty and the inevitable ecstatic release becomes an uncountenanced face-off.

 

The nominalist does not want to be embarrassed.  He sits.

 

 

 

2358  Rhythmical writing precludes disinterested scientific analysis.  The writer is drawn in, the reader is drawn in, the spirit spins.  Deduction and reduction give way to an exaggerated seduction.  And suction.  The function of which is neither education nor adjudication but ejaculation.  Mind globs splattered. 

 

Dervishes whirl out their great robes.  Slow silent spinning.  Tombstones tumbling.  Power pushing.  Fingers touching.  The ineffable unapproachable transcendence comes to dinner. 

 

I write about gods.  Boy gods.  Real gods.  Timeless ontological rods.  The nexus annexed.  And I am perplexed.  I am folded over.  And over and over.  And I cower in the covers while the cows pass.  I reach for his ass.  The rounded firmness of eternities past. 

 

I enter the firm and do business.  Then the heavy wanderings.  I herd the cows.  I am a cowherd.  I am a gopi-boy.  The bristling one is whistling fast.  It won't last.  Soon it will be very quiet around here.  I merely report the matter-of-fact things.  Everything was closed for the night.

 

 

 

2359  Analysis, that is to say, the attempt to see the pieces of Being that make up the world is often tempted to not believe itself.  Strange things appear.  Too strange.  Very uncomfortable.  Nighttime nightmares ensue.  And continue to pursue.  During the day.  The ghosts remain.  There.  Speak gently.  And don't move. 

 

 

The things of Being are wicked gods to the normal mind.  Philosophy is foisted on the good kids and such intellectual buggery and the buggy buggers are to be confined.  Along with their ivory towers.  And their Arcadian bowers.  And the cicadian glowers singing so seductively. 

 

The gods are God prior to any of the beings here or anon.  They are the very possibility of there being beings.  The ground of their logical ontological forms.  The primal bandh-making Bandhah.  That which holds together the very Atman itself.  The Being that is.

 

Giving up all that tight, dark glory has made the modern world decrepit.   

 

 

 

2360  That a form, an ontological piece, is not my mind is given to me by the presence of a barrier I cannot cross.  It is the problem of not being able to reach the beloved thing.  It is a frustrating irrational thing.  It seems to be nothing at all, but it is the divinity of the thing.  That we are two, not one.

 

I am a writer and Writing is not me or mine or obedient to me.  I really don't know what it is.  I do it by means of a means that is also not me.  It is how you read.

 

The bare particular, just that, has something of the unapproachable in it.  But what is that something?  A not-me.  A NO!  I know it perfectly, through and through, but it remains an I-don't-know-what.

 

Can I, by faith or by the command of holiness, cross over?  Yes, of course, but it still remains imperturbably other.  You have achieved nothing.  But that is how you want it.  The feel of resistance is lovely and comforting.  The thickness of the thigh.  The continuity of an area.  The heaviness of breath pursuing.  It is mine, or rather I belong to it.  To that.  To the unenlightened lover. 

 

 

 

2361  This writing is massive, and to take one part of it out to read is at times tiresome.  At that time there is time.  Doubled.  Which is to say there is no time.  The way is clogged.  The act of choosing is that of tasting, of smelling, of having the humors move about in the head.  And the thick arms.  And the slow looking.  And the melanic blue of Siva.  Finally ashes.  From that the work grows as one single twig.  The massive underbrush is gone.  The open.  The boy glances about and he's at it again.

 

 

 

2362  The nexus is seldom spoken of in philosophy because it is so very close to the ordinary.  And the ordinary brings the spirit down from its heights.  I suppose I could say that it is the meaning of Nietzsche's Superman, the one who has learned to eat down the serpent he has vomited up.  He is the lumpenproletariat.  He is Kierkegaard's Knight of Faith who looks and acts like a common businessman.  The nexus grounds the worldliness of the world.   He is the noisy boy outside your window.  I have written him as mystical jack-off imp, which may be a little too romantic as a symbol, but then I too have tried to have the little too much that is ordinary writing.  All in all, He is God from God, Light from Light, the complaining sacrificial victim.

 

I speak of the things of Being and I assume, as did Longinus when he asked Jesus to heal his slave boy, that the one listening to me will simply accept what I presume to speak of.  Audeo et audite.  Please do not argue about meaning depending on context.  The simple thing itself is present; that is enough. 

 

This is Platonism.  The Forms are what they are, they are limited only by themselves, they have no definition from without.  We know them translucently in an instant.  We have always known them.  And from before always.  That is an ordinary garden variety Platonism.  You have heard it all before.

 

 

 

 

2363  The comedy of the downward philosophies is becoming boring.  It's time for the Socratic fiery irony of the upward rush to leave us all in the ashes of freshness.   His fire will bring down fire and the leaves of grass will rise on the leveling.  Calamus with no Calamine for the sting.

 

 

 

2364  In the marginalized of society, but really right outside society or forming the boundary between in and outside, we find the boys of philosophy.  Hangers on in the market place.  Soon offering themselves.  In out, top bottom, up down, awake asleep, here and gone.  One can't be sure.  Two for sure.  Three marks and he's yours.  You just bought nothing at all.

 

Philosophy is about the between.  So demur.  Not the Between.  Quiet, please.  Classless things.  Disorder per se.  What did you say?  Purr purr, gentle catwalk walker.  Talker, balker, soccer boys are too rough.  Lumpen, bumpen, sumpen' hard.  Hardly a day goes by. 

 

In your face, pretty lips, he slips, and tips over your antique lamp.  Damp ass, as I was saying, falls down between the bed and the wall. 

 

What would society be without its margins to define it?  Too bad it is always a place of abuse.  Even God, the most marginalized for-sale kid, won't get off us or into an office where he could draw up proper contracts, and we would know where we stand. 

 

 

 

2365  This is an American vortex.  But is it a sutra?  Is it at least aphoristic?  It does have the proper concision.  It implies without deploying.  It has an inarticulate pushed-upness.  And it is varied like the arrangement of pimples on a boy's face.  It could always say more, but doesn't.  Or rather, it ceaselessly says the More and More and More. A great thing in a simple Moreover.  America is one thing repeated endlessly.  Pointlessly.  The sheer of the transcendent. 

 

These are the Yajus Vedas of Christian sacrificial immolation, grits in the morning.  The Saman Vedas of sweet singing.  The Rig Vedas of my Father's big truck. 

 

 

 

2366  Because I was a young American student in the late twentieth century, I, of course, had to read the Continental philosophers, not only the Anglo-analysts.  The passion of stilled nothingness was akin to the prairie summer heat.  The verbal growth was like the weeds along the ditch.  The failure was like love.  Pretty Aryan madness.  White cum sheets of paper.  Aristotle falling back into the arms of Plato.

 

Middle America is big as the wind and flat, like a boy's chest.  Little blades of grass creeping gently.  Sharp violent down.  Run until your feet bleed!  It's all right there in your mind, platonic remembering, a self-sufficient musky smell, the world gathered, now spinning from out of a single point.  The sutratic sewing comes undone and the boy sows his seed on the back of the wind.  America can do anything it wants.

 

We are the ordinary, the They, the bane of Heidegger, the Knaben of his dreams, knaves with knives.  And small town preacher kids, like Sartre.  And derridic misplaced car keys left in Elkader, Iowa.  The Bandha of the perspicacious Brahman.  Here on the vastness of the void, greatly lit-up truck stops.  Europe turned inside out.  I had no trouble understanding them because we were them.  And, for me, going to Nepal, where I am now, has been like going to Kansas.  It's all an Indo-aryan Semitic fuck-up.  In the pretty twilight.

 

 

 

2367  These pages should really be out in the high wind like Tibetan prayer flags.  Not allowed to fall into the tiny imprints of digital files.  And though both places do have an inaccessibility to them the first is expansive and suits my nervousness.  Moreover and likewise, firm pages in dusty library books, which do, of course, have a loveliness to me, do, in their held-in condition, pile a sometimes unpleasant work on top of my nervousness.  Not that I'm against work, but that boy has too many clothes on.  And the inaccessibility of all this is getting to me.

 

It seems that the journey from the one universal, from the one thing that is all of it, to the specific and the particular is itself a high and arduous thing.  And the journey to the beginning of the journey, I'm sure, will require a long beginning and the moreover in the ever more and more.  The flapping of the prayer flags can perhaps beat it hard and out and into the world.  And the minutia growing on the rocks of the Himalayas can be the recovering of lost files.  And the firm pages, in their long gowns, will walk among the old arhats silently unoblivious to what's going on.  Themselves selflessly.  And this place, defined as the Very Inaccessible, will open up. 

 

 

 

2368  I am a serious thinker; I do not party with the partiers.  I do not sleep with the lovers.  I do not linger in kisses with the most radiant.  I stay at home and read.  But I write the prettiest love for the prettiest.  And I dream and I secretly make the movements.  I have it all.  I have nothing.  The All being the Nothing.  Sheer metaphysics and the extremes that it holds.

 

Sin is the licentiousness of the licentious.  The most freely permitted.  The abstracted and the set fleeing.  The thinker, because he does not know the boundaries of the earth, roams anywhere in the Nowhere.  And he partakes of nothing here.  He missed out on the world.  He knew only library rooms.  And falling asleep on giant oaken desks.  The phallus fallen out of sight.

 

There is no tragedy is all this.  Intellect does not betray the thinker to crying.  The really real is real.  The beyond is there in the Beyond.  Only the loveliness of loss is not his.  He has no sad songs to enchant.  His chants conger and the spirit spins and the words reveal and the Real reels.

 

 

 

2369  A realism full of gods is such a very human philosophy.  The nexus binds as tight as your shoes.  To deny the gods is to deny the human.  To take off your shoes is to walk too lightly.  And the calf bound in greaves is as pert as the boy's clinging glance.  White socks and shorts.  These gods hangs out in all night coffee shops.  The nervous modern world.  And the post.  And you cannot take off your shoes.

 

So you and I walk the open road.  The aperture is ahead.  The non-human human thing.  An unspeakable inability to coalesce.  The between is what the boy is.  And you fall into that.  Subsisting insisting resisting no rest.  The restaurant lights are always up ahead.  The highway is my way.  Stretch out and be my meta-odos, my little matador against the on-coming trucks. 

 

 

 

2370  The imp that I am dreams of the dreamy ones.  This sexual turbidity turns and turns nightly in my bedraggled bed.  Wet dreams.  Contorted smiles.  Dirty knuckles.  Big dick pungent smells.  These muscular muscles belie and the smoothness of my skin slowly shudders.

 

Jesus is more imp than pretty college boy.  A sprite.  Puck an urchin a crustacean.  Phytos gamin  - simply, to be.  Growing too too too tooooo much, my dear.  You little fiend, get out of here before I call the thugs.  Jesus takes my livelihood from me and gives me no kisses. 

 

The spirit going in hurts.  Passion pathos the fiend finds me out.  Jesus, that is you.  I am now that also.  The pretty college boys are drunk and we can go sleep with them. 

 

 

 

2371  When you have to jump away from the sweltering forms of the political social masses, jump to the simple forms of literature and philosophy.  But finding a jumping place is the most difficult.  Quietly by yourself, in your own room, in the dead of night, a small light, a cup of coffee, a whim.  Go.  You need such a place and you need to find the time.  But when can the never of such a narrow timelessness happen or the otherwhere of such a scant placelessness find itself?  When you need to jump and your knees are already bent and the fretted pages of a book are close and you know that that is all there is to it, fall.  There is no traction against distraction.  Perhaps if you just scream. 

 

The dialectic turns and soon you long to get back to the massive thing to be cooked to be made tender to be eaten by That.  Turn again.  And again.  You are on the giant rotisserie of Being.  Being itself is splattering and jumping around you and the burn marks do have a certain beauty in their non-arrangement.  Then the line shorts and your light goes out.  Coffee jitters on the bed.  Your whim was for him.

 

 

 

2372  If we take the non-dual, that that is so beloved in the East, to mean the absence of a division between a particular and its form, then the god of love doesn't just love but he is love, or rather, Love itself.  Just as the heavy thing is the very Heaviness and his glance is no less than that Form of Glancing.  There could be no closer being than these beings from Being itself.

 

If I pray to God that He come between me and an evil thing then I must somehow realize or think or see that He is the betweenness that was the open space that evil traverses to get to me.  A non-spatial space, a letting through and at.  God himself was the being and the access of evil to me. 

 

This comes so close to being unthinkable, to being the absence of a god there to help me, to being a present danger.  Surely Brahma doesn't know, but he is the act of knowing itself.  He doesn't exist but he is existence.  And perplexingly he doesn't desire but he is Desire and the Being of Desire.  He is not of the world because he is the worldness, the lokatva and paralokatva, of the world. 

 

None of this can be easily thought because we naturally think in propositions, in subject predicate form, in the form of particular and its form.  Still, if it cannot be thought, it can be grasped, but that is violence and we hesitate.

 

I will practice thinking of God as not having a form but as being the very forms had by so many.  Thus He is close.  Too close.  An unthinking thinking.  Unlike the meditators, I do believe we can think what cannot be thought.  I can think the pure Form.  And the magnitude of that.

 

This is not what the East had in mind, but then they wanted nothing at all in their mind.  I have seen some who succeeded.

 

 

 

2373  Since God is not between me and the mountains in the distance, but He is rather the betweenness giving ground to that fact about the mountains and me.  And He is not to be confused with the beauty of that face on the mountains, but He is the Beauty of every beauty. And since He is truly other than every something I call a he, but He is its form in being a he.  Then to worship anything other than the Form of the things present, to worship that which has the Form, is idolatry, but the difference in between the idol and the Form requires another betweenness that is God beyond God and I fall.  Surely Form quickly becomes form.  And then a mere property become predicate.

 

I fall in love.  Philosophy is a falling in love.  I and philosophy and the fall.  The boy is the Boy and Jesus, so hic et nunc and right there, is the ground of it all.  It is absurd, but we got so used to it, it seemed to make perfect sense.  Until love came along and nighttime arguments about existence and not having and differences opened up and then the Light.  Idolatry is the wonderful anxiety that always accompanies worship.  Love is worship.  Too close too far away too easy too easy.  An ontology that solves the problem of the relation of Form to fact is for us the necessity of the alluringly impossible.  And love won't leave. 

 

In the everyday we say that the ontological Forms and the constituted fact are identical, but they aren't that and constituting is not a nexus.  There is no nexus between Being and the world.  The world simply isn't.  Philosophy simply isn't.  Being simply isn't.  Take your pick.  You can have only one intellectual beloved, though. 

 

Pantheism misses the wonderful problem of love. 

 

 

 

2374  The contemplation of the non-duality of the world, of Being, of the philosophical object, is to stare at an absence.  Negative facts have always been the object of ridicule, and the philosopher here is close to being derided trying to ride this Bengal tiger. 

 

The mind is one; the world is many.  If I think that I think the world then that thinking is one and thus world and thought then are one.  And anon the regress up the scala paradisi.  One cannot think the many.  That such a pure collection does not in ontological fact exist is a strong arm first principle and I am thus back at the contemplation of a negative thing.  The Absence.

 

The Stare.  The Fixed Stillness of the Act.  The sexual Mezmer.  The god of bristles in your eye.  The thorny hedge I continually write.  The sword in the side of jesus.  The concern about teeth.  About face.

 

The dialectic is difficult.  Error and illusion and psychological repression.  Perhaps no more than the sway of the ill-formed sentence.  I will not make a grand therapeutic pronouncement.  Nettles have been found among the thorns.  And there is no emollient for the world. 

 

We are obliged to write sparingly.  We have little time or inclination.  The protective lotion doesn't work well.  The Itch itches and then the gadflies come.  Jiggers and jive.  There's no way out of the mangrove.  Bound with the little prickly negations.  On a tiger with gnats.  There's no high way into the steely emptiness of the sky.  The non-dual is a discomfort to us.  And a scabies. 

 

 

 

2375  Thoughts of the world exist and, existence being one thing, their existence is not less than that of the world.  Thus they are not of the mere of mere reflection.  They are not a mirror.  And a philosophy of mind is not a meretricious attraction.  The mind and its thoughts exist.

 

There is a connection between thought and the world.  Thoughts are of the world, but what is that "of"?  The world or a piece of it and the thought of that are the same.  What is that sameness?  Thomas said that the world and the mind are informed by the same form, but if thought is propositional and of a fact, then there must be propositional form, and that is not what he meant.  It is not grounded in such a universal form.  The universal does not account for the oneness of thought and its object.

 

Bergmann says that the connection is similar to internal relations, which relations he does not believe in, and this similarity is vague and ontologically nothing.  Nonetheless, he is phenomenologically correct.  I think the problem is deeper.  It has to do with fact being, for him and for us all, a category of existence, and at the same time a non-existence because only simples exist.  "Non-existent" is my word, but it points up his problem.  The problem at the heart of all philosophy.  He has hit the nail of its head into that heart.  He too philosophizes with a hammer.  Perhaps he has broken the whole thing.

 

 

 

2376  Mind is tight onto its object and its object is tight with itself in the mind.  This is the problem.  This is the labyrinth at a point.  This is love's desire to escape love.  The puzzle nuzzling muzzling the about to speak red-lipped mouth.  This is the great philosophical problem of boys.  Transcendencies preening.  Pearly teeth gums bleeding.  With your blood.  And a flood of forbidden emotion. The momentum is uncontrollable.  Crash bang it's done. 

 

The Will to transcend is with us.  Ironic iron-fisted love.  So far from the finite and the human, the hearth and home burning here.  Boys are destruction in the city.  Shahrashub.  The state universities watch but don't dare speak.  Socrates is more slowly killed.  This very image of the thing imaged is a catastrophe. 

 

The problem will not be brought up.  It goes up by itself.

 

 

 

2377  The Boy, of course, must not be mistaken for an ordinary boy, nor must a boy here be worshiped as the Boy.  The difference is absolute, and that is the problem, the logical ontological problem.  Difference is a sort of relation and thus it cancels the absoluteness of anything absolute – sort of.  Jesus was God seen, heard, felt by us to be in the flesh.  Or such is the most interesting formula we must lovingly work with.  And it is difficult to find anything truly interesting.  So, that flesh, that most ordinary flesh was the Flesh, surely not less nor other.  And - but let me quote Shakespeare Mir

 

Let not my love be called idolatry,

Nor my beloved as an idol show.

Those pert smooth-faced boys of the city,

What cruelty they inflict on young men.

 

I found that accidentally, and thus divinely, composed among my papers.

 

And the Sufis found a place beyond religion, in a dangerous place among glances and white thighs, where idolatry led the heart to God.  And to wonderful poetry.  But not really to philosophy.  Unlike them I hesitate to say that I cut the throat of thought.  The difference between a particular and its form gives me space to move.  Without it I am left among the happy meditators and raw vegetables. 

 

So I wondered about myself that I could think of nothing but that boy's, that ordinary boy's, lips and narrow waist and blithe gestures.  I'm obsessed.  I wonder because there was no flesh there, just the smooth continuum and I have lost the incarnation.  Idols should be rough and ill-shaped and repulsive.  Jesus was not other than I. 

 

And now you see that my dialectic has swung too far too wildly and I will have to back up and try to bring these ideas into order.

 

 

 

2378  The boys of my writings and of the mental and digital pictures that possess me are nothings in the material world.  Immaterial exaggerations.  Still perfections in charismatic tongues.  An immaterial agitation.  Literary stylizing.  Neither picture nor idol, just desire moving in unexpressed desire. 

 

These transcendencies barely touching our common life are common to us all.  We are here and not here.  We are nexus.  We are the between.  As idolaters we fail.  Our religion is forced to be pure.  But Jesus was truly material, disgustingly repulsively of the flesh, the material, ill-formed flesh.  Smells that are not alluring.  Bones that wouldn't go through walls.  And I worry that I am too little of this world to be saved. 

 

 

 

2379  Scholars have found these meanings for the Indo-european Gher.  To grasp, to scrape, to call out, to glow, to yearn for.  In the Nexus of Being the connection is easily seen.  It is the word of passion.  In the Charisma it moves and shudders and uncontrollably repeats.  It is Gary and gray and hoary and hunger.  It is the choreography I write.  The Pindaric boys dancing on graves.  It is the grizzling cohort.  It is the ambergris of tresses.  It makes me tremble. 

 

The man looks longing at the boy and he begins to shake.  The boy wants the priest to take him and he swallows the Eucharist.  The goat shudders before its head is cut off.  Pentecostals shake.  Quakers quake. Agni agitates in the agile tongues.  And the tongues of fire enter the garden of the head. 

 

In the gray of the twilight and the dolphin and the moment of falling asleep, in that quiet shudder, he is shut up tight. 

 

The spirit falls.  Philosophy begins.  The boy is seduced.  And one looks to see if he shudders before the sacrifice can begin. 

 

Thus philosophy and religion are frighteningly alluring things and society must protect itself against them.  The sprite speaking in the ear of Socrates must be muzzled.  That nympholeptos man and his nymphos must be called away back to the wild places and left to die.

 

Out among the smooth boy skin springs of swelling water the Sophos is clear.  And the philos and the phytos of the imp grows.  The boy gods of the world prior to the world slept tightly together. A shudderingly seductive deviation for philosophy now.  The Cause.  The Crime.  The going across of the accusative case.  The falling back.

 

 

 

2380  The world is full of philosophies and theories of man as word and man as society, the word as society, as economics as the evolution of need, of needs proliferating, relations relating, surds resounding absurdly and on and on and on. The combinations and permutations and perfumed mutations are endless and they would all be of the Truth if there were room for such a solitary thing in this crowd.  I have no objection; the world is, of course, a thorny bush and the administrative forms needed to cut it down are backed up. 

 

But then there's the boy god.  And the commotion stops and the clamor of lovers is heard in the distance.  Now there is only one thing.  This is, and it is of course, the reason for the only reason we have for insisting on Truth and the Final Thing.  The word is Word large and from itself and the reason why those theories came around to the thing, even the Thing always doubling into itself, a shame to society and a bewilderment, simple dead out confusion.  That's religion. The curly headed boy with his cap on askew.  The perfection blazing up Mohammad's night journey.  The really real.  At last.

 

 

 

2381  Nothing is so twisted, doubled, filled up and then attenuated as is philosophy, this philosophy.  Syntax delights me.  Rhythms bind me.  The meaning finds me when I am alone.  One thing.  And it is impossible that a world should come from it.  I write for the bored. 

 

The only relation philosophy has to society is to give it pleasure.  That is the only reason for God's existence.  This massive thought to care for the world, to change love into a sincere concern, to not upset the nervous city dwellers whose life is hard enough as it is, this great covering up of the extravagance of Being, is boring me.  I will put the lure in his flesh and pull him out of here.  I will lick the smooth skin of this thing my prey, my prayer, my betrothed.  The continually falling truth.  I come and go and I will write the real.  Nothing less. 

 

But what's the point?  It's God, and that's so close to nothing at all so thin so abstract so transcendent just arab terrorism and hypertext hacking.  I write whatever comes to my mind.  Whatever drops into it from the skies.  From out of my having read far too much.  Combi–fucking-nations.  Permu-fucking-tations.  Fellatious contemplations.

 

 

 

2382  Bergmann's philosophy and even that of Russell and Moore feel, if not eternal, closer to it than most of the others.  They deal with the same elements that Aristotle and Plato dealt with.  They speak of the most basic things.  And the contemporary writings they do mention are those that speak of those same ever-puzzling things.  These philosophies are elegant in their sparseness and their directness.  But they shy away from even glancing at the Boy.  They have convinced themselves they do not believe in Him.  They really don't believe.  Maybe Aristotle didn't either.  I do.  And all agree He is of that eternal set of things.  But what is eternity?

 

Surely the form of a boy is an eternal thing.  Here it ever returns in its ever departing in its setting fire to the world.  Sacrificial knives and trembling and the hope of rising again impinge.  And the fearful bash. 

 

A boy is a delicate structure always in need of care.  But he grows up and no one cares about him, about us.  That they seem to just want money and material things and to become shopkeepers strikes me.  I do not attend to them as they want.  I take my intellectual pleasure and go.  I wish I could have done differently; I wish I could have led them to the eternal things, to that thing so close so distant.

 

Thus it seems that I believe in that that is the opposite of what is.  The boys are not the Boy.  But even that contrariness is a part of it all I insist and I insist that in the end, because there is an end, the Truth will vanquish these truths.  Inelegant, messy, neither fleetingly temporary nor eternal.  Just the incomprehensible itself.

 

 

 

2383  If I act upon him with my love, that is really God acting upon God.  In the still eternal act.  Form with Form.  Mingling with slight tingles and the quiet itch for more.  Hardly anything at all.  Nothing else than the prior to speaking friction of a sigh.  Nothing else than the awkward swallowing of abandoned speech.  God thinking about God.  Which, I guess, is the Logos.  The act now is the almost abandoned act of watching.

 

If the particular is not different from the form then there is no change occurring to the particular.  In God the Form and the particular are one, or rather the particularity of the Form is internal and that oneness here cooks the mind.  Thus we write Form and not form.  Being and essence there are the same.  A non-dualism.  Not a matter for the world.  The world ever changes.  Tapas rising.

 

Love, however, is only partly of the world and as with a boy's parted hair it divides the soul.  The act of love is the act of act and it is sometimes the Act, a loathsome untimeliness that undoes it all and philosophy fails.  Such is the eternal Form of Being.

 

One thing acting upon another is a dream, nightmares and wet dreams of the gods.  We are that.  God watches.  We seek refuge in his timelessness at the heart of time.  Eternally unchanging change.  A tiresome hackneyed thing.  A hoary God gone over.  Enforced elegance again.  The puckered ever new ever fresh.  The slow cutting sacrificial knife.  And the returning dawn. 

 

 

 

2384  The relation of God to the Forms is that of Being to the Forms, which is also that of Infinity to all the transfinite numbers.  It is not a relation at all, but our everyday English has no other word and the problem sets in heavily.  It's an insoluble problem for ontology, but the philosophical mind sees the solution in the distance.  And also up too close for comfort. 

 

There are those who council us that philosophy should only go so far, until its car runs into the swamps of thought.  Then the philosopher should turn aside and announce that it was all just metaphor anyway and that we will have to do the best we can without the final thing.  He will tell us that we should learn the pleasures of tragedy and enervated poetry about the finitude of our condition.  And that not doing philosophy is more comfortable, looking forward always to the long night of oblivion instead.

 

A philosophy of faith cannot partake of this feast of dried tears out under the too bright sun in the now cooled lucidity.  I shudder that I do not shudder with the lost.  That strange beauty will not be mine.  I have the lover instead and his unrelenting hand.

 

Being and God and the Infinite are here with me and there is no let up.  I do metaphysics precisely and finally.  The holy ghost my Grandmother knew is fallen.  And I am.

 

 

 

2385  The philosophic and the ordinary must be kept apart, otherwise the non-philosophers reading philosophy will surely come to think that the writer of these extremes should surely be put in a small cage and forgotten.  What does really happen is not so different from that.  There is no physical cage, but there is the spiritual cage of being ignored.  No one reads philosophy.  But I speak of real philosophy and it is of that I always speak.  What goes by the name of philosophy in the schools is anti-philosophy.  Or so an extreme Platonist would think.  I do see something other than the world.

 

There is an old guru who sits daily in a Kathmandu bookstore.  He distributes pieces of carrots and cucumbers that are part of his sacrificial offering to a god.  I know he is a violent man, but only I know what sacrifice really is.  The cutting the separating the killing the eating.  The others think it is just a peaceful sharing of blessed food.  It is really a substitute for the ancient human sacrifice, because Hinduism is at its heart sacrifice and substitution and we are with this man back among the gods present and demanding.  Nonetheless, his real being in not of the world and the world is not that.  That and the world are separate and here he is just a slightly crazy, marginal and ignorant old man.  There he is terrible.  I know his real being.

 

Likewise I am that.  I am a philosopher, a real philosopher.  There the boy suffers the violence of a terrible God.  And I lead him into the twisted catastrophe of thought and the tortuous escape from here.  He becomes the sacrificial victim.   And I watch.  Because I am also victim.  None of this, however, is of here.  Here I too am just a slightly queer old man eyeing the boys but not too visibly.  None of them wants me.  I leave them alone.  But not in the words of my philosophy.  I know the difference between philosophy and the world.  Maybe only I really know.

 

Heidegger knew the difference between philosophy and the world.  And priests that try their best to humanize and moderate and mitigate the Eucharist know they really can't.  So we live the noble lie that under all this gentle phenomena there really isn't the wildness of the godhead and that pain is a gleaming holy mystery.

 

 

 

2386  This writing is long.  I have come to see that it is necessarily long.  It is not what I had intended, but philosophy is complicated, very complicated. Thus it is more suited to the long figuring of a monastery than to the snap judgments of the city.   I will always assume that my reader knows at least as much as I, and I am very well acquainted with the world's philosophies.  Moreover, because in these pages I have followed the paths of love I know the most subtle intricacies of thinking against one's own thinking.  So, this is also a puzzle.  A narcissus mirror.  A secret crossing.  And a hope that in the long night ahead you will take up the argument with me.  The cowl will be pushed back.  And always the orgasmic tension and release.  Once inside this monastery you will see that there never was to be a way out of this way out.  The writing will not stop.

 

At every step I have tried to rush in with an argument against what I anticipate to be my reader's arguments against that step.  I have merely assumed that he is correct and I have deconstructed and then dialectically turned back.  Which is no more than the god in here conniving with me to capture every passing beauty.  Still, no one is taken in and these words become, I see now, the foreplay to my deathly union with that god.  The light is bright.  The rigor of the logic amazes me.

 

 

 

2387  I have been surprised by the length of this writing.  I shouldn't have been because the puzzles of philosophy and questioning of the ancient philosophical eros fling the spirit much farther than the brochures so colorfully described.  The intricacies past the extreme were alluring with danger.  The Narcissus labyrinths were under eternal reconstruction.  The Self as its own trick for the night always talked too much.  The masturbation stations of the cross required so much work it work it work it until the mass formed.  There was the ever present precaution of heading someone off at the pass.  And pissing in the head was messy with the ship constantly rocking and rolling.  Such is life; there is no such thing as a short little love affair.  The taste of it will always be in your mouth.  And he will come again.

 

 

 

2388  The length of this book worries me because I am a twentieth, now twenty-first, century American and I can feel that I should set out my ideas fast and brilliant before my reader's mind is drawn away by obligations.  But the length is necessary and the putting aside of other matters by my reader is required.  Philosophy probably never got to be a main player in America because it is too slow, too demanding, too much of the twilight things.  It builds.  The tension tenses itself in an accumulated repose.  The reader reads.  It's a civilized thing.  Until the mass is at hand and then the flesh.  And then the repetition.  In philosophy ideas must have weight.  The book must have length.  The philosopher must have time.  The Glory of Eternity presses down.  One feels an idea while thinking it.  Other concerns have no place in it.

 

The length of this book is also an attempt at the thick piling up of things in the mind of God.  In Being.  In a schoolboy's room.  The world is not sparse and elegant.  A lover's words are not few and finished.  Love songs come tumbling down profusely and one night of love is not enough.  Existence is over-existence. 

 

The length of my book is not grounded in all the relations and interrelatings I have set up, but in the work and weight and worry of accumulating of words.  It is the filled up continuum of the literary area, not the discrete elements in nexus.  The syntax is at times simply too involved.

 

 

 

2389  The twentieth century loved the pure form of inter-dependencies.  It missed the weighty particular thing.  It missed the area.  It never knew the surface the continuum and the slow caress.  It never had occasion to say He moved his hand over me I don't know how long I don't know why I know only myself sinking into myself.

 

I have presented you a writing that is surely full of textual and hyper-textual connectings.  Within itself and without.  But more that all that it is too long.  It is oppressive in its continuing on.  It is numbing in its finding the point too many times.  It is the cheek of thought rasped by incessant kissing.  It has the thickness of flesh.  It has become inert.  It is.

 

In this philosophy of realism even the Forms have that thigh thick bare thing in them.  They sit.  They lean against the mind.  They are the humid ground and the dark gold of property.  The impossibility of reading all the words of this philosophy lies all around.  Even the nexus of the inter-dependent things is pendulous.  I have written that. 

 

 

 

2390  The immortality of the soul.  I think it is rather easy to devise arguments in favor of it.  Each argument convinces as every other philosophical argument convinces.  The soul of the reader is conquered or it isn't.  The reader wants to be conquered, to be vanquished, to be overcome or he doesn't.  Immortality is oppressive but so is love.  Immortality and love will happen to you, my reader, or perhaps not.  You are free to fight against both.  The outcome is entirely uncertain.    That something moves or doesn't move, isn't.

 

Universals are timeless.  Are you a universal form or not?  Perhaps you are a particular.  Particulars exemplify time relations, but are they in time?  Time relations are universals and they too are not in time.  Time is not a thing that other things are in.  Perhaps you are the nexus uniting particular and universal, but the nexus is everywhere and you are not.  So maybe you are the fact that the particular in you has become united with the form in you.  Facts are not things, close to nothings, well suited to that feeling you have about yourself.  And facts, though they contain a form, are formless, which I think you can also see as close to you.  So you are none of those things, those abstract high-flying ontological things.  You are just you, but that doesn't fit in philosophy, theology or this writing.  You are free to go – Go!

 

Immortality, the timeless existence of philosophical things, is other than your everyday existence and if you do become philosophy you will surely be a god, I think all agree, but few believe you can.  Nonetheless, I see that thing settling down from your eyes to your languid form. 

 

What I lovingly see is of little concern, but you will fight me. 

 

 

 

2391  My birth and the explosion of a great blue star in a galaxy many thousands of light years away occurred at a time that was itself at no time.  Just as they in that galaxy will see the now of the light of my birth then, we here will see that now of that great death simultaneously, or not, depending on our acceleration with respect to each other, or whatever.  The time of both is thus confused.  I was born February 6, 1944.  Which is both extremely meaningful or terminately insignificant dependably.  Thus for me to philosophize about the immortality of the soul, ME, is right off the bat a little batty.  Or have I confused physical time with perceptual time with real time with the timeless time of understanding?

 

Mentioning my ideas about time to him – I have told you about him - is dangerous, because others will quickly join in and then I am trapped in a tiresome chaos.  My beautiful ideas never take flight.  And you?  The thought is painful.  And I cannot write about time; still, if I but mention the Timeless that is enough to place me There.  And a wonderful unease alights.

 

 

 

2392  All the Forms exist, all the Combinations of Forms, all the particulars exist, unnumbered until Number comes.  All exist because of the All.  And Each and Some and None.  And the great Swelter of facts lining up.  Existents existents existents, pervaded with Pervasion by the Actual and the Potential, and the Actually Actual and the Impossible in gory galore.  Teeming in the Magnitude of Being. 

 

No thing exists unexemplified.  In the great infinity of Being all facts, every complexity, rests constructed.  Without a constructor, it has always been so.  This is the swelling up of our theology.  Universes and universes and universes, each an illusion and a fantasy to the other.  And gods within an unspeakable God.  Such is the, for us, tiresome logic is our thinking about Being.

 

It is impossible that some form, some combination of forms, should not be exemplified.  And it is impossible that there be no mind contemplating the form and forms within the fact that is the exemplification.  That something should fall out of existence or never have been is unthinkable.  The onto-logic is sound and it resounds.  In the Plenum every plenum is.  Science thus ends never having divided the true from the false.  Giving us no information to pass on.  Leaving us numb.  God has overwhelmed us and we and everything cease to be and only He is left or ever really was.

 

 

 

2393  A true reader never gets beyond what he reads.  The repetition, maybe somewhat mangled, comes again.  The perplexing mixing of styles and times and reasons why, and the same romance once again, and the addle-brained reason why not, leaves no room for any beyond other than the no beyond at all of the false reader.  The world is a mess.  The classics are disjoint.  The time allotted, to the writer, is too little to gather it all together properly.  And the reader, unable to understand the now un-understandable, can only find an escape if he finds what isn't there.  Neither the world nor a true writing of the world is coherent enough to let the reader know when he might have gotten beyond. 

 

Thus, I suppose, I might say that the true writings are each an enchanted castle to wander in forever.  Or a country road that rises and falls going past what seems to be the same cornfield, the same little town, the same farmhouse forever.  There is no end to it.  Just as on the ladder there is no beginning.

 

I have looked and looked and looked at the same beloved form, the same turning, the same moving away and coming at me in the same forever and all the other forevers.  My obsessions are few.  The patterns formed are few.  The combinations seem endless.  I leave my room for a very short time and run back my breath breathing hard in me.  But there is no simple order to it there to be seen, except disorder, which, I suppose, given the nature of truth and the world is no small achievement.  This beloved gyrates and generates.  He will not tolerate any beyond.  He is in me.  He is chief of the pavement.  He took my book as payment. 

 

Exquisite timing makes up for the blatant fact that the supposed fit flits and flies get in in spite of the screendoor.  Iowa castles really do exist in the blowing corn pollen.  I have my room and my window and the road.  Cars and the wind and strewn things.

 

 

 

2394  The particular is a thing separate from the form.  Separate from its form.  Though they belong together with a belonging they are different, though one screams that it would rather not be at all than be without the other they cannot sink into mere identity.  I am other than what I now am.  I pray to every holy thing that I not be taken away from what I am; I love in the most intimate love affair the what of myself.  I worry.

 

The nexus between me and my form is tight.  It is intense.  Attention to it is my obsession.  Such abstractions consume me.  That I am tight with abstractions is what I am.

 

The essential me, the what of me, is that I am in love with the most rarified god of abstract thought.  Not just logic, but the heightened thing of the Logos, a pounding love, a pounding boy, projected, orgasmic, tight within himself.  I am at the end, the final thing, the point of light.  The boy is no more than the inward going tightness of form.  He is the from-out-of-himself.  He is the smooth continuum.  He is the pure form of dark-eyed knowing.  He holds the separate in the hand of one thought. 

 

The nexus makes no sense.  It is an anguished eye pressed against the pillow.

 

 

 

2395  This Platonic prairie of thought is the bleak and the ecstatic.  The regular numbered patches of writing are on the mile square grid of rising and falling thought.  The wind the pollen the dust.  The boredom.  The manic movements along the straight road.  Right angle turns suddenly.  The failure to stop.  In the pressing great pile of air. 

 

So well-formed, so rectangularly male, such a quick need for orgasm.  Projection, the tension floats away on the itch of the wind. 

 

The meat of my flesh is covered by dust.  This incarnation of logic is lovely.  I drive home in the oblivious.  God swelling up and above and greatly, and tight-chested love.  And the taste of cum in my mouth.  And subtle smell roadside violets.

 

 

 

2396  The prairie, the little boring towns on the prairie, the boys becoming experts in boredom.  The relief found alone on their beds.  Among roses in the roadside dust. 

 

To understand the prairie you must know ecstatic boredom.  The regular and the same.  The smooth wind against your smooth skin.  The bright light of distance.  The discrete mathematics of dust. 

 

It quickly gives way and you walk home.  Your feet are not cut by the blades of grass.  Your spirit hangs on to itself in the wind.  Things do not come undone.  The screendoor slams.  The book is open where you left it.  You work up the incarnation.  The prairie is a religious place again and always.

 

Love comes in an instant and is come in its perfect perfection.  The beauty of the faces is not left alone.  It is taken and had.  And the roadside weeds do not hinder but help.  Spirit traps.  A white dusty down has covered everything. 

 

 

 

2397  For me the love of God, of boys, of abstract things are the same thing, but all three are necessary.  The trinity with the incarnation.  God, Logos, Love and a boy.  The incorrigible Boy of the godhead.  The ordering is strange.  The need in me for that is absolute.  Eternity amounts to the same and the same and the same.  And the boy's glance at me is his not being me and difference is that.  I shift and misplace myself and those who would be my friends accuse me of being slippery with my words.  It's a sexual thing.  I stay in my room.  This time is not in time.

 

I learned all this by myself with myself. 

 

 

 

2398  This is a long work but, because it is philosophy and not a novel, I do not develop the central figure, the boy, in the character of a real world individual.  I do not elaborate his psychology.  I do not make him a literary companion for you to dream of.  In all that he is more like the transcendent angelic white-thighed beings of Islamic poetry.  He is a witness, and finally a martyr, to Beauty.  And then, like me, as christianesque, he is the transcendent form of ordinary flesh.  As Jesus was merely christianesque.  The Forms being the fallen image of the world.  The Boy is not a boy, not a boy you know as you know boys, but an abstraction and therefore an intensity of the erotic. 

 

The abstract is the sexual.  The purely abstract is the purely sexual.  Such abstractions are thus frightening things.  Society fidgets and then it turns and says something difficult.

 

This is the fall out of the literary, with only the rhythms and the arrival of the literary, into the thing present.  The country roads led me to this.  There was no one walking with me.  I write myself.  Close to the pathless desert.  Close to the jinn in the corn silk itch.  The wind and the rising sky and the tornadic mind.

 

 

 

2399  Is this philosophy untimely?  No, there never is a time for this in society or in any part of society.  It is instead for the band of transcendent lovers away from society.  Or for that transcendent bond in each of us that is the way to There.

 

It is the decadence of society.  And for all that it is of the warrior face to face with death on the face of the beloved friend.  But today we have no such warriors.  Or there never were such things.  And it is mere literary twistings.  Classical shmassical. 

 

There will be those who like to read this and imagine that they are from the summit of civilization, and they are, but such beings are still decadent and mad and loose and transcendence displayed is laughable, because that's what transcendence has always been.  Majnun and his ilk.  Nothing has changed.  Der Starke is am maechtigsten allein. 

 

Still, the very idea of society is one of those high intellectual things.  High flying.  So literary.  Friend following friend.  There is no society of such friends today.  The word is abused and misused.  We are in an untime, not far from the timeless itself.  There is hope.

 

 

 

2400  Is the Nowhere of the philosophical heaven in Timelessness a utopia in the bad sense?  A utopia is bad only if someone says, "Look here, here it is."  Then it is absurd.  Just as the incarnation is absurd.  To touch not only heaven but God Himself with your hands is quite absurd.  Whether or not the absurd is also a bad thing is questionable.  It is believed by most that it is and to teach it to the young is criminal.  It is better, most believe, to forget all about heaven. 

 

The boy is the presence of the Boy.  My obsession.  The object of my worship.  My idolatry.  My Christianity.  And a band of lovers like me selected and elect and escaped from the world are an antitopian dream because it is completely transcendent.  This Real thing is separate – that is my Platonism.

 

And yet the presence of a philosophy of transcendent realism in this world, around the eyes of a very present boy, in the aggrieved arguments of ontology by light-benighted philosophers, on white surfaces in mangled syntax is a reverse utopia, but still a utopia present.  In the fragrance left on his touching finger.

 

 

 

2401  I took up with the classics up on the mountaintop because there I could escape being the criminal that I was.  I was ugly and gay and I had dared to take the beauty I wanted.  I had no money because I didn't work because I was too embarrassed and I stole the books I had to have.  And I achieved the Form without the work of a scholar.  The beauty of the ancient ideas yielded easily.  And I was violent against their not yielding.  I was high on the presence of the final thing.  The mountain is easy to climb, coming down is impossible.  Zarathustra is a joke.

 

No money has changed hands. Nothing has been bought or sold.  Take what you want from these words.  If you see a shining thing take it.  Call it by its proper name.  This is sex.  Don't be like the tense people of the city who call it technique or release or communication.  It is not stylish, it is garish and hard and unstoppable.  It is itself, nothing else, it is thus an existent and it pushes on you.  It is the heat in you because of the cool breeze in that thing you want.  You know it directly and it knows you.  Do no work.  It will work you.  It has all the gold.  You have nothing to offer.  Take and be taken.  And look for the escape. 

 

That the highest of civilization is the anti-civilized man.  Polite and gentlemanly and violent.  He is wide-awake. 

 

 

 

2402  These pages are like the images of a kaleidoscope.   The few elements I have turn and turn presenting ever-different combinations.  Colorful, gleaming and broken.  The only form here is the turning.  Thus, as with a kaleidoscope, one must not tarry at one image but let the images ever change. 

 

The dialectic here is not going upward or downward, but over and over into itself.  The nexus is, at last, unordered even as it contemplates Order.  And now disorder.  And soon a Scala Paradisi from nowhere to nowhere.  Or again, the angels on this Jacob's ladder bump into each other and fall off and lie on the ground explained watching the strewn stars.  Fall and its hard to make out.  On this rocky ground.  Of all things.  Bang!

   

 

 

2403  The over-return of Nietzsche.  Eternity repeating too many times.  The turning and the turning of the dialectic.  And the turning.  The great length, the unreadably long sideways falling falling falling of a thing into itself.  Again.  The same and the different and the one.  The same and the different and the one.  Even at the point of no return, it returns.  Numbness sets in but it soon leaves and once again the freshness in here.  Again the ever new.

 

The fascinating deathly stillness of a photographic flash into the heaven of Being.   Here photographs are always gruesome.  They are just death.  There the never born, the prior, the place of the return for those who never left.  The thick filled up expanse that goes on to nowhere.  The absence of absence.  Of the else.  The turning stopped and just the instant of the Turning itself.  Soon.  The dialectic is a point.

 

Porno pictures are thus so alluring.  They are the point of the most pointless.  It turns, and nothing.  Again the gleaming, dazzling point.  My writings won't stop but they go nowhere.  I don't dare to once again say, the Nowhere.  Once again.

 

 

 

2404  Scholars should never be asked to make intellectual compromises.  Thus they can never be politicians whose job is to continually make the most inelegant compromises.  Scholars should be forcibly kept out of government.  And on the radio, when they comment on the actions of government, though they make the spirit rise, they only aid and abet the forces of destruction.  But making the spirit rise, the non-human intellect in us, is the right and the job of the scholar.  And the placeless radio, wafting about us, is a spiritual thing, also not of the government.  We have forgotten that this is the earth, not the heaven we want.  Utopian radio scholars are necessary but they cause riots and should be put in churches where they belong.

 

 

 

2405  Calvino said he wanted to remind us that the end of writing is only writing, that it never gets beyond the word and the author sitting alone in his room.  That is like the belief that the mind knows only what is in the mind.  That there is no getting out.  That images are our doom.  Because the word is the substance of the job of writing for the public, nothing.

 

And thinkers become just poorly paid professors.  We are far from the heights. 

 

I, of course, don't believe any of it.  Neither the word nor the mind is trapped in just itself.  The nexus is there and those who understand that see the escape already accomplished.

 

I could say that between the word and the object that is its meaning there is the nexus, but the word "between" is for us imagined as spatial and that image doesn't capture the closeness of the two it is between until a further nexus between mind and object lets us feel the object, now thrown against us by Being itself, enter in and become what we are.  Through the nexus of the word and the mind we are out.

 

 

 

2406  Writing about the ontological form of the world I have found myself with lips on the cheek of an earthly boy.  That the timeless should come to that and finally to be that is absurd.  Still the absurd has had a central place in philosophy and love's madness.  And everything is as it should be.  The nexus of Being is tight.

 

The absurd advances.  It is soon apparent that my knowing Being has become only the sensual kiss.  The very inward act is an outward movement of flesh.  It has become that in the timeless becoming of Act, always in ex-cess.  In knowing I become.  Again, there is nothing new in that philosophy, only that I have insisted on the difference between things and I have fallen in with the nexus. 

 

The set is identical with the elements of the set just as the boy is the gleam in his eye, as he is the curve of his leg, as the tight fastening of his belt is him.  Yet, identity isn't the proper name for that nexus, identity not being tight enough, not conveying over the very being of the one into an intellectual falling.

 

And so is my knowing that element that is the sum and the all of him.  And yet, sum and all is not the proper nexus, and my knowing is a becoming as becoming is a descent into the other than one's self.  Knowing is a being the known.  Perhaps I should speak more and at length with the Thomists.  The Vortex is at hand.

 

What are the proper names for these nexus?

 

 

 

2407  Because of the nexus Philosophy becomes the explanation of philosophy, love becomes a kiss and God becomes a plaster of Paris figurine.  Elementary and effective idolatry.  Studied and affective.  Smooth and inflective.  Anguished poetry.  Constant figuring.

 

The Buddhists insist that once the wheels and yoke are gone the chariot is nowhere.  The road is no more than the dust of the road.  That beautiful face is just skin and bones.  They are sure the disjoint parts, the samskaratic aggregate, the nothing at all is all there ever wasn't.  And I have said that the chariot is truly its parts and that face is smooth skin and the hard bone, and the philosophic road is blowing dust.  But we haven't said the same thing.  The chariot and the face and the road really are there and so is the nexus that unites them so bewilderingly to those ever more frail things falling apart.  We are the same and we are different.  Just like lovers, if they would only love me.

 

Or so it has become obvious to me here next to Buddha Hair Dressers and Krishna motor repair. 

 

 

 

2408  Because I had a long dick and a short fuse I was soon gone.  Jumpy.  Criticism primed.  Rejection timed.  Love me now.  Love me all the way.  I knew the break.  I was the cut.  On the make.  I was a slut. For thought.  Angel thoughts.  You know - the moment of thought's perfection.  I let it sever.  Wherever I could get it.  Then dejection. 

 

Because philosophy is difficult in its long requirements of pre-thought, I knew you couldn't wait, as I could wait, numb, dumb for long stretches, then bham! right now. 

 

If you have other more pressing obligations, perhaps you should leave right now. 

 

Stay.

 

 

 

2409  I am on the way of passion, but it is the gathering of an intensity at a specific point; it is certainly not the oceanic feeling of universal love.  It is the love of a boy, it is desire for form and the definite thing.  It is right here now.  It is not a sigh toward mankind in the wholeness of caring.  It is boys need it bad. 

 

Thus this is the way of repetition and of the awareness of Repetition itself.  The boy doubles, he is the double, he repeats.  He knows he is inside every other boy.  He knows their presence in him as he lies alone at night, crowded in.  Shout!  Sweet love.  Again.

 

The contemplation of the universal descending rising up in particular after particular after particular.  One thing.  The many giving way to that.  Always a commercurial thing.  Intercrural.  There's no cure for love out here in the itch of the marches.  Bon marchè boys. 

 

 

 

2410  Pixie boys, fairy boys, imps and pimple-faced boys.  Boys in boys in the nettles.  Pretty pucker fuckers sucking scrambling home ducking glances gamboling in fine fettle.  Why would God create such a thing as the most heart pounding intensity of all?  Surely he is that and now as old men remembering we long to go back. 

 

These are the dreams of stay-at-home boys doing their homework.  Push that theorem into place and bring the end you want.  Sweet work.  Forceful play.  The world falls into place, into the one thing.  The sparkling point and the recursion recursion recursion.  Until Blast and there is no thing there – the purity of paradox at hand.  All the forms of pure intellect become a swelling, a thigh and an anxious looking around.  The nexus connected.  Up.

 

 

 

2411  Not surprisingly no one approves of the soft life.  Even the worldly life of today, which is supposed to be the very opposite of the hard monastic life, finally does not want the material things is works so hard to acquire.  It wants only the work and the doing without of sacrifice for the sake of a later and greater acquisition.  Only in old age does one sink down into the softness and die.

 

Poverty, celibacy and obedience are also of the capitalist man.  The bleakness of his economic figures, his projection sheets, his investment balance sheet.  The cold interior decorating of his office and home, the empty tastefulness of its composition, its ever-striking cleanliness.  The correctness in the void of his marriage, his blessed need to be absent, the abandoned flesh.  And the unquestioned rightness of all this, asserted and asserted and asserted in the solemn liturgy of personal development seminars.   To not believe is to be forgotten and dead on the streets.  The destitute should have known better.  They didn't correctly and cleanly fold their money.

 

The rigorous life, whether of religion or art or money, is always the same in its differing appearances.  The demand of the rule, the abandonment to a hell if it is not followed.  The corrupt failing of the perfect.  Even God suffers the breaking, and He knows he is the most severely judged, and His Death under the Purity of the Godhead comes.  The rich and luscious delights of His heaven glare.  But the rigor, finally, must not be allowed to become soft.  In the whirling spirit the evanescence and another one comes. 

 

 

 

2412  The philosophy of Mind-body dualism has certainly been attacked.  It just feels so wrong to most.  The absurdity of electrical ooze, even highly structured electrical ooze, producing consciousness doesn't deter the attackers.  Therefore philosophy must find out the reason for that feeling.

 

The connection between thought and brain, if connection be admitted, is tight.  So tight, so thorough, that the thought and the brain are one, even more so than particular and universal.  Or than set and elements.  Or love and love's touch.  (Well, maybe not that last one.)

 

It is wrong, no doubt, to use the word "are" in saying that thought and brain are one.  The nexus is other.  Nor is it identity.  I don't know what it is so I will call it S for soul or spirit or something special.  Maybe a case could be made for that.

 

I insist, however, that thought or mind and brain are two not one.  Just as tree and all the ontological parts of a tree are different, so am I with my thoughts other than my brain.  I insist.  But you are right, if you are of the most, that they are tight enough together to feel like two not one.  Nonetheless, simple oneness is absurd and only a silly person would maintain it.  Or someone who doesn't understand what a nexus is and therefore has none.

 

 

 

2413  The church turns Jesus into a social worker.  And therapist.  He seems to have nothing to say to the capable.  To the young artistic flaming boy.  To the mad lover.  To the intellectual bound by paradox.  Not to the mad intellectual lover entangled in his own non-existence.  But we really do need social workers bad and these others are able to take pleasure in the exquisite beauty of a Jesus as capable as they.

 

Jesus is also for the sane and the strong and the able.  Thus the rigors of the romance of beauty, of love's enchantment, are delightfully inflicted on those able to travel in the wild places.  But the paradox.

 

Jesus did not exist in the glory of divine strength.  His incarnation made him the weak flesh of the human and as insane.  He needed help.  He needed the watching of his disciples.  He was a lover and thus surely within the fall.  The flaming boy flames himself to death for him.  The mad lover intellectual writhes with him.  Art is his inarticulate chaos as well.  But who can live with such tortured thought.  We have heard long that such is faith.  Such is what the capable are capable of.  To lay it out clearly is to lay out the dark clarity of hackneyed romance in stock phrases.  The paradox is also numb.  We go on.

 

 

 

2414  The Big Letter words today are the fashionable Life, Need, Chaos, Matter, Evolution, Force, Energy, Work, Paradox, Conflict, Struggle, Revolution, Movement and Change, the Finite, and the Panopticon.  Man.

 

The Final things of ontological analysts, usually too timid and unostentatious to capitalize, are the Transparency and Luminosity of the ontological formula, the Text and Recursion. 

 

The only Light allowed today in public is the relaxed freedom from anguished thought.  It is the blaze of pure mindful Consciousness in the place of all the former universals.  It is the emptiness where philosophy once was. 

 

Struggle, Life and Movement with Luminosity in pure Consciousness unhindered by thought for the sake of Man is a mangled mixture from which nothing good can come.

 

 

 

2415  Through the giving way of time there is the firmness of duration.  Here is truth and trust.  And the ancient hardness of trees.  Here is the oak and the druid and the dryad.  And the tryst in a safe place. 

 

Duration is directional, pointed and definite.   The beginning and end and its continuity are in it.  Thus it yields to number.  To the timelessly fixed beyond the enduring.  To the firmness of the firm.  To the trig and trim form of Beauty itself.

 

The Firm itself.  The firm thing.  The giving way.  In this world there are so many images of That.  Stand up, fall down, up again.  We are always the half-way people.  I write for your reading pleasure our tree, root, high canopy, blossom, stamen and scattered seed.  And the wind that blows. 

 

We hamadryads betrothed.  And the Obdurate One. 

 

 

 

2416  If I think of a thousand year old road on a golden, smoking mountain beside a sad unicorn contemplating a confused tricorn because of a dying Vishnu in the hands of a sexy Gabriel holding a forgotten rose with a green nose for my friend aptly named Beledor, then I am not just thinking of nothing at all, but I am thinking of precisely that, and therefore it must have existence as one of the many forms that exist.  Am I mistaken?

 

Existence is existence and that is all there is to it, but the many things that exist, including all the forms and forms of forms of things that exist are other than existence in a difference that is rather confusing but undeniable.  Therefore all the so-called unreal things are real, in that they are separate from the mental acts contemplating them, but they are not physically there.  The physical world being a small part of the Everything, which is itself different from everything else, as is the elseness of else.  And so things pile up and some want to go back to a plain old common sense view of things.  For some, however, avec l'esprit subtil et l'esprit geometrique, this maze is amazingly attractive.

 

Meinong's Golden Mountain exists, but it is, for us, the object of the act of imagining.  All the gods and never imagined possibilities in other worlds exist and the infinity of Being whirls the mind.  Take it or leave it.  It is there.  Otherwise there is no ontological accounting for my or your being able to think these things.  And accounting for such things is what ontology is.

 

 

 

2417  All of this has come out of a grand failure to get the boy I wanted.  I never even came close.  The fire came.  Abandonment hurts so bad.  Jealousy is sharper and quicker and it is the Sudden to our ontological depths.  I am surprised that God feels it.  You do believe scripture when you read that God is a Jealous God, don't you?  He knows me.  The written word here speaks.  So I had to begin the analyzing.

 

Being, the out there, cannot be taken.  I become it.  I, at the moment of loss, become the boy completely.  I am him even more that he is.  The too close.  The Too Close.  That is the God of love, the Love that is a pure suffocation. 

 

I encountered that thing independent of mind, of thought, of dreams, of understanding. 

 

 

 

2418  I was an ordinary boy, a good boy - I jacked off a lot.  I dreamed love for the boy next door.  I read science magazines.  I stared at the Bible in Spanish.  I walked the tracks to the quarry cliffs and I fell into the golden white of the gravel roads.  I had no clear idea about anything.  I whirled.  The definiteness of Mathematics was a lovely magic.  I got acne bad.  Testosterone oozing all over my face.  I had no choice but to seek out philosophy.   I found myself in the universal beyond time and space.  Right there in Farley, Iowa.  I was a white-skinned languid angel. 

 

The self of my self was the Self.  If you had asked me I would have known that right off the bat.  The bat battened down.  I once had the distinct feeling that once before I had been a stiff long two by six.  Siddhi. 

 

It was all a dream, but the dream was composed out of the very real.  The Real.  I dream the Dream.  God gave in and I took him.  Now I have no problem saying the most outrageous things.  And they are all True!  I am a sayer.

 

 

 

2419  As a boy I was Zarathustra.  I did not feel resentment.  I was not angry at anyone or any institution.  I did not preach skepticism toward the church or state or school just to be cool.  I believed.  I loved it all.  I laughed, but I did not see the world as comic.  I saw everything up in God.  The world and everything in it was much bigger than it appeared.  And greater.  And more beautiful.  I saw the inside of everything.  I loved the love revealed to me.  Evil hardly existed at all, except as a theoretical concept that meant little to me.  And when the boy would not be mine I dreamed the real dream of the Boy.

 

I thought the unthinkable.  I comprehended the incomprehensible.  I saw the unseen.  I was undone.  I lounged in perfect knowledge.  I blanked out.  I never came to.  These words are that. 

 

Everything is just God appearing the appearance of God.  I insist.  I hold on tight.  I have never found the love I longed for.  I never came close.  The Too-Close closed in.  Syntax has strangled me.  I don't have time.  I have nothing but time.  God is chaos.  The pain is tremendous.  I feel a presentiment of something else.  Beauty is a slap.  God pares off.  The Light and the Love is all-encompassing.  It is suffocating.  My breath has abated.  But it all continues. 

 

Zarathustra knew the battle was not between Good and Evil, but of the Good with itself.   The dark shine around the irresolvable paradox.   

 

 

 

2420  Borges informed us that the presence of paradox in the world let us know that the world was not real.   But I inform you that it is the paradox everywhere present that is the very real of the real.  That logic eventually breaks down in the logic of logic and the things of the world, following logic, never work well but always break and our smooth imaginings are thwarted is the very independence of the world from us.  And the misuse of language in philosophy is the truth and independence of Language from us.  And Philosophy perversely perseveres.  I'm not sorry at all if I didn't say that correctly.   I am the masterful realist. 

 

 

 

2421  The transformation that is philosophy is that I take the cuttings of analysis to be the real things out there.  The world becomes still.  Gods and death to this place and seduction and enchantment and destruction abound and boundaries are crossed.  One cannot do such philosophy, Philosophy, and live.  He is jealous and he takes and his hand on your neck brings a lovely and torpid turbidity, an inability to move.  A slumberousness and a stupidity and a transcendence.  It is everything that is outlawed in this world.  It is the stuff, the lure, the ordinary come on in the literary pagination of our souls.  Society fights the schools so close to teaching these at last liberal arts. 

 

It repeats.  It is the incessant repetition.

 

Perhaps it is anger at the world, or hatred or excessive love or hard desire, whatever, it remakes this place into that place and there's no going back.  There the thing desired is taken and possessed and eaten up completely.  The end is reached.  Time stops.  The boy was never born.  God has him tight.  The boy has learned passivity.  And God becomes the boy.  I write him – down.

 

 

 

2422  An ethic for this philosophy would be this.  The purpose of man is that by his wit he might escape.  Did Thomas Moore already say that?  Our escape must be that subtle flight away from the stuffiness of the material world.  Then at the extreme of the liberating intellect there is the beloved thing and the instant of union.

 

Man is to use his thinking to think that that is away.  The schools are to that end.  Society must not see itself and its own perpetuating as the end, but it must see itself as under and for the sake of That.  Practical education is second to the heights of the theoretical vision.  Thus religion is the highest endeavor.

 

The theoretical vision cannot be separated from the erotically charged.  There is no dualism here.  Nor can the erotic be of the stuff of matter.  In words and discourse, in lyricism and rhythm, that beyond the material is named and felt and brought close.  Words are not mere words.  This is not a nominalism.  A transcending reality is close by.  Thought and the erotic breaking of thought into the unspeakable are of the Thrill.  The god entices.  Man is thrall.  It is soon finished.  He will come again.

 

Through the highly structured to the end.

 

 

 

2423  The method is this.  The anointed boy died and came back to life.  And we eat and drink his otherworldly flesh.  The method is the ancient method.  I have come up with nothing new.  My coming up is the old surge again and again.  The smooth glistening flow.  The death.  The strangeness of that place.  The enchantment that kills and enlivens and in a perfect darkness of unknowing gives transcendence.  It is the old idea.  I have written nothing new.  It is the ancient seduction of boys.  It is my suicide bomb I throw out into the world.  The boys' eyes beam as they strap it on.  Such is the way of this place.  It is strange.  It, at last, cannot be denied.

 

The numbness of knowledge, the slippery thing sliding down his forehead, the moment of becoming the thing thrown.  The world finally taken apart and its non-existence revealed.  The steady vibration.  The itch in the crotch and the longing to fly.  Unspeakable.  Giddy delight.  A death on a great machine.  Being eaten.  A religious thing.  The place of gods and disembodied spirits and then the embodiment.  And the flesh stripped off.  I have written nothing new.  I have accepted it.  I am not the renouncer of the holy cut.  The creepy holy otherness is all there is.

 

 

 

2424  Today's secularists, young and old, will, at least initially, find this philosophy, this philosophical religion, repulsive.  They are, in fact, against religion, as Pessoa said, for the same unknown reason their forefathers were for it.   Still they will tell you that it has something to do with the oppressiveness of the church's God toward women.  And of its priests toward boys.  And of upholding the corrupt status quo.  And that there is no evidence for God's being there anyway.  They are all Don Quixoties defending the weak and the maidenly.  Perhaps they are defending their mothers against their fathers.  Maybe it really is Oedipal.  Maybe they are trying to crawl back into the womb away from the Bright Light.  Or what would be a Bright Light, and not just chemically dilated pupils.

 

So what can I do to prevent this?  I think really nothing.  The repulsion is there and that's that.  I will look for those who feel otherwise.  We are made differently.  I too am repulsed but by that dark material matrix, that womb, they would throw me into.  There is not accounting for it.  I want off this wheel of birth and death.  I look to the eternal.  I look to the finality of jesus.  That boy of God has turned my head.  God without consort.  In the lit up Night of Power. 

 

 

 

2425  A Buddhist monk once told me that in this world one third of the people will love you, one third will hate you and one third will be totally indifferent.  I wonder if one third will love my words.  I doubt it.  I think it won't be anywhere close.  There are too many things to love and hate in them.  There will surely be something here to turn off almost anyone.  And the presence of a loved thing will not be enough to overcome it.  Or so I fear.  A Uranian Christianity in the difficult dialectic of extreme Platonism will thus remain unheard.  Unless I shout.  But I have no rooftop to shout from.  And the Zeitgeist is against me.  I am not the repetition of the ordinary, and thus the monk was wrong. 

 

Nonetheless, I will pretend he was right and that I have a great audience out there.  I write a neat sentence.  I use ordinary words for my unordinary ideas.  I have kept it short.  The historical lineage of these ideas belongs in the ordinary run of scholarship, I have not seen fit to cast away as is so fashionably done in these days after the deluge.  In these days of high intellectual sophistication. 

 

The limits of ontological analysis have been reached and I have felt obliged to keep going.  The question of why there is something instead of nothing assumes, after all, that there is something there.  I have a taste for that erect thing. 

 

 

 

2426  Today's fascination is of the technologically erotic.  It is filled with stuffy techno-talk while partying.  It is dreamy and ultimately pessimistic.  It comes with skepticism and fashion.  That is the material image of thought and religion.  It is too cool to really know the heat of either structured thought or the tortured writhings of desire. 

 

Computer games and talk of quantum physics and a stab at the questions they were first introduced to in philosophy class, give these western Brahmans a feeling of having escaped the lower castes.  But they live in the modern totalitarian state of never being able to question the momentarily averted horror at the end of these thoughts.  And then come the grimace and the nervous pretence of love for it.  Back to the great matrix. 

 

 

 

2427  I write the shock of love's desire.  I write the real and it's maddening independence.  I write the inevitable failure of the lover to cross the divide.  Unless you know this intense thing it will seem to be nothing at all.  Perhaps that very thing is what it is, but anxiety over that nothing at all becomes the all and such derangement is philosophy.  Philosophy is a fascinating maddening absurdity.  It is the Other itself.

 

 

 

2428 These beginning writings are full of the Holy Spirit.  Or so my theology would force me to say.  They constantly speak of a love that is gentle and deadly.  It is an Intelligence that is clear and mad.  It is a shivering over the back of a sacrificial lamb.  They are full of the nausea of an ordinary mysticism.  They are pretty and they are too pretty.  They reek of old musk.  They are a pungent sticky algebra.  The ontology laid out is perfect, as the uranian boy is done clear through.

 

When the air is like ether.  When it is a cold clear cutting.  Head spinning dream wafts.  And the boy tastes like white sweat.  And you are the boy because of the tight nexus of thought.  And your words are a noose.  In the wind.  In the dust beams.  And there is no way to bring order to this perfect order.  Then it is time to disseminate yourself far and wide and hang on.

 

 

 

2429  No quick introduction could adequately lay out the substance of ontological analysis as it has come to us in our short, but seemingly long, history.  And I am perplexed.  I have written here about the limits of such analysis and humanity's attempt, my attempt, to transcend that; so that substance, it seems natural to assume, should be somewhat understood by my reader.  I am stuck.  I will have to rely on that reader's, your, previous readings in this spiritual matter, or, if you are a beginner, on your inborn intuition of such things.  I do believe in such a beginning.  In fact, I suspect that such a beginning is necessary.  It is, after all, a simple thing, a very simple thing. 

 

None of the great things in life can be taught.  They are just known.  They have always been known.  And that is itself.  Perhaps the origin is perplexity and the feeling of being stuck and the sigh of necessity and suspicion.  The Simple has become that and words of spiritual matter are disgorged.  And lie gleaming on the scholar's paper.  In the reader's eye. 

 

 

 

2430  We mistreat each other terribly.  The world of people is full of horror stories slowly recounting the dripping pain.  For me, it is unbearable to have to listen to them.  And my imagination exaggerates the agony.  (I can't think the thought that it's even worse than I imagine.  So I will hide the words in safeguarding parentheses.)  I suppose if I heard my own story told I would feel the same anguish.  I run to mathematics and the breeze over the ontological specula.  It would be better if the world ended.

 

I want to lead the boy into love and the world of lovers, but I fear it will turn out badly.  I pray intensely that it won't.  I pray to a strange God, who, I know, is the author of it all, and I worry it aright. 

 

Because of all that we have a right to cool philosophy.  To the hot philosophy of final achievement.  To possessing the loved thing.  To lick the testicles of Mahayanic emptiness.  To munch away at Manchu Sri.  The beautiful Manchu Sri. 

 

Jesus gives himself and announces it to the world and then takes you out.  You are loved magnificently.  His smooth body glides over yours.  He thinks of no one else.

 

 

 

2431  There is no generative nexus.  We cannot say that a thing is the product of the things that made it.  There is no nexus of producing.  No thing arises out of any set of conditions.  There is no nexus of arising.  If I place together three sticks and voila a triangle appears, neither that triangle nor its triangularity arise from, are produced by, nor are generated from those three sticks and their being together.  But I speak ontologically. 

 

The ontological constituents of a triangle are the bare particular in it, the nexus and the form of Triangle.  That's all.  The sides, whether pure geometrical lines or sticks, are other and they are united to the triangle by a nexus for sure, but that nexus is not generating, producing or arising.

 

One cannot do ontology by explaining what something is by means of stating how it is produced.  Perhaps, for sure, in everyday life it does make sense to do that, but ontology and the common sense of everyday life are at odds, and that odd being at odds, as I'm sure you now see, becomes the Great Battle itself, the Giants versus the Gods.  And thus you also see that I, a friend of the gods, will give no ground to the idea of their arising out of the very ground that the Giants walk on.  The Great Humans did not give rise to the Gods.  Nor do their sticks produce the eternal Form of the Triangle.  If you balk, you balk.

 

If you do wonder what the nexus is between Triangle and the parts of the triangle, then you are doing ontology and I will suggest that we consider the nexus of part-whole.  Surely it is that, but not only that.  That Being abounds in structure and builds and explodes is no more than its erotic nature delighting us.

 

In the stillness of ontology everything is always already there. 

 

 

 

2432  I listen to a modern Tibetan Rimpoche talk about the beautiful soul of a Boddhisatva, about peace and harmony and joy and enlightenment, and the Sanga of meditaters together meditating each other into delightful non-existence.  And I wonder why I am so far, so very far from talking as they do.  I listen to their chants, and, though I know the dry scholarly meaning of the words, the sounds enchant me too, away, and I think it would be so pleasant to be in a mountain top Sanga and then I quickly remember that I can't, I really can't talk the talk they talk and I puzzle myself again as to just why and what my difference is from them.

 

I think of Dostoyevski and of Aldo Busi and the comedy, the pathetic comedy of life, the meanness of man, the horror of self-delusion, the pain.  And, though I do write of pain, it is the intellectual pain of pure paradox in an ethereal ontology and I am not into comedy, but, like the Buddhists I see man as secretly a god, or more than a god.  Still, I do love the dark twisting of the comedians and I can really stick with them longer than I can with the Rimpoche buffoons.  Let me say that I make an exception of Nagarjuna in all I have said here, because it took intense philosophy to prove that nothing exists at all and thus to transcend comedy and sick buffoonery. 

 

Like Socrates I am more into an irony that lifts up the lowly.  And the bastard street urchin jesus, God himself.  And the difficult argument that is perhaps out of my faggot aggressiveness.  I like the violence of taking heaven.  I like the cut of love.  I like the final thing.  The beautiful soul rising and the ugly soul falling never seem to reach that, though they both touch my heart. 

 

 

 

2433  Because of the pain of life, we become scientifically minded.  That objective spirit categorizing and statisticizing and writing in unrhythms kills and the pain is gone for a while.  It is a transcendence, a fake transcendence.  Computers have helped it along greatly.  Going nowhere.  The loved brute that holds and heals and smells of alcohol.    Because if the boy had been allowed to grow up as he is he would have been just a candied dandied embarrassment.  Science can't dance and that is its dark glory.

 

I too must escape the pain.  I take a different route.  Not through an Aristotelian purging.  No sublimation into literary tragedy.  No road into enchantment.  But into the extreme of erotic dreams.  I there touch the boundary of the Real.  The smooth flesh of a transcendent god.  The suffocating smell of outer space.  The obliteration of thought.  Philosophy. 

 

 

 

2434  The hard books of phenomenology and logical analysis contain the soft center of not much to say about philosophy, if anything at all.  A few arguments examined and destroyed.  A handing over of the jewels to science.  Defensive academic posturing.  A little cleverness.  A nod to home and family.  Some remark about the bad stench of the culture.  And a dismissal of some critic's weak misunderstanding.  So disappointing.  Philosophy can't seem to get an erection.  Much less complete a job.

 

It wasn't always so.  God did appear in philosophy previously.  The logic and the propriety of that appearance be damned.  He was there and the philosopher lived through it.  And with it.  And in spite of it.  Now the morality of it is questioned so strongly, so prudishly, He stays away.  Even the gods refuse to come.  Publishers push; we want to push it back.

 

 

 

2435  New music, mostly electronic, so strikingly empty, is, I suppose, in its rarified transcendentality, its elitist mentality, its glorified criminality, of the same ilk as  I so prickingly inept at posing a lovely and sublime pose.  Mere prose.  Difference magnified.  Magically moving along the big-thighed Vishnu.  A well-hung god.  Mostly cerebral.  A mind crawl in the vastness.

 

Did the artist composer have any idea what he was doing, or did it just feel good?  Mathematics after the fact.  The divine algorithms forced there way in, surely.  "I was raped and ripped and robbed," I repeat what he would have answered demurely.  "Being passive to these things ain't easy," I said, knowing I will see mostly giggles and a screwed up faced in response to all this ever so artsy blather.  And rightly so.  The high (and ever so cute) gods look down impassively. 

 

Music schmusic.  The Fourier transforms scratch their way through.  One parasitic host after another.  And the smuches smuch in the aliatory.  That's all. 

 

 

 

2436  Plato said, though few have taken him seriously, surely because Plato himself didn't say it but a minor character in one of his dialogues, that those who love the transcendental Forms will become lovers of boys.  Is such a Platonism gay?  Are being gay and being a Platonist the same?  Sartre thought they were.  I think most people think so.  But it's unacceptable to say so in academia.  What's going on here?  I have written them as the same.

 

The Forms are a kind of heaven that the delicate and the refined soul would enjoy, would swoon before, would die for - so gay.  Neither here nor there, in a never-never land of sighs, the lips of friends touching, one touch, one kiss, one being.  It's a shimmering thrill that is much too much a nothing at all.  The moment of coming together.  Ghostly essence running down onto the bed.  Eternal night.  The hidden God.  Become no more than literature manqué. 

 

Platonism is text.  But surely it is also the Word, the languid God sacrificed and eaten and loved and become so gay.  I write.  I will fly off into the wisps of high clouds.  Into the angels.  Into the boys so strikingly beautiful.  So gay.  So Platonic.  Maybe Plato would have been surprised at what he came to be.  Who knows.  St. Sebastian looks upward. 

 

 

 

2437  We really do live in a time of the death of God and it is we, who, out of exhaustion because of the work of the Infinite, who, wanting to spare others the work, who have, still unable to look and see what we have done and unable to claim it, it is we who have killed him.  The Infinite is pointless in a world so much in need of our attention.  In a world of families trying so hard to survive.  In the world of birth and death and its sweet pains.  The majesty of the Infinite was incompatible with the newfound joy of motherhood and loving fatherhood.  Why had that been overlooked for so long?

 

I write the old philosophy so much a part of high church.  I write of that which was so oppressive to the people.  I write the difficult and tortured soul and the tortuous path up and out.  I write that that the elite so loved.  I, along with divine majesty and the intricate counter-pointed symphony of theo-philosophy, am become a sideshow.  A freakish throwback.  A case.  An already encased museum piece.  High church, Arcadian fields, angelic emanations, night beauties are now gay camp.  But I still believe.  The dead god strangely lives.  I am center stage in the old majesties.  But unseen.

 

This is all a part of the new Queerdom.  Gay high romance has not reached normal acceptance.  It never will.  And the Heights cannot be taken from it.  So, until the Majesty returns the night will be nothing but darkness around it.  The Precise Style will not be able to compete with low fashion.  Thought will not tighten up.  And the finocchio will be redolent.

 

 

 

2438  So has Hermes given the power of hermeneutics to all those queers secretly watching us?  Maybe watching you?  Does he sometimes know?  Is he beyond appearances in the unspeakable truth?  Is the momentary glance obvious to him?  Is he become such a master at the double meaning that this elegant part of our world never eludes him?  For sure, it makes no difference whether he is or not, this priest of transubstantiation is a necessarily frightening part of what we are.  We are become different in his eyes.  We are spirits in the wind. 

 

We become text.  Woven into a tapestry.  Etherealized in literary meanings.  Art.  The queerly hermetic dematerializer of the world strikes in gatherings of wispy little letters. Platonic nothings.  The waste of desire.  It's written all over your face.

 

 

 

2439  Ontological things are not in space and time, therefore ….  .   Should we say they are eternal?  Should we deny them existence and say, rather, that they have being or they are in Being?  And thereby try to avoid the ridicule of the hard-nosed about life.  Surely Being, aside from existence, is a harmless philosophical creation.  We should say they are eternal and that they exist.  Such is truth.  Likewise, any ontological analysis of the knowing that we are will reveal equally eternal things, the self of our self.  To shy away is unseemly.  It is beautiful and poetic to cry over death; it is the difficulty of the soul to accept the ontological fact of our eternal existence.  Or ontological things are not.

 

Time presents a contradiction to analysis.  If a particular is far and then it is not far that is a contradiction, unless there are time's moments that the particular sequentially occupies.  There are no such time things.  There are only time relations.  First the particular is far then later it is not far.  If the particular does not have momentary parts, it is later than itself.  Particulars don't have momentary parts.  They don't have parts.  Or do they?  Are there multi-partite particulars?  Even if there are, the parts are still not at moments.  Contradiction is close.  Is there hope for a solution here?  The problems of the One and the many loom.  I sense the usual ontological break down up ahead.  I can handle that. 

 

Let's assume the timelessness of ontological things.  Let's make time a transcendental thing clouded in mystery.  Can we keep time, Time, away from these other things?  Is Time deeper, much more profound, farther into the Godhead?  Lovely speculations.  My head spins.  Clear-sighted analysis cannot be maintained.  Eternity is at hand.

 

 

 

2440  Desire as discourse, as literature, as silent whisperings to oneself is not different from Desire as the presence of an eternal form informing the moment.  The great social constructs communicating with each other and the alone with the Alone.  All the words with the Word.  Logic systems and the Logos.  The vast complexity and the Simple.  Mystically it all fits together.  Maddening unspeakable.  If there is to be a reduction of the one to the other let the many fall before the One.  Let differences be Difference.  Let the traces of love be the final trembling Trace of Love.  Let despair become Presence.  As it has here in this writing.  Discourse reaches its end soon.  The meaning is grasped.  We read and we see.

 

 

 

2441  Victorian sexual repression is still with us, but it has increased.  The nineteenth century worried the excesses of desire, the destructive forces of love's madness that both pulled apart the mind and crushed it.  It is the worry of Phaedrus and Socrates also.  And of all those through the centuries that preached moderation.  Today the excess is clinical concern.  The Victorians did not repress sex but the inevitable infinity of its force.  The nineteenth century seems to have known passion excessively well and it knew something it feared.  We too know but we have banished it altogether from the textbooks of true knowledge.  It is now mere fenced-off wilderness.  It is insanity.  It is from the discarded religions.  It isn't even worthy of literary treatment.  But I have somewhat rewritten it.

 

 

 

2442  All facts obtain somewhere within Being.  Somewhere every possible fact is an actual fact.  Of course I use the word "somewhere" philosophically and mystically and as a dream.  I fence it off.  The Yard of God is vast, the Vastu, Vishnu, the Great Reality. 

 

Thus I know the truth that, I know the actuality of the fact that I am a rich man, the Sultan, the lover of the slave boy _______.  The fact that I know that is true somewhere.  Not here.  But somewhere.  Maybe in the Somewhere of God.  But I dream.  It is not true here.  I and I and I and I are all just I, but I am not that.  My parts part company.  But God sees what I don't.  Somewhere, though, I do see.  I spin.  Logic spins.  Onto-logic grins and grimaces and nuzzles my mind.

 

The dialectic of actuality and possibility threatens and fascinates.   Knowing the actuality of the meta-fact that this fact is actual leads on to a knowing of knowing of knowing that that may be vicious, but I am not sure.  And the dialectic of uncertainty and error, or possible error, leaves me undone.  I enter the vague Somewhere and I vaguely know it, and in that I know it perfectly.  You see, I write it all with easy grace and without falling away, but there is nowhere to stop.  It goes on to here or there, but … and I reverse directions.  Again and again.  Again.

 

 

 

2443  It isn't that I have made Jesus the metonym of the world.  This one human part is not a substitute for the whole.  Just as this triangle can stand for all triangles, it cannot be, it is not a substitute for triangularity.  Just as no existing thing is a metonym for existence. Just as from the great collection of all things, each having logical form as its very being, we cannot choose one as the metonym for the form of logic. 

 

 

 

2444  The only thing we can say about the Logos for sure is that it is intellectually wild.  And then to say that that thing has become the flesh in that one right there is wilder still.  Such is the not to be mentioned in polite company side of Christianity.  To believe it calmly and civilly is impossible.  One cannot believe what one cannot grasp.  And then to watch that thing be killed and then to eat it and drink it in is to ratchet up the wildness even farther.  Theology collapses soon.  But the lure of understanding that thing is already stuck in.  This Boy is in you.  It makes no sense. 

 

Consider logistic.  X is F.  His lip quivered.  There is an x, such that x is lip and x is quivering.  That it was his lip and that it is of time past is not mentioned in that formulation, but for good reason.  That good reason is that the formula tries to capture the logical form of the quivering lip.  It aims for the universal and the timeless things in this, what is now, a schematic.  Thus it seems that logistic is saying that this particular (x) is the exemplification of the universal and timeless form of Quivering itself and of Lip.   It seems to say that x is lipness and x is Quiverness and both written x's name the one particular.  That is far from His lip quivered.  Nonetheless, the formulaic statement means something, it has a meaning, it points to something that is different from what the ordinary first statement points to; though, with a strong though, the logistic analysis and the ordinary quivering lip are one.  The nature of that oneness is not clear. 

 

 

Thus, though Jesus and everyone else is somehow the incarnation of the logos, with Jesus we are to see that He is the Form of the Logos itself, just as my friend is the incarnation of the eternal Form of Lip and Quiver.  The difference in seeing is clearly seen.  Wild thing.

 

 

 

2445  It seems to me that you should not read this book looking for a great progression of the whole.  As far as I know there is none.  I wrote it myopically.  That is to say I concentrated on the sentence and then sentence after sentence until the paragraph tied itself off and stood there a separate unit.  That unit was the only whole that I saw or felt.  Even the page, which is somewhat of a unit, is only a collection of paragraphs that for the moment is the shadow of being one thing.  Thus forget the overall idea and pay attention only to the sentence you are reading.  The next will follow quickly and properly and soon the end will come.  That end will be complete philosophy.  There is no more to it than that.  As Wittgenstein said, Everything that can be said in philosophy can be said in two or three words.  Thus the intensity.  And the presence. 

 

These paragraphs are a mystery to me.  I don't know why they end.  But then I don't know why orgasm ends the way it does.  Something other is there.  Not an ordinary thing. 

 

Thus a sort of incarnation has occurred here.  The meaning of this philosophy, Philosophy Himself, has not only been indicated by signs and traces within the constructions of a rather lengthy and abstract human dissertation; but it, He, has become flesh in the flow of the rhythmical inversions of syntax through the reader's body as he reads.  But I speak the Unspeakable.  Scandal and myth and anathema to serious study.  I am not taken seriously.  I am a case.  Whatever is the case.  The Forms constitute.  The diffuse and feminine Whole has given way to the pointed presence of the upright right here.   I came to the point.

 

 

The goal of these writing is a vision, a seeing, an intuition.  The beginning of each attempt is the prospect, the anticipation, the knowing that that desired thing is close.  I have been at the goal, held in love's gaol, many times, in the One More Time that lures and enthralls.  This philosophy is not just provisional, but the Vision itself.  It is not the inevitable  limpish foreplay of science; it is the Peak.  The Ever Again.  Thus it is a theology and its beatific excess.

 

It is strewn.  There is no order here.  It is chaos.  It is the night sky.  It is the throw of a dice.  It is the chance meeting.  And the sudden loss.  Pathways are lost.  The discrete discretely and demurely is never there, only the escape under the wall that was never taken, or maybe it was, or both.  Logic breaks, the ontological forms break out of the bonds of fact and the Great Pile of Things that is Being lights up from nowhere.  The Nowhere glares. And whoever wanted order anyway when you could have this?!  And you let yourself come undone. 

 

 

 

2446  I have had no luck at all in disseminating these ideas onto another, much less in inseminating them into another.  But enough of the deconstructionist erotic metaphors.  And it wasn't a matter of luck anyway.  Jesus, the willful, so prone to jealousy, boy jesus always stepped in between and grabbed me away.    Those who have loved such a one will understand.  I speak now without metaphor.  Except that this writing is only metaphorically a speaking.  And even that has been a terrible screw-up come from the Logos he so centripetally is. 

 

A writer must try to publish.  And he must try to avoid those who would kill him and hang him up with his crucified lord, though that is where he must willingly go.  I am against myself.  But maybe only literarily.

 

It may very well be true that religion and desire are only a matter of discourse, but discourse is of his word and there's no getting around that.  The boy will not be had.  Running off with another was, in the end, only him from the back.  He is his own foil.  The Word inseminates itself.  We are the mark left on the bed sheets of the sky.  That has always been silently published.  That is the luck.

 

 

 

2447  I have a bad habit of stiffening up before my critics, making some pert, dismissive remark and leaving with the glories of persecution all over me.  I have, of course, been faithless to the deity of my philosophical religion in all that.  I loved the pleasures of defeat and self-pity.  I was marvelously, invisibly poetic.  It came to nothing.  Let me tell you why you should love this work and the gentle god will be with us both.

 

First let me relieve you of what is, I suspect, a similar reaction you have to the old philosophies and the old religions.  If you are modern or postmodern you believe none of it.  You find those things to be historical curios, pleasurable as art, but dangerous to the great welfare of humanity if held believingly.  Anyway, you probably think science has contradicted it all and science has led us all into a wonderful, delirious night of no way out.  The hopeful dreams of old are no longer dreamed, you may insist.  We will "go gentle into that good night", the laboriously gained absence of all final hope, gently smiling.  Or so you may believe.

 

Rather, let us leave this sick pleasure.  The Lover may arrive after all.  The ordering Order may actually exist.  Maybe we really can see the really real and existence will be all through us.  Maybe it already is so and we have to overcome our shyness and excessive humility and believe it in order to see it.  We have to lose the fear that some great authority will strike us down.  We have to see that ironically we are gods and not comically we are buffoons.  Or are you afraid of what your Mother and Father would say at such insolence? 

 

In this work I place the mind of man up in the piercingly direct knowledge of angels and his beauty within that of the Unspeakable itself.  He suffers the swoon of love before the Final thing and he unravels into the very heart of the transcendent Dialectic.  The high intellectual things of our history, our transubstantiated flesh, the eternal Erastes and Eromenos that crawl along our lithe bodies, the Most Abstract, are here real and believed and nothing has been lost.  Credo ut intelligam. 

 

 

 

2448  Satirically speaking I am the old man glaring at the boy.  Goatish, horny, libidinous.  Tapas.  Buddha beyond nirvana.  Topped out.  Thought and its object are one.  I am the smooth smooth smooth boy.  My words flow.  Down his stomach.  Onto the floor.  I roll and roll and roll.  The inside is the outside is the inside.  By the fire.  In the garden.  Burst!  His flower blazes.  My whiskers rise up.  The Sanga scrutinize my every move. 

 

Buddha tried to swat that nasty Socratic gadfly.  But inside, Socrates was the smooth shouldered monkette chanting chanting the most beautifully sown.  Sutras mutating.  Mutely salacious.  In the revelry of a pure nihilism.  This fragrance of empty space is more than I can take.  Swarthy stares.  Nesti nesti.  The stars.

 

 

 

2449  Socratic philosophy is satirical.  Of course it is; Socr