6000  It is true that Whitman felt neither sympathy nor empathy for those he names in his poetry, rather he merged with them and he was one with the cosmic manhood in each.  I think that is the true poetic act.  He was able to become the very being of the other because the being in that one was the same as in him; it is that glorified Form beyond place and time.


I have form, the stairway outside my window has form, the bicycle abandoned in the grass has form and the boy running away.  I and he and those things are one in existing as form; in rising up into the Form of Form.  I am not writing here of a great structure with its fading parts, but rather these individual things merging into one Form of Form.  That is our one existence.  Tat aham asmi.  That is where the ever-interrelating, compassionate eco-structuralists have it wrong.  They know of, but they don’t become.




6001  Andre Gide and Walt Whitman both walked among the men and boys of the countryside and felt themselves merge with them, one being.  They were not merely next to them, wanting to care for them, but they could then feel that they were them.  That is a philosophy of the Forms as opposed to a philosophy of structure.


If a is F and b is F, then the being of a and b is one thing, namely F.  If a and b are two individuals, but there are no universals, then the only connection between them is external and structural.


Let’s suppose, on the one hand, that the Forms, the universals, exist and that each individual is a bare a or b tied to a Form.  And on the other hand, that there are no Forms, only social structures, where a and b relate.  How should we characterize those differences in a worldview?  I suggest the monastery vs. the world of business.


Platonism, a belief in the Forms, has been the philosophy of those in a separate order, an ecclesium, a secret body.  The individuals abandon their divided existences and become one being, one Form, hovering over the slain body of their god.  It is a high transcendent place.  It is otherworldly.  The discipline is hard and rigorous.  Only perfection blows through the surrounding walls.  And the hatred coming from the people outside.  Business has stopped and the One Thing sways.


Outside in the business world of ordinary man, individuals form societies and communities and schools, where concern is for the preservation of the health and vigor of the group and the well-tending of their material home.  So much work must be done.  So much watching to keep the machine of life intact.  Heavy husbandry.  Constant nurturing of the young.  Gentle passion.  The people hate those up on the hill moving slowing in prayer to their god.


But how can all that apply to Whitman and Gide?  Both stayed in their rooms and became far travelers in the spirit.  They watched man as he lay in quiet stillness on the hip of God.  They were not actors here.




6002  Whitman describes no one in detail; he just makes numbing enumerations of types.  He names rivers and cities and states, and then moves on.  Hardly enough to think about.  Thinking is stopped.  Just the thing bare.  No relations.  The listing wind of poetry swells and the heart swells up big with spirit mass.  His poetry has found only grudging acceptance from non-poets and our anxious poets have written up evasions.  Something is awry.  The nation is riled.  I rifle through his flooding words.  I recognize myself; I see nothing of my self.  This would-be messiah winks at the real me.  I stare back.




6003  There is a type of idealism out and about that sometimes goes by the name of panpsychism or panenpsychism.  Its main concern, in this hard, uncaring world, is to inject joyful, conscious life back into the mechanistic push and pull of materialistic science.  Which is to say it wants to put life-words back into scientific theory.  Such words as soul and spirit along with formal and telic cause.  I suppose I could sort of line up those words with the words of my own philosophy; I do after all use the words Form and Spirit.


I have bare particulars, which in a slight way resemble the particulars of that theory.  And I have Form, which is the formal cause or soul of that theory.  And I have the nexus of exemplification, which is the reaching, the tug and tie of that reaching, telic Spirit.  So far so good, but all that is quite obviously and quite happily a Idealism, which is to say, matter depends on mind.  If I were a feminist, I would object, not only because of the (feminine) dependence, but also because maternal matter or the dependent bare particular hardly exists at all in that philosophy; it becomes finally just a lower grade of spirit/soul.  But that last is neither here nor there for now.


Idealism first changes everything to mind then finally drops into pure materialism.  Because matter in that philosophy, pure unformed stuff, doesn’t exist, all becomes soul and spirit.  But something is naggingly missing.  There is always a present absence, a needing pull, a something/nothing, some deep substance for that soul and spirit to do their work on.  The “stuff” to which form is added and a world is produced has non-existence as its existence.  It is feminine writhing.  Soul and spirit are afraid but work to give it order and take away its pain.  Psyche, which is feminine in Greek mythology, has with their help become the gentle feminine stripped of the grotesque female lower nature, in other words it has become the Greek beautiful boy.  Such a transformation has occurred many many times in poetry, our religion of the androgyne.  But then the boy goddess succumbs and death takes everything back.  Materialism, the pounding machine of the womb, wins out.  Neither here nor there now.




6004  I am a naïve realist.  I see the world without mediation; the world is as I see it.  Most philosophers and even would-be philosophers think that I am being totally naïve.  They insist that such a belief will not hold up against even the most sophomoric challenge.  For example, how could I believe that the world is as I see it when a mere change in perspective gives a completely different view of what the object is?  Let me explain – do you have a moment?


I look at a table.  It is brown and round and sound.  I shift and it is oval and black and bound to fall down any second.  Can both statements be true?  Two very different views of one and the same table.  The table is what it is.  It is not self-contradictory.  Therefore, both statements cannot be true and I did not, at least in one of those lookings, see the world as it is.  How can I get around that apparent difficulty?  Like this.


When I looked the first time it was brown etc. not pink and rhomboidal.  The second time it was black, etc. not yellow and smashed.  Each statement was true to my seeing at the moment of seeing.  I also saw that the tables in the two views were one table.  How do we account for two things being one thing, if what I see is “out there” and not just a mediating image in my mind?  There is no one thing out there that is seen under two aspects.  There are two things out there and they are connected by the connector of identity.  Identity is a thing that makes two be one.


Therefore, let me correct what I said earlier when I said that the world is as I see it.  There is no world.  There is no one world that we are looking at.  There are only the many things and the connectors of identity and difference.  There is no one table, only the particulars I see and the thing identity that make them one.  But whoa!, I suspect you don’t like that idea.


If you don’t like the whole idea of substituting connectors for a world and you want to retain the idea of one underlying substance, you could either abandon the principle of non-contradiction, but oh my! you’ve entered the whirlwind.  Or you could make it unknowable by means of our ever-changing merely conceptual views of it.  Which do you want, the whirlwind or a black hole?


Next time the challenge of hallucinations.




6005  Are all the relations that an object has to other objects internal or external to that object?  The former view is rather popular today (I, of course, hold the latter) and it seems to me to be at the heart of Whitehead’s notions of prehension and concrescence.  It is also Leibniz.  There are many ways to characterize that view and not one of them completely captures it – I suppose because any meaning finally fully dredged up would have to name, and no doubt contain, all possible relations it has to other meanings, which is a bit much for man.


I’m going to skip the question of whether or not relationism allows for novelty and creativity, and instead try to get rid of the stifling, suffocatingly close entanglement within fluxing tendrils that it always lovingly plops, drops, slops us down within.  Let’s face it; a relationist object is disgustingly obese.


On the other hand mine are so slender as to be anorexic.  An object is a bare particular.  A fine, almost nothing, just that.  A fact is that particular tied (tugged at?) by a Form.  Sometimes that Form is a relation, in which case the fact names two particulars both jointly tied to the Form.  Particulars exist, Forms exist, the tugging tie exists, and facts.  All of those many ontological things are different, even ontologically separate.  There is no “containing”.  The tricky part is the “relation” between a complex fact and the simple things “within” it.  Have I reinserted that obesity into fact?


No.  Fact and its constituents are other.  And that right there is right on the edge of the thinkable.  It is similar to the difference between a class and its elements.  Or a fact and the thought of a fact.  Is there really some sort of relation or connection between those complexes and the simples “in” or “of” them?  Is it that “in”?  Or “of”?  Or simply nothing-at-all?  You name/ unname it!  How to think on the edge?  All philosophies finally blow up.  Into the sweetness of love’s contemplative oblivion.




6006  What is Christianity?  I will begin with Kierkegaard’s Absolute Paradox and I John 1:1. That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked upon, and our hands have handled, … .


That thing from the beginning became the flesh of Jesus and it was directly known.  All of which is absurd, just as Kierkegaard said.  To believe that is to be a Christian.  Can anyone really do and be that?  Søren says only a lover is able to pull it off.  In the erotic act.  Thus I write scandal.  A stumbling block, a jump, the ballet dancer’s leap of faith.


I have written up the scandal, and I have also written down my falling after him.




6007  Stanley Fish in How to Write a Sentence, here, says that to be a writer you must first love the sentence.  I’m sure that includes being a writer of philosophy.  Is it true?  I think so.  It’s a refined, probably acquired, taste.  It is, contrary to Derridese, the caress of the Logos.  Timing is not only important, it is everything.  The flow and the sudden and the (w)rapping up.  Who knows where He will lead?  Well, no one.  He will lead you to his room.  Your hair will rise up.  Your tongue will bristle.  Your hand, you smooth fair hand, will itch.  It’s a trap.


Stanley Fish may not see it that way.  He’s probably a nice guy, so I’ll leave off punning on his name.  He’s already done it.  The bane of names comes from Cain and maybe even the rain in Spain.  I am a Vulcan.  Garroted, descended from Viking carrot-tops.  A cropped dick.  Fire and dire delights.


A sentence is a sentient thing, sensual and tendentious.  The whole point of which is to create a corral from which the boy cannot escape.  The eternal imp.  I’m a pimp for my readers.  Buy my book and He’s yours for a night of unthought.  Bought, taut, untaught little trout.  The standing lea.  Horripilation in the station.  That’s how to right a tense sin.  A squire’s teste.  Pucker face.   




6008  In philosophy there are what we might call the principle of acquaintance and the principle of presentation.  They are two names for our first encounter with existence.  From there we set out to construct an ontology, a list of fundamental things or types of things that have existence.


Philosophy is an encounter; we see a presence and recognize it.  From nothing there it is and we know it.  It’s a very simple act and it is therefore constantly questionable by the naturally skeptical.


What is presented, the thing with which we are immediately acquainted, is there fully and in propria persona.  Thus, there is no question of our seeing it “from a certain perspective”, that is to say, partially and as though at a limiting moment in time.  There is the classical definition of Pure Act, that in which there are no unactualized possibilities.  Therefore, it is a place where change and motion toward is stopped.  In the ontological act we are presented with and we recognize existence, i.e. Being, not something in the process of becoming, the not-yet-an-existent.


In the modern world, where we value perspective, the temporal, that with depth, such ontological things are absent.  Today only process and becoming and the not fully known are real.  Which is to say that modern man knows only absence and the unreal as the real.  We are living that contradiction.  Ontology has become an outdated joke.  Such is modernism.  I suppose I am not travelling the via moderna.  Wherever I am going, whatever it is I am, I have encountered That.




6009  I am a great fan of Moorish poetry.  It oscillates.  The topos shifts.  Is it about a sensuous boy or is it about God?  Is it here or is it there?  It seems to be about real life; then again it is pure artistic decoration.  No perspective holds, things turn inside out, foreground instantly becomes background.  The head spins in holiness and sin.  The intoxication reels, but is it the wine or the spirit?  Vertigo.


The Renaissance made it all stand still.  We then knew the proper ordering.  Time’s arrow advanced in one direction.  Perspective was fixed.  No more oscillation.  Until Escher and Derrida, the former got his ideas from the Alhambra and the latter from what he saw in Algeria.  And like their constant shifting back and forth, my writing dialectically turns over and God reveals himself as an ordinary boy playing with his own fantasies.  Then again it is only the play of syntax as I simply type to atonal music.




6010  An ontologist will “assay” an ordinary object, as Bergmann mineralogically puts it.  He separates out the basic elements.  And he compiles a list.  He then hands us that list along with the steps he used to arrive at it and the reasons why a different assay is wrong.  It’s all very precise just as it should be.


That precise analytical list, however, isn’t quite true to the original worldly object.  A list is not an object.  A well-ordered list in not an object.  Nonetheless, such a list is precisely the valuable document we need and it is that on which all further transactions are based.  Another name for that list is schema.  Ontology is schematic.


All of that sounds rather like engineering and not mystical, erotic theology.  But not quite.  In all those fanciful constructions imitating paradise here on earth, the mind is led, not by pictorial representations, but by oscillating displays of geometrical patters on the dissolving walls of the pleasure dome.  Paradise is always an abstract schematic.  The mind whirls in objectless, gossamer Schwarmerei.  Jeweled streets on which nothing but dimly seen, beckoning angelic light shifts and scoots into doorways of icy crystal.  Whatever it is, it’s always right near the limit of what your heart can bear.  Your golden heart.




6011  The Ptolemaic system of astronomy consists of wheels within wheels, a great building of many varied rooms smoothly rotating, ever returning to the beginning.  And that makes it much better for love poetry than the rationalistic Newtonian and even less romantic Einsteinian clock.  Time and romance are enemies.


If truth is beauty and beauty truth, then the contraption we have now is false.  The mathematics goes on and on and no one can understand where or why.  A true geometry moves out, rises and descends, and returns.  From out of the ordinary into ecstasy, into the oblivion of unknowing and back.   The Ptolemaic System is no system at all but a pleasure machine that enchants and quickly falls apart, just as does love and its one-many impossibilities.  A twisting lover’s mind.


It was that band of catamite grammarians in the Vatican, the followers of Virgil, who were so against Galileo.  I bow to their audacity,.




6012  I am a naïve realist, or so I like to call myself just to upset that great gang of academic professionals who oppress us.  Nonetheless, I suppose I am that after a fashion.  It works like this.  Empirically speaking (everyone considers himself an empiricist), I look and I see the sun coming up in the morning and young men turning their heads to face it.  Would a naïve realist have to consider exactly that to be truth independent of all human or animal seeing?  Only if you take it literally.  But you probably don’t know what taking something literally means.


As I see things, with my empirical eye, what we have there is the sun, which breaks down into its ontological pieces of universals and bare particulars and all the rest.  And the morning, which is a little more complicated, but it too breaks down. And the movement of coming up, which again divides into ultimate pieces.  All those pieces exist.  Then there is the fact of the sun coming up in the morning – that too exists as a state of affairs.  So many things.  It’s a regular circus.  Then hops up the fact that the earth goes around the sun.  Analysis starts up again with a different set of universals and bare particulars, all of which I see with my empirical eye.  Then magically there is thrust before my seeing eyes the illusoriness of some of those facts, and once again I see that.  More and more acts and props are added to the circus.  All of which brings me to my point, which is that the great show of things I empirically see is vast indeed.  That is my naïve realism.  It’s no doubt very different from the bleak desert with unseen wave functions blowing across it that the academics have and “see” as the really real.  They are not empiricists at all.




6013  It seems to me that all of the Object-Oriented Ontologists are lovingly, even reverently looking at the inner god-self of the awe-infilling, even fearful objects of no more than this everyday world.  It is Emerson and Whitman close at hand.  An immanent transcendentalism.  They are praising, not only the many selves of this human democracy, but every mind-fiery self of all the non-human, so-called inanimate, objects that make up our teeming world.  It the Democratic Self extended far and deep.  It all evens out.


They remain philosophers of the Self.  And as such all relatings are in the realm of meaning, the great community, soul weight.  We do not find here the merely mechanical and logical.  Form is one with manifold life and the varying lights of consciousness.  A pious bow is called for.


I, of course, have none of that.  Which is rather strange because I too have aligned myself with Whitman.  Where does the difference lie?  I think it has something to do with my having before me the bare particular and also the bare universal, indeed everything I have in my philosophy is bare.  Everything is a simple, almost plain, thing without a rich interior, no deep relationships to be had with all other things.   Whitman has no plain, simple things in his joy.  So how am I like him?  For one I am also joyfully gay erotic, but that is not it.  For another, I write in a similar Biblical style.  A prosaic free verse.  But that is not it either.


There are two Whitmans.  Superficially, he is the singer of Democratic Man, the nation’s bard, glorifier of life.  But he is also an incubus prowling the sleeping forms, the daimon of types, a solitary “at midnight in my back yard, my thoughts gone from me a long while, walking the old hills of Judea with the beautiful gentle god by my side”. He is the one keeping tally of his acts of autoeroticism.  Detritus, “capricious, brought hither we know not whence, spread out before you, you up there walking or sitting, whoever you are, we too lie in drifts at your feet.”  The Real Me who “stands with peals of distant ironical laughter at every word I have written”. 


There are, of course, many other places where Whitman is not the brother/friend of man, but the lover who is too close, too deadly, too willing to speak.  Oppressed with himself he dared to open his mouth.  He passes and then “I gather for myself and for this phantom looking down where we lead, and following me and mine.  Me and mine, loose windrows, little corpses, Froth, snowy white, and bubbles, (See, from my dead lips the ooze exuding at last, See, the prismatic colors glistening and rolling,) Tufts of straw, sands, fragments, Buoy'd hither from many moods, one contradicting another, From the storm, the long calm, the darkness, the swell, Musing, pondering, a breath, a briny tear, a dab of liquid or soil, Up just as much out of fathomless workings fermented and thrown, A limp blossom or two, torn, just as much over waves floating, drifted at random, …”


I feel most like Whitman in those places where he is not the creator of worlds, but when, with the phantom close by, he destroys worlds for the sake of the solitary tryst with him.  Bare.  That.




6014  “As I walked with that Electric Self seeking types”, that is Whitman speaking about himself and his other cruising the shore.  One cannot take the Platonism out of those words, nor the beckoning genius.  But any mere mention of Platonism and the daimon today leaves the mind mangled.  So I will speak of oscillation.


Was Whitman a Platonist?  Was he consorting with an otherworldly genius?  Did he sing divine madness?  θεου  μηνιν;  That is half the oscillation.  Are his poems as boring as his lists seem to be?  Is he only superficially deep, an urban cowboy?  Was he an ordinary jack-off artist who couldn’t control his metrical graphoi?  That is the other half.  Undoubtedly, both are to be affirmed.  It’s the insipid gloss of high art.  Inevitably we swing in the traversing wind.  Our Electric God moves toward the electric lights of Coney Island?  Finally there is no difference.  We are alive in the rotating godhead.  Vedic high sheen plastic.  All is ironically kitsch.  Only the scum of humanity will rise to the top of heaven.  Salvation in saliva and semen.  For all to see, we’re detritus in the ditch along the cosmic beach.  Or, at second glance, I suppose we are maybe gods.  The wit of Whitman.




6015  In Matthew, Jesus, fed up with the constant questioning of the Pharisees and Sadducees, asks his disciples who they think he is and they also begin to speculate referring to what others have been saying, and Jesus brushes that aside as well.  Then he turns to Peter who simply says that he is the Messiah, Son of God.  Jesus liked the solid finality of his answer.  That is faith, an end to the generation of the never enough, speedily going here and there looking for only a further going on and on into more and more pointless commenting in a lively (publishable) Deleuzean tumult.  In faith the questions stop and the mind is at rest, the floor of the Exchange is swept clean, and we go sit with the boys of Emerson, who simply know in perfect self-sufficiency. 



Boys don’t doubt that they know and they know exactly who the hero is.  That is eros.  But boys are supposed to grow up and become one with uncertainty and the eternal wandering.  That is science.  The grown-up is proud of his skepticism, his agnostic stance.  For him the hero died.


Surprisingly, it is the Christian fundamentalists who  have taken the questioning stance farthest even unto questioning questioning science itself and then, true to their ultimate vision, they have abandoned their own fallen, twisted questioning minds.  The reductio ad absurdum of the counterfeit.  Fun to watch, if you’re sitting alone up high.




6016  I wrote to him that I had spent my life as a shy dreamer intellectual running away from the "beautiful ones" because I melted in fear before them.  That’s not quite true.  The truth is that I have spent my life as a calculating intellectual left standing still while the “beautiful ones” ran away after I had with calculating machinations dared to move in close, too close.  I melt in fear knowing that that will always happen again and again.  The eternal return.  That is my escape.  In that horrible moment I am free.  And He is in me.




6017  Whitman wrote “As I walked with my Electric Self …”; why electric?  Apparently he wrote that poem, As I Ebb’d with the Ocean of Life, after a failed love affair probably with some guy he met on his roaming about.  That moment of failure, which the brain seems to know before the consciousness, is a genuine electric shock.  That, surprisingly, he says is his Real Me.  I know it well.




6018  It is the goal of desire to possess the desired object.  But how?  How can we change a dream into reality?  How can we take the final step and grab that beauty that is so close, so far away?  There must be a secret to be had.


Alas, the secret is just as impossible to attain.  Perhaps we must, after all, take the ancient way, that most terrible way, and enter into the forbidden.  The way of sacrifice.


It is strange, but true, that all of those in the distant past did finally manage to figure out the one gesture that possesses.  We too know it but we have imagined something other.  If you desire the death of what you want, you are able right easily to get what you want.  And by a horrible magic to have it at once.  I suppose that makes no sense to the so-called enlightened, but think about your own case.


You wanted him.  You wanted him badly.  You worked, you cajoled, you gifted him regally, but nothing.  He remained other.  Finally you did, you said, you gestured, in a way that you knew, you knew away from your own knowing, that he would find repellant and leave.  You performed the act and an arrow of pain shot through you that told you he was gone.  The love affair was killed.  And for an instant, in the terrible intensity, you had him.  The having was transcendent and super real.  Then gone.  That is the majesty and the fright of sacrifice.  Soon you are an addict to its poisonous drug.  Until life itself drains away from you and … and then who knows?  You approach the god with the key in your hand.




6019  In The Word of Nietzsche, Heidegger describes the two phases of Nihilism.  First, it is the world-historical, self-immolation of the Platonic Forms.  No Platonic Forms.  The devaluation of the Highest Value.  Second, it is the revaluing of life here and now as a view toward preservation and enhancement.  It is the Will to Growth, a purely quantitative, countable thing.  Such growth requires, of course, conditions be met: space to expand within (Lebensraum), a stable reserve of material to be acted upon, and the Nisus, the impetus to move forward.  It is the very modern, very old Jewish idea of More Life!  Today it is the onward and upward and outward mind-thrilling movement toward tomorrow!  We know it so well it has become tiresome.  Anyway, it is reaching its exponential end.


Even in Heidegger’s time we still felt that resources, the stable reserve, was undepletable.  We thought that the space of the earth was so vast as to accommodate the most high-minded builder.  We thought we could leverage our way into utopia.  We no longer think and feel the same.  We have imagined our way into a mess.


The first phase destroyed itself a priori, the second synthetically.  Of course, our situation here could change if new sources of energy and material should appear, but right now we have no prospect of that.  The Nisus of Enhancement will have to work on different raw material.  Unfortunately, even that is without prospect.  I think the whole philosophy of raw material and building energy is at an end.  It’s all very easy to calculate.  Becoming has run out of gas.




6020  Perhaps the post-platonic world, the world of the Will to whatever, also must have an a priori end.  The rush and the thrill of the ever-new, the modernist idea itself, finally, inevitably blows itself up in a great sacrificial holocaust.  Or maybe it simply whimpers out.  Do the young feel it, can they?  Or is that only for the old and tired?  Haven’t high-school kids been trying to write the words of wisdom and age for a long time now?  It seems to me that modernism, even in fervent bloom, has always been old.  Ennui and despair and meaninglessness have always been hanging around and the emptiness never really did give space and an uplift to creativity as it was suppose to.  Only that a lot of people made a lot of money by collecting interest on ever-unfulfilled debt.


What about the old Platonic World?  Is it still there as a refuge?





6021  Today’s Naturphilosophie trying once again to inject imagination into the dead materialism of mechanistic push seems to assume that this counter-roll will be a gentle tumble into novelty.  Perhaps it is—for a while.  But then it (the new spirit tool) begins to grow, not arithmetically as does the ever-considerate night lover, but exponentially as do all things under the eternal sway, the tempting Power Set, the god of storms, his Iterator firmly in hand.


Ah, things get out of hand.  The blowing increases.  Vertigo on the verge of going into crisis mode.  The load is flowing.  A gentleman’s rumble.  All for a thimbleful of goose down.  Around your sleepy head.  The world ends softly.  Just as you knew it would.  Until tomorrow.  And the doorknob turns while his hand drips again with myrrh and nightshade.  Civilization lies in ruin, but we had no choice.  Nothing ever changes.  And it so sweetly makes no sense.




6022  The words Creativity and Imagination are being used over much today, but I see little understanding of just what they are, nor is there much creative imagination going into finding out more of just what they might be.  Therefore, I will say what little I know of all that.  I will begin with bad dreams, the ground of my writing.


I struggle at night inside my flailing body to find peace.  A tight hurt.  Smooth surfaces.  Hard edges.  Electrical chaos.  Images impinge.  Let’s call all that God.


I pull myself out.  I wake up.  Regular breathing.  Calmness returns.  Gentle order of the out there.  The madness subsides.  I can think rationally.  That too is God.


Without God from God I could not extricate myself.  Without the peaceful tension I would have nothing to pull myself out of.  The tempest of images is the source.  The calm breeze of morning is the completed act.  From that hellish place comes gentle order.  It is all just God being God.  The beautiful Son from the Ogre.  David sings soothingly to Saul.


All creativity and all of the imagining that precedes it have the tinge of horror and sickness about them.  Even the finished thing has the hard color of struggle lying over it.  And the easy peace afterward is a little uneasy.  Still, this God does manage and the dawn, though dim and wet at first, does come.  Dionysius changes into Apollo.  Jesus returns.  Nietzsche leaves and doesn’t come back.  




6023  I walk into the lobby to wait for my appointment.  I notice a young man sitting at a desk watching people as they come in and leave.  I think it is his job to direct the lost.  I can see that what he is really doing in his intense gaze is trying to see God.  He is obviously an addict to the Vision.


Any world-weary gay person can recognize what is happening.  He will, however, probably use less theological words to name the act.  Perhaps he will say this one is cruising.  It comes to the same thing.   A mind is in thrall to an ever repeating form.  That form is the numinous clarity always before him.  That makes it a god writ large across his eyes.  Therefore, God—though he is terrified of the word.


Of course, the young man sitting at the desk and those he sees are anything but godlike; they are covered with imperfections like scabs.  As gods they cause only dismay to the clear-sighted.  Such is the human body.  But the worshipping young man is a proper artist.  He sees beyond into the Entelechy.  The perfected Imago.  Away from the process.


Aristotle wrote, “Art completes what nature cannot bring to a finish.  The artist gives us knowledge of nature’s unrealized ends.”  This one sees a mere boy, but in his mind he sees the Boy.  The Ideal appears to him.  Beyond the camera senses.


Those who find the Ideal tiresome will also not engage in worship, not believe in the gods.  For now that young man sitting at the desk is not that.  Nor are most of the old queens I pass daily as they stare from the street.  They are looking at something beyond.


Concerning this, I have a number of postings about Kenneth Clark’ that you can search on this blog.




6024  It is essential to theater that its objects not exist.  That, of course, is a paradoxical statement and the subjunctive mood makes it even more questionable, which only enhances the non-existence and makes it more theatrical, as it were.  It’s a grand show.  And I too enjoy the twisting and turning into the purity of a transcendence that would be there if it were not so queer.  But as such it is … Bham!, a mess.  I deal in existence.


Realism has always had a hard time dealing with illusion and the objects of imagination.  But that is only because it hasn’t had the nerve to be itself.  True realism will have to find a place within Existence for these things of non-existence.  I have said, following a mere handful of other realists, that non-existent things exist, and to get around that contradiction, I have relabeled that non-existence as potentiality.  Why not? An appearing of a form as this or that can be under the mode of actuality or potentiality.  Is that statement merely more theater?


Perhaps philosophy really is theater.  Perhaps it is word play and legerdemain.  Well, yes, but it is for all that real transcendence as is all art.  The non-existence of theater and every such extravagance is Super-existence, or, as I have called it, ontological.  Does that make it evil?


The positivists declared philosophy to be, not only meaningless, but a curse on real thinking.  They wanted to believe that they had found in its high-minded seriousness the key to the horrors of life here.  And they proceeded to destroy all loveliness.   Love, it turns out, is pure theater.




6025  A long time ago I wrote this: All the things before us are made up of simple, eternal forms.  These forms, when looked at, reveal their eternity.  The stuff of God is all over them.  The heart twisting we feel when we see him.  That we will eternally feel.


All that begs for interpretation and elaboration, but none is forthcoming.  Perhaps you find a dreamy exactness to it and that is enough; perhaps that is exactly why you plan your soon escape from my writing.  Those sentences need commentary, but they also block it.  They are separate from the world, but only because they seem to speak of every thing in the world, which, I suppose, is what ontology is supposed to do.  The verbs are intransitive and thus the mind is not in transit.  Feeling reels, but like a rag that will not wring dry, it peels off the mind as logic.  Between.  On the cape the wind scrapes the high rocks and the escape is vertiginous down.  The downy flesh of dawn and all that.  All of that.  Calibration.  Calefaction.  He lies hot next to me.




6026  The nexus of the body is the penis.  That is where it all comes together, the focus locus.  The head is balanced by the legs walking, the rhythm of this then that, falling and catching one’s self.  The form is eternal.  You are trapped in its repetition in and out of ceaseless time.  The almost.  That beyond which there is nothing.  He’s there waiting as always.  As you must two.


Then the break.  His breeches are breached.  You take the monstrum.  A handy dandy.  And a slight piece of oblivion.  In hand.  And what of it? 


Almost there.  Now wait.  There’s time to think up worlds.  Then it’s there.  Goose down and snow pearls.  And government bureaucracies keeping tab.  Tally up your time and come again tomorrow.  The remonstrance dance.


We contend with our intentions.  We retain a small container.  Eternity in a bottle.  A coin for Hermes.  Everything abides and the chela hides hang on the long long wall.  Nexus plexus sexus.  The valence calculates itself perfectly.




6027  When I was in North Africa I was always aware that everything felt oily.  I think I had suspected the desert to be coarse and hard and dry.  It wasn’t.  And that is a little bothersome to me.  Perhaps I share Sartre’s slight disgust at the viscosity of fleshly fat smeared on every object.  I do prefer the clean and the abstract.  Oil attracts dust and becomes grime.  Its stickiness is unrelenting.  And it becomes quickly apparent that there is no escape.  I come from the generation that hated the thought of putting oil on their hair.  But there, as in Nepal, boys would buy packets of oil to share and drip over their heads.  Still, the bothersome thing is other.


The word “Christ” is a translation of “Messiah”, both of which mean anointed with oil.  Oil dripping from black locks is the beauty that entices.  It is the sign of God’s desire for that one.  Alluring beauty.  Everywhere in the Old Testament the chosen one of God, the Beloved, is described as exceedingly attractive.  That seems to be God’s only criterion for choosing his favorite.  Such is David.  And that means the oil of the desert that I was so bothered by.


Even here in the North, now, I am slightly repulsed by the oiliness of thick flesh.  I do like the dry look and feel.  And yet … and yet, the dark curly headed boy does beckon my northern eyes and I am greatly tempted.  His lusciousness is too much though.  I will think about it.




6028  A number of years ago when we were driving from Cairo to the Red Sea, I could see a great long beautiful lake running parallel to the highway  a very walk-able distance away.  It was of course a mirage, but it looked so real, so delightful.  My grandmother, for a number of months before she died, could hear dancers out on the lawn calling to her.  That was the result of the mini-strokes she was having and she simply had to take her medicine.  When she finally died I have no doubt but that she went to them and never came back.


What about those non-worldly, unreal things?  How should we ontologically analyze them?  We do have to be careful here because it may be the case that some minds are somehow able to slip over into a parallel world where they are real.  If it happens, it happens.  But for right now here they do feel unreal.  And that is a delicious feeling we wouldn’t want to give up.  We rightly love the unreal.  The seemingly real.  It are magic.  What is that whatever-it-is about them that is so enticing.  I don’t mean what is it about our psychology that makes us like them, but what is it about the thing itself that appeals?


That lake, those dancers, the desert jinn, the Spanish duende, imps and the dreadful fairies—all of which seem so real to those of us who can see them—what is it about them that is the Lure?  I have named it potentiality as opposed to actuality.  There is a bare particular there but it is what might be called a critical particular, from the Greek κρινειν, which means to separate, to sieve, to sift.  Sieves and shears were once used in divination.  I don’t know why but there is a mystical feel to the word.  A cutting off.  Something that once was and could be now or soon—that is the feel of potentiality.  So close, just right outside the door.  I can imagine the oil dripping from his finger tips as he reaches for the latch.  That.




6029  One of the most popular counter-theories to a Platonic belief in universals is the theory of tropes.  Here.  Take a red wagon.  Take a red-headed boy.  Take the red lollipop he likes to suck on while he is out pulling his wagon.  Three instances of red.  Platonism rather simply, rather elegantly, states that there is one universal Red that all those particulars participate in or exemplify or find themselves stalked by in the long dark night of Being.  But such elegance, such simplicity, never has been loved by the popular mind.  Thus, a great complexity that never quite makes it home, never quite captures its prey, never really knows where it’s going, arises and then again and again collapses.  That is the theory of tropes.


A trope, in this case, is an instance of red; there are three of them.  Red1 and red2 and red3.  Three reds, as it were, whatever that means.  Now there is no problem of accounting for individuation, because each red is an individual already.  The obvious question now, though, is what accounts for their sameness.  Why are they all different from the black center and almond shape and glistening delight in the boy’s eyes?  And one with each other?  The trope theorist will say a number of things, a great number of things, trying to account for their sameness without universals.  My point here is not to list all the alternatives (they multiply like pimples on your forehead) but to point out the difference between the simple elegance of the Platonic Forms versus the disheartening piles of very serious, i.e. unromantic, verbiage generated by the tropists trying so hard to be good and finish their orgy of awkward epistemological attempts at finding that oneness, that communion.


I have nothing against trope theory; it’s just that I find it so very tiresome.  So many neologisms.  So many convolutions.  So much jargon.  Serious stuff.  It’s for the still unaware who believe in innocent conquests.


Trope theory seems, at first blush, to be so much more aligned with common sense than Platonism.  I suppose it is.  But what of it?  It has become a religion that suffocates all opposing views under the wings of the angel of public opinion, our infallible guide leading us to what everyone already knows.




6030  The world of things in the middle class is a nice place, everything has all been scraped clean, we are close to sinlessness when we are there.  Real elegance, that elite, high thing is nowhere in sight.  Freedom from disgusting things at last.


I have many times mentioned the elegance, the simple powerful elegance, of Platonism.  But what is that?  By the small number at the head you can see that I wrote this a long time ago:


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


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


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


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


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


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




Platonism is the Ideal of pure thought, but—this is important—it is always pervaded by the dark, ravishing, disgusting odor of the flesh.  It is love that fails and falls into the sky.  It is that one thinking the most abstract while he lies on his sex-covered sheets.  To overlook the elemental is simply too middle class.  Platonism is a type of sickness, nausea, the musty musky moth hovering around and around the erect shimmering flame.  Adolescent passion.  The police understand. 




6031  Why do post-modern philosophers so lovingly caress and cajole their shimmering thoughts with serpentine sentences into murky paragraphs and ever more daunting chapters of slow low-crawling complexity?  Even in spite of the fact that they are constantly being ridiculed by others.  It’s for the same reason that most of them magically hold as their (also heavily ridiculed) ideal a Zen-harmonious, middle class house with a back yard in the suburbs.  It’s thought to be clean.  The grass is trimmed. And the streets are safe and free of traffic.  Supposedly, there is nothing of the horror of the flesh, of sunken matter, in those places of perfect abstraction.  Of course, on close reading it’s nothing of the sort.


It is said that cleanliness is next to godliness.  I think most Westerners, both theists and atheists, believe that.  It’s our inheritance from northern Europe.  Science is clean.  Mathematics is clean. Healthy living is clean.  Ecology is clean.  Sex is clean.  And above all Heaven (or the social Utopia) will be clean.  My God, even the things we think of as unclean, like politics and business, are clean.  Asians and Africans are dirty.  They have no suburbs.  And only now are they learning how to write using the holy words of The Great Abstract Jargon.  Something, though, is afoot.  The stalkers are out.  Dematerialized matter is reforming and the clot of thrombosis is stroking our pretty neighborhoods.  The old ways return.  And I am thrown in with the trash.




6032  The two most important philosophers of the twentieth century are Wittgenstein and Sartre.  Or so they shall be here for what I have to say.  Both were almost undone by unclean flesh.  Wittgenstein because of the words homosexual and Jew that were applied to him and Sartre because of the nausea of sagging flesh.  Wittgenstein came to insist that words weren’t exact but only pointed to family resemblances and thus he partially disengaged himself.  Sartre, by doubling down, gave us the killing fields of the Khmer Rouge.


Farther back in history the Roman Church from out of its corrupion managed to develop the doctrine of the Immaculate Conception of Mary.  Her flesh, which was to become the flesh of God, was kept from original sin, from pollution.  And Jesus, after his resurrection but before his ascension, was still unclean from his baptism into death and refused to let others touch him.  Like Lazarus, he probably smelled bad.  Religion and philosophy have always been in distress over the disgust we all feel at the touch of creepy, crawly flesh.  Except for those few moments in adolescence when some human beings, especially boys, almost seem to have an appearance and form even surpassing the gods.  It is then in those fleeting moments that we see something other.


I too have written ad nauseum about the flesh, both its divinity and its dull ordinariness.  And I, following so many others in my generation, have taken the linguistic turn and concentrated on the printed word.  I have insisted that sentences are more than meaning pointers.  They are also sensual movements in the mouth.  They flow rhythmically.  They slide down your throat, down your leg, out into the encircling air.  The page, the screen, crawls, slithers and scrolls.  Concentration on the meaning of a sentence is an attempt to not feel the snake that has entered your mouth.  Sentences are sexual things.  The dick of diction.




6033  War is glorious and sexy and sublimely sensual.  Every generation has thought so. And every generation has come back from war believing the opposite.  I doubt all that will ever change.  It is a fixed form in the heart of every people.  I’m sure that it will not be eradicated.  But weapons and uniforms do change.  Now, in this cyber era, I’m wondering what the glory in the popular mind will be.


I have no idea what it will be, but what shall we think about all that Glory?  And what about the American desire to kick ass?  Under-meanings run wild.  And it is a little too easy to interpret.


When I was in Nepal during the Iraq War and I talked about it with my friends, they gave what was an obligatory condemnation of American imperialism but they didn’t really care and anyway they didn’t much like the Arab Muslims.  They were really more excited about getting one of those thousand dollar a month jobs with our contractors.  Many, many Nepalis went there and when eleven of them were killed by insurgents riots broke out in Kathmandu against Muslim shops.  It was a fun time, all agreed, except of course the Muslims.  The Nepalis were not really as impressed by our weaponry as we were.  I don’t think the Iraqis were either.  Shock and Awe mainly pleasured the Americans.  But now it’s cyber and all that is gone.  As for whether or not we’ll have to do all that again because the Iranians will are building an atomic bomb, it’s a warmongering irrelevant question.  They could much more easily just buy one or two or three from the Pakistanis.


Militant Glory and Sublime Destruction and sad, wounded soldiers and crushed villages and dashed hopes and the desire for revenge and the Return of War are eternal.  War is glorious and sexy and sublimely sensual.  Every generation has thought so. And every generation has come back from war believing the opposite. Yes, but not all.  Some fall in love with the horror.  And long to return.  But in the meantime, I’m going to make some coffee and watch a movie.  Everyone will understand.




6034  Last time I talked about the Eternal Love of War that is in the breast of some, maybe all.  I mentioned those who were in the thick of the horrors and longed to return.  And I wondered just how they could in this age of cyber warfare.  There are no more trenches, no more beachheads, no front lines at all.  There are no shells flying overhead and dead comrades lying near.  Nothing at all is lying near.


Now it is asymmetric warfare, which is no warfare at all.  The very strong and ultra-modern against the very weak.  But those weak know just enough about explosives and electronics to masterfully win.  More importantly, they know the art of gentle confusion.


For those who love war, all that is a sinking horror beyond the sublime, face-to-face horrors in the force of real war.  Cyber warfare is the art of distraction, of camouflaged and false signals. Of children bringing you the gift of brain damage.  The old type of war was directly present in the extreme.  But this new thing is always somewhere else.  Old men and boys are masters at it.  Now war is a child’s game of hide-and-seek.  And the faint of sweet seduction.  I learned a lot when I was in Asia, living with the poor and the very weak.  I can see now that the strong and the rich don’t have a chance—no matter how much we “help” them.




6035  I am constantly amazed at how the academically proper, the well-employed, will not venture close to the nausea of the flesh in their public performance.  Who knows what they do in private!  We all know.  It’s a gentle hypocrisy.  Life is faintly pornographic but daily a morning shower will be sufficient until late and some threads from China.  And then there is the distraction of hard logical analysis.


College campuses, like the one near which I live, are, for those willing to not look close, a place of fine appearances.  The nausea of life is safely a few blocks away back in the room.  Very little separates the horror of sweet sickness from the open air of vigorous conversation, but it’s enough.  Just don’t mention it, except quietly to your friends and then only with a pleasant smile and in passing. 


And then there is discussion of war and the disruption of dynamic business changes.  People, real people, are greatly affected, or so it is asserted as we go for lunch.  An eye is always out for a cute ass, but that’s not mentioned, or barely.  Scholarly papers certainly won’t mention it.  Why?


War and sex are at the center of what the twentieth century was and this new century will be no different, except it will be more cybernetic, which only means more electric, photonic, more blazingly. brazenly neurotic.  In the meantime I will post my finely sliced ontological pieces of pixelated boy flesh.  So off-camera.  So close, but so not close.  Just digital syllables sliding along the softly, very softly moving tongue.




6036  All things human are full of corruption and pleasure and boredom and fright.  It’s what and who we are.  Soft nausea reigns.  And the shadow of hard strength which soon dissolves.  The cold rain comes and we are soaked, shivering and wanting to sleep.  Intense beauty comes around the corner and we are momentarily stunned.  It beckons and we are paralyzed.  Then, on second look, it is only a mistake.  And life’s inevitable getting back to work.  The horror of soft flesh and hard, damp walls.  Then that nagging pain.  But the afternoon was so very nice in the sun, in the breeze, lounging near unconsciousness.  We are a lotus step in weakness and the glistening seep.  No one, here, escapes, few want to … but maybe there is somewhere else.  Computer pictures look so inviting, so still, so beyond these ganglia.  And then there are those thin thoughts of what could be and maybe should be.  But they only drive the corruption deeper into high pleasure.  And boredom and fright.  I have no objection.  Words are mouth noises and syntax is a snake.  I spit a lot when I’m out in the cosmos.  And look about.  My hat made in Sri Lanka covers up my bald head and I don’t look half bad.




6037  One could, of course, just not do philosophy and that would solve the problems of philosophy in one violent swoop.  Perhaps that would be to admit that those wounds were self-inflicted.  Indeed that all that self-inflection was not necessarily from out of Being itself.  But no, philosophy will be done necessarily.  Just as will romantic love.  And the tight spot will remain just what it is.  So to get on with it.


Philosophy and the extreme of erotic love that mirrors it are always at the end of the journey.  Or nearly so.  The final instant is tricky.  It is or it isn’t.  And then there’s the point of no return.  And the return to the same place or unplace tomorrow.    Ever since Plato analysis and the Vision of Eros mingle.  Or course one could simply not do philosophy as do or rather not-do today’s philosophers-in-name-only.


Ever since Bradley and McTaggart challenged the logic of relations a little over a hundred years ago and set off logical atomism and all its corrections, we have been plagued by paradox, which of course brings to mind Kierkegaard, for the erotically ensouled such as I.


I do analysis a la Russell with his external relations and then extend that into an extreme version of it a la Bergmann with his demanding-to-be-seen nexus.  And then, having found myself out in the marshes far from the everyday things of life—just as Bradley predicted—I become garrulous, true to my name.


Today, Bradley and his Absolute, now called Reality or the Whole, seem to have won the day.  Which means Plato has lost.  And the lovers.  All that in spite of Whitehead’s attempt at misprision.  Peace has settled in.  Erotic madness is banned.


My sexual hormones prevent me from entering into that ashram in full presence.  And when I surreptitiously try to enter they soon see that I am trying to seduce the smiling faces and that’s that.  I argue the ancient argument of love.


Erotic love and ontological analysis and religious belief end in the absurd.  We all know that.  Nonetheless, that absurd thing, God, is the goal.  The spirit’s gaol.  A useless passion.  Beyond the pleasure principle.




6038  Around the beginning of the twentieth century certain philosophers wanted to get a firm grip on philosophy because its ways were getting out of hand.  Yes, of course, anyone would have done the same.  But in these last withering days our beloved has blanched and that firm grip has tightened into a strangle hold.  We have almost killed it.  Now I write up philosophy as anything but a well-defined system of symbols properly aligned and handsomely progressing.


Around the beginning of the twentieth century certain philosophers wanted to loosen the firm grip with which certain philosophers of the Self were strangling the beloved spirit of the Real.  The umbilical cords connecting matter to mind were beginning to rot.  But in these last dithering days than loosened grip has let the beloved thing fly away into airy diffusion.  Now I attempt to name the precise points of erotic stimulation and hold them firmly in hand.


If logical analysts were to read my words they would instantly throw their hands in disgust at the imprecise way I use the old poetic words of metaphysics.  If they read too much they may simply throw up.  Oh well, to each his own.  I know all about the imprecision of the Forms.


If the concerned were to read my words they would instantly call the gens d’armes.  Such formalism!  Such life killing abstractness!  Such an offense against the Vital Spirit!  If they read too much they will simply try to cull my jean’s short arm.  Oh well, to each his bone.  I know all about circumcision of the drones.


Modern philosophy coming from the left and the right has been an attempt to kill a monster.  That satyr.  That angelic goat.  My friend.




6039  One way to do ontology is to divide all things into simple and complex.  That statement will not do exactly because it already assumes too much, but it will do.  1.  There are the fundamental simple things of existence out of which the complexities all around us are built.  (That statement will not do exactly because etc..)  2.  There are all the complex things.  (That statement will not etc..) 3.  There is the ordinary, lived world which really doesn’t give a fuck about all those simples and complexes.  Reconsidering, it seems that an even more fundamental way of doing ontology is to divide the world into the realm of ontological analysis and that realm entirely free of such madness.


Imagine you are walking about in the ordinary world and you suddenly, in your head, magically receive an invitation to that special room on some impossible to find side street where a bunch of ontologically minded guys are hanging out with some old Satyr.  So you go, knock on heaven’s door and this beauty opens.  It’s the Cheek of Night.  You are suddenly nowhere.  Let’s do philosophy!




6040  In my last post I turned philosophy into an encounter between some young beauties (including you, dear reader, if you chose to enter) and an old Satyr who was a Socratic figure.  If you have read Plato, you know the scene.  It is the scene proper to philosophy, or at least it was for centuries.  From some garden or street corner to the closed off walls of a monastery or boarding school.  High Romance.  It hardly exists today at all, mostly because it’s now so hard to hide from the timid managers bedeviled by Xantippe and The Mothers.  The old world is ending.  And the beautiful soldier is no more.  Now cyber surveillance clamps down.




6041  About a hundred years ago Russell and Wittgenstein struggled with each other and with logic, trying to keep the contraption they had built from collapsing.  Today, that’s often referred to as the argument over the multiple-relation theory of judgment.  Many schools of philosophy were born then.  The problem, as always, was the worry about how to find unity in the many.


Consider a sentence and the paragraph.  Not only are those things built out of words, but the words are made out of pieces of sound and God knows what else.  Nonetheless, after making ourselves thoroughly acquainted with all of that we still don’t possess the one thing that is the sentence, much less the paragraph.  That’s not quite true; we do possess those things, but what we possess seems to be totally other than the pieces.  Can I say that it transcends the pieces?


Logic systems name and neatly list all the final logical pieces of Being and they obligingly give us directions about how to put them all together.  But that “thing” that is the being-together-ness of all that is not named, no doubt because it isn’t there as a thing.  That of course was badly stated, but, it seems, that it, in fact, can’t be stated.  There is something ineffable, unstateable, there.  There isn’t even a there there.  So the philosopher, like Wittgenstein, jumps into myth or poetry or religion or mysticism or whatever you want to call it.  I rather like that kind of intellectual bungee jumping.  Philosophy is a blast.




6042  Last time I talked about the unity that is the togetherness of all the pieces of logic.  Whatever that is, there seems to be no way, other that sheer jumping, to get from the many to that oneness.  Some philosophers have, therefore, decided to devalue the pieces and just go live with the one thing.  These are the Holists or the Process philosophers.  The One Absolute is all that really and truly is.  Then they make strange pronouncements. Such as that relations or relationships exist but the relata that are related don’t, but then again those relations are themselves non-existent because they are the relata within higher relationships and on and on ever upwards, everything finally disappearing somewhat apocalyptically into The One Great Process.  Then that too disappears into the dark womb of the Imagination.  Or whatever.


To me all that seems like a cook mushing everything together into one tasteless mass.  I prefer a dish in which one can distinguish the separate ingredients as they harmonize.  Just as I prefer a sentence that leaves the separate words and phrases easily seen lying together in rhythmical harmony.  Unlike the flat, tasteless things we are usually forced to read.  Unity as the harmony of the many is not the dark night of the Absolute in which all cows are black. 




6043  The difference between naturalism and supernaturalism concerns what might be called the Localization Principle.  Are the Platonic Forms located at or in the place and time of the individual?  Naturalists say they are and thus they are said to be in-stantiated.  Supernaturalists say they are totally separate, timelessly and placelessly, thus only dimly shadowed by the individual.  There is a middle group that doesn’t want Plato’s complete separation nor do they want the Forms to be located where the individual is.  They usually say that universals (a less elevated word than timeless Forms) are exemplified, not instantiated.  Therefore, the difference between naturalism and supernaturalism has to do with the “distance”, if any, between the Platonic Forms and the individual(s). 


I use the word "exemplification", but, since I believe the Forms, including the bare particular, are totally separate from ordinary, non-ontological, things, I suppose I should be called a supernaturalist.  I have no objection.




6044  MDS asks himself here whether he is a naturalist or a supernaturalist.  Here is Sartre’s take on anti-naturalism, antiphysis.  You’ll have to forget for the moment that Sartre is a sexual idiot.  This quote is from this book by Benjamin Suhl.


In passing, Sartre gives us an ontological explanation of the pederast’s “elegance” and bad taste.  Extremely loud colors, violent perfumes and unusual combinations are expressions of an antiphysis, of sheer appearance.  We are shocked by “bad taste” because it points to man’s ability to transform nature, and, we might add, to exceed social norms.  But while the ordinary enjoyment of the gadget, also an industrial product, is humanistic since it appreciates human labor, the homosexual’s predilection for the artificial is due to the fact that it is mere appearance, that is, false by definition as is the pederast’s existence.  “In matters of great importance the vital element is not sincerity, but style,” wrote Oscar Wilde, whom Sartre calls the “prince of aesthetes” (p.410), and who termed “style” what Genet calls elegance.  We can readily see that it will be easy for Genet to project elegance and style into words: “A false woman harboring an imaginary passion for an appearance of a man and adorning herself in order to please him with appearances of jewels: is not that the definition of the homosexual?”


Reading that today, anyone would find it to be downright laughable, but remember this is mid-twentieth century France.  Most Americas thought nothing different then.  Many still don’t.  And I’m wondering if there isn’t something relevant in all that to today’s preference for naturalism by many young, mostly straight, philosophers.  I can’t imagine reading their works while I’m attending a drag show.  I did though for a while back in the eighties read Heidegger while sitting in a little café in a Chicago gay bath and that worked out fine.  Naturalism strikes me as a straight thing.  Sartre is often relevant in spite of himself and he’s fun to read.


I think in the final analysis supernaturalism and antinaturalism and camp are the same.




6045  There is the Image, a Capital Letter Thing, and then there is ordinary, perhaps academic, discourse, conversation, about that Unspeakable Thing.  Which means the talking never really gets started.  That is always the problem that poets and philosophers of a Platonic Bent entertain as their Night Guest.  I know the scene well.


Of course this division applies not only to words and ideas, but also to all human activity or dreams of creative acting.  One can do one’s daily business; then there is Business itself.  There is soldiering; then there is the Soldier.  Just as there is fighting; then again War and the Battle.  There is dying and Death.  And finally let me mention that there is quotidian sex, but there is Sex and the Erotic.  The casual and the everyday up against the overpoweringly Transcendent.  The living and the Stillness of Eternity.  But is it so?


I have written it up as though it is the only thing of intellectual importance.  Then again I have engaged in no human discourse about my ideas.  Or if I tried the attempt ended quickly in recrimination.  Philosophy of this sort is not to be broached in casual conversation.  His spur is seen only in a lonely. isolated place.  A no place.  But I am going on and on about nothing.  So I think I will resignedly go for a walk downtown and gawk. 




6046  Words have meaning.  Literally.  The sound, the visual line is fused with that thing that the word names.  As an example: the word “and” is intimately one with the entity And.  That entity is not a human or mind thing.  It is just that thing.  Likewise, a phrase and a sentence are fused with that thing that is their meaning.  The sound or line is not the meant entity.  The word, the phrase, the sentence has its meaning.  Meanings are things named and they exist.  They are not of the mind, but a mind is able to perceive, that is to say, to think, the entity that has fused with the word, the phrase, the sentence.


Angelic beings may be able think, to see, the Entity without it being fused with a carrier.  I don’t know.  Mostly, we can’t.  I write words that the Form, the Entity, might be present.  It’s magic.


I suppose all that is more of a poetic view or feel for language as opposed to our usual conventionalism, an empty bleak idea, except for those who think they are gods quietly conversing in a group in their own backyard.


I, early in my life, went alone out into the countryside and communed with words and the Forms that slide in so close.  No conversation.  No discourse.  Only a vision along my itchy skin and a mass going back and forth in my mouth.





6047  I know.  Therefore I am a philosopher of the Parmenidean erastes-eromenos sort.  That means I deal in extremes, not the comfortable middle ground where almost all our common life takes place.  Where I am, in this realm of Love’s divine torment, the lover is mad and the beloved is a cold perfection.  The man is agitated; the boy feels nothing, a perfect nothingness.  Fire and ice.  That is the ideal.  It is obviously not a workable plan for here.  Therefore it is of the gods - or it is nothing.  It is strikingly something.  It is, what can I say, it is divine.  And it is mad.  I have run into it too many times in my life.  It’s really the only thing I value.  But, I repeat, it is unworkable as a lifestyle.  I guess that is the end of the story.


Let me tell you what I was thinking the last bit of time.  I had a vision of you as cold as ice.  I was furious that a kid would even consider torturing his own mother, sending here into a life a pain, destroying her life, with a cold act of suicide.  I recognized that icy thing.  I love beauty probably more than others, but I do well know the terror it can be, that it is.  I know.




6048  Philosophy is dialectic, just as Socrates said it was in the Phaedrus.  That is to say, it is the act of dividing performed by the Esprit Subtil and of the ordering set up by the Esprit Geometrique. An arrangement of fine differences.  It is the question of what is Mind.  An urgent, therefore passionate, lover’s question.  But can such a delicate question be answered well in the fire?  A lover never does anything well.  Except the tumbling tumbling tumbling of its own necessary incessancy. 


If he loves another, we very analytically, with a lover’s coolness, see that here we have the one loving, the one loved and love.  Three things.  And then there is the Act, the complex completion of the union of those three into one.  Three in one.  And here it all becomes very tricky.  The three are separate from each other.  The lover feels that poignantly.  The union is transcendent.  He also feels that, but almost despairingly.  Being blows apart.  Pieces scatter.  Where is simple love now?  The analysis continues hopefully but in trepidation, throughout the night.  Then the Light.  And he falls asleep.


Philosophy does find an answer to its hopeless questioning.  And it always begins again.  There will be no let up.  Only flying in an airless carelessness.  The boy is cruel.  Your only desire.  Ring him up.  Dial hectically.  Mumble erotic jumble.  Wink. Think.  Blink.  The rink is full  of skaters, slackers, takers.  Love is simple nervousness.  And stray dogs.




6049  I just watched a documentary about savants.  As you might expect today, they did a lot of MRI brain scanning.  The end result was that savants don’t have brains that have more complex circuitry, but rather fewer areas that are dedicated to tasks that would otherwise interfere with the main task at hand.  For example, if the task is numerosity or music then there are no social or language areas to mess with that and it is left alone to work.  Less is more.


My theory is this: if the whole brain is deleted then the mind will have perfect perception and perfect understanding of everything it attends to.  The brain is a limiter.  The value of such limitation is that perfect knowledge of something, angelic knowledge, is a bit much and such a mind would be able to get absolutely nothing accomplished.  Angels are beautiful idiots.  I think that is our lot after death.  Unless we can somehow get back into a body.  It may be fun for a while though.  And do we really need to accomplish anything?




6050  I love language, but not for the sake of communication.  I don’t communicate; I make sentences.  I have nothing to say. 


I write what cannot be said.  What cannot be thought.  What doesn’t exist.  I write existence itself as it takes hold.  As it transudes the simple things of Being.  As lover.  As god.  As though I had really communicated valuable ontological fact.  But, of course, I haven’t.  Still there is nothing else that brings such intellectual joy.


If you understand philosophy, that is to say, if philosophy is naturally yours, then you understand; otherwise, you don’t.  There’s nothing there to learn.  It’s just there.  A night club.  For the Transcendentals.




6051  Every rational system reaches its limit and crashes.  Thus every philosophy, every attempt at ontology, every fundamental mathematics, every grand theological set-up succumbs to its own self destruction.  Then what?  Your choice.  I continue to write using the rhetorically embellished words of erotic passion.  As have done so many others, often better, never more hopefully.  I’m not going to stop now.


I have relied heavily on analysis.  Just why I chose that way or why it chose me is beyond me.  The dialectic of the one and the many, of the simple and the complex, never gently finds a final schematic.  But blows up in an orgasmic dribbling away.  It’s messy.  Still and of course it’s always fun to try again.  And again.  And again.


At the limits of analysis we could, I suppose, calmly talk about metaphor and an analogical coming to understand.  That is an attempt to ease down into rest after the bludgeoning we took from the intractable real.  I prefer a less scholarly way along and over the non-existent boundary into the non-existent beyond.  Yes, words fail, but so what?  You do know what I mean in spite of your not knowing.  Just as you understand how love’s wings fly in airless space. The jack hammer hammers.  Glances shoot.  The daimon whispers.  Lips list the ways.  Again The Sudden.




6052  I’m going to try and show you just where ontology breaks down, or at least one alluring place.  The first division we must make is between ontological things and ordinary things.  That last is the everyday, commonsense world, but it is also the strange, sometimes twisted world of fantasy and quantum physics.  It is even the realm of the gods and myth.  So you see it is about everything.  Then there are the otherworldly things of ontological analysis, things talked about only by ontologists, most of whom don’t believe in them as anything more than ad hoc ways of understanding.  Therefore, I’m going to jump to ontology.


There are certain classical philosophical, metaphysical, ontological things, widely known and handily and clumsily discussed by thousands of would-be thinkers.  Hundreds of thousands, I among them.  Being, the Platonic Forms, matter, relations, the One, Beauty, participation, substance, essence, and on and on.  There are also bare particulars and universals and connectors of all kinds.  This list is protean.  If that list crashes it’s more from being top-heavy and cumbersome than logical evaporation.  I want to talk about yet a “deeper” list.


Consider a bare particular and a universal and a nexus.  Also a set and a fact and actuality.  I will call them entities.  Then there are the sub-entities: bareness and particularity and even bare-particularity, the nature of the universal (eg. the redness of the universal Red) as something different from its universality and its being that particular universal.  Then there are difference and existence and simplicity (or complexity) and the “way” those sub-things (subsistents?) pervade the higher things.  Is setness a universal property of sets?  What individuates sets and what is the connector between a set and the elements of “their” set and do the elements have the property of being elements and what is that connector and is it one or many.  How do actuality and potentiality hook up into (ooze through) some things (facts) and not others and what or who sets the proper ordering?  And what about facticity and things that are potentially actual?  I think you see how much of an entanglement this is becoming.  There are two traditional ways out.


To get out of the philosophical head-swimming we could follow Wittgenstein and say that these ontological things show themselves but we cannot speak them, in which case everything I just wrote is philosophical, meaningless nonsense and we should stop it with moral force.  Or we could say that only the individual, ordinary things exist and everything else is mental, linguistic abstraction, sometimes useful, often not.


When philosophy crashes it finds itself in a lurid jungle, a squalid circus, a noisy slum, a bad dream, in head-spinning love around the god of enchantment.  And I have written it up with perfect syntax.




6053  Gustav Bergmann is to philosophy what the abstract expressionists are to art: difficult and inhuman.  And, like his counterparts, he said he was approaching the really real.  But, again just as with those hard seers, his extreme realism was anything but the comfortably present, rather is was downright otherworldly, tough-minded angels all.


After the monkish expressionist modernists came the Virgin Mary deathwatch of Warhol.  Pure glaring appearance, lived things photoshopped, intense.  The step from the one to the other is tiny.  Today’s eco-ethicists rebel, but these followers of Schelling can only sigh in the flowing whiteness of the spirit.   From the inhuman to the inhuman.




6054  Today philosophy is a serious, academic matter in serious, academic journals.  One philosopher proposes a small-step solution to some great time-worn philosophical conundrum; another dutifully considers it and proposes a tweak.  Or the one composes a whole system; while another humbly and regrettably proceeds to find glaring patches of logical inconsistency within it.  It’s great fun, but more than that it is required, if one is to keep his teaching job.  Some distress accrues, though a few drinks together usually takes care of that.  The budget committee is the real source of worry.  Such academic maneuvering is, of course, all conducted with a mien of seriousness, as I mentioned earlier, and intellectual maturity.  Until retirement and death.  Real philosophy is something else altogether.  I am constantly on the lookout for his approach.  And the instant I feel once more the manacles of his manic shakedown.  From which the editors turn with steely dis-regard.




6055  Projection is the key that opens the door into Idealism.  If I see his gentle lounge into that chair as the very essence of elegance, then I have projected that quality onto his act.  From out of my mind into the world.  If his giving me a lingering look is a supreme act of mercy, then it is a projection by me of my own idea out there onto those eyes.  If his voice is alluring and his touch is devastating, then all that is my projection.  According to the idealist, it turns out that everything I see is the product of my seeing throwing idea darts out into the void.  I connive with the void to make a world.


Thinking, dreaming, imaging, every longing for the real, finds its end.  Perhaps I just become tired of my mental creations and I walk away leaving the world as residue.  Or maybe I got sick of it all and threw it up.  And out.  And onto the wall of surrounding light.  Or am I projecting my fancy? 


Judgment comes and we are held.  Accountable.  It is decided, x is F.  The day is at hand.  My mind is trapped in his hair.  My ideas drift away as words spoken to the sky.  And if that great thing was once projected from Mind, then so be it.  The world is real – for now.  The question of whether or not the world was once projected from mind is a scientific question, not philosophical.  Philosophy is impressed rather with its existence, so powerfully present.  And the incessant repetition that is the swelling wave of love.




6056  Last time is stated that projection is the key element in Idealism.  The properties I now see out in the world were initially mind-creations.  Even the particulars were separated out by mind from undifferentiated Being.  Mind puts or throws the world into place.  And then cuts the umbilical cord.  That is Idealism.  So does the act of projection really exist?  I see nothing of the sort.  I see particulars bound to properties and just why they are thus is beyond me.


Properties are real, that is to say, they are independent of the mind aware of them.  And as far as I am concerned, they always have been. Nonetheless, perhaps they did once exist “in” the mind or perhaps the whole world is even now “in” a mind.  It makes no different from what I am after.  Even if they are “in” something-or-other, they are independent of that.  The world exists.


Still for all that independence is an anthropic notion.  I only want to say that Idealism is an attempt to lessen the intensity of existence by making it “merely” a mind-creation.  An attempt to make it familiar and sociable and at home.  But it will not be tamed and this god has you by the balls.  Go with him.




6057  Idealism is the tool of the iconoclasts.  Every reformation in religion is an attempt to get rid of the idolaters.  Icons, idols, graven images of all sorts are mere fantasy, mind projections, repressed desires dancing out there free of guilt. Their life is only dream life and insofar as it is seen as powerful it saps away the actual life of the worshipper.  Idealism takes the gods out of the world and makes them nothing.  And only fear remains.  But the mind teems.  Little is achieved.  One’s bed beckons and promises nightmares.  The Exchange is open.




6058  Political theater is great fun.  We, as defenders of the oppressed, love to argue and theorize and knowingly point out the hidden forces lying about so cunningly just out of sight.  Urgent problems enter and exit the stage of life.  A grave attitude is assumed.  A contorted mien.  And an enthusiastic response.  Great fun.


As for personal problems, such as that sore on your nose that will not heal, or a neighbor’s loud music, or you friend’s request for help with money or your lover’s sweet, low talking to someone you don’t know, from them there is no great fun to be had.  Still, they do add to the drama of life and when they vanish we have learned a thing or two.  As for bigger problems like cancer, death and divorce, they are always worthy of telling the story and the Story is what we are all about.


All in all, problems are eventually good.  The theater of life is magnificent.  And when the history of the cosmos is finished we can all sit around and converse forever, remembering how good is was.  Even now our horrible history is so enjoyable to read about.




6059  Does a “Grand Narrative” exist that completely describes our world?  One that is everywhere true to what is really there?  Yes, in fact there are many such narratives.  Even the grand narrative that there is no Grand Narrative works just fine.  It’s a stupendous affair.  And those of us who love to theorize have a wonderful time contemplating it all.  And arguing.  And fearing collapse.  And being so relieved when a solution to threatening dissolution is found.  It’s magic.


Today, even the common worker is able to go home, turn on the tv, and, like a god, watch the colorful display of life.  He gets angry, he laughs, he worries for these virtual people and then, after a little bit to eat, he goes happily to bed.  Life is good.  We are all watchers.  Tomorrow we will discuss matters with our friends.  Gods among gods.




6060  Young students putting on a display of being so concerned about the world are mighty beautiful during this their time in the limelight.  And of course what they are trying to tell us is true.  Truth is beauty and beauty truth, or however that goes.  Far be it from me to deny such force.  And the fact that one darling fades and another replaces him, though momentarily disconcerting, is finally a further good.  I joyfully watch.


We all have nagging problems; some of us for a while have catastrophic problems, but it all ends.  That is the destruction that Shiva is.  We, though, do fear losing our problems and if at the time we had the choice of having them just vanish, we would probably ask that they stay until we ourselves can deal with them.  We do love our problems.  That is Kierkegaard’s definition of despair: to be in love with what one hates.  That is the sublime greatness of Man.  Turn your eyes from him; he is a divine monster.  Love overflowing.  And the young are so heartbreakingly beautiful.




6061  We’re all in love with beautiful, young tough guys.  Embarrassingly so.  And we’re all afraid of them.  With good reason.  It’s so clear.  The dear will take you. For all you have.  And that is why all our theorizing about the perfect society is futile.  We prefer the shock, the knock and the rock in a hard place.  But he ages so quickly and what could be more pathetic.  You’re stuck with him.  That’s the rub.  And the headache.


It’s so sad that now soldiers have to wear all that horrible gear.  And lovely pictures of blasted corpses no longer lie on the field of death.  No trembling lips.  No tearful eyes.  Nothing to love in bursting heartbreak.  So sad.  Now just software.


Video documentaries aren’t enough to make us feel again.  Apocalyptic visions are finally unbelievable.  The terror out and about is so minimal.  Boredom is the only reality.  Yes, young toughs now aren’t so beautiful.  Maybe they never were.  Or maybe the style of clothes we put on them is all wrong.  Or that the internet is too much of a woman’s playground.  Real guys have to hang out in the mall, which is only the atrium to hell.  This is what it means to be a mature people.  So very sad.  We’ve been had.




6062  Form is style is form.  Looking for the unseen, we have overlooked the most readily seen.  He’s waiting for your appreciation.  For your applause.  Your capitulation.  A pause and you’re hooked.  Run.  Alas, you’ll take him with you.  Unwittingly.  Unfittingly.  So out in the open.  Dasein.  He had designs on you.  Nothing was hidden, you were bidden and you wanted what you wanted.  Why figure?  His figure cuts smoothly.  And then put up with all his demands.  Your remands are worthless.  His girth is mirth.  And the surf’s up.  Such style!  Such deadly guile.  Your goal is gaol. 


Form is the norm.  All that talk about the inner soul of the world is torn from old resentment.  His presentiment is God.  That than which there can be no greater.  Existenz.




6063  In my opinion, the best philosopher of the twentieth century is the early Wittgenstein.  He drove right to the heart of the matter and he asked the right questions.  Unfortunately, in my opinion, he gave the wrong answers, but they were almost right; they showed the mysticism that is necessarily within the philosophical act.


For example, take the sentences: He stands dejected beside the door.  His friend did not call.  They are proper sentences; they are not a mere jumble of words.  They have subject-predicate form.  One states a relation.  One states a negative fact.  We all agree.  But now philosophy with its strange questions comes by.


Does the senticity of a proper sentence exist?  Is it a thing?  Do relations and the subject-predicate form exist as things?  Are there such things as negative facts?  What thing does a mere jumble of words lack and is thus not a proper sentence?  If there are these things, how do they fit into the words or the one thing that is the collection of words?  So many impossible questions.  Wittgenstein asked them all and he was overwhelmed as am I.  What to do?


I say, if you are the least bit interested in what I say, that those things are things and they do exist and they are all joined up with various nexus or maybe pervasion or some other oozy, fusy thing.  It’s messy.  It’s a jungle.  It’s divinely hopeless.  Wittgenstein simply tells me to shut up because, while all my answers may be correct, they are meaningless and I am speaking the ineffable.  That is a sort of positivism, a philosophical rag shoved in the mouth of the would-be metaphysician.




6064  Philosophy jumps right to the ineffable and blurts it out.  It is so very meaningful.  Until one looks back and wonders just what it was that got spoken, then … nothing.  Poetry and literary prose give us joy.  Beauty appears in both the sound and feel of the words and around the images forced into the light of thought.  But philosophy is finally blank.  Its great truths are banal.  Bone dry sentences pile up.  An itch in the skin of awareness.  It’s deadly.


Still, for all that, some of us have a liking for the blank.  The necessary.  The last thing.  God.  The hand that makes you shudder.  A smooth lover.  A stone bacchanal.




6065  We Northern guys are always enchanted by guys from the East.  And vice versa.  One night in Bangkok makes a hard man humble and all that.  Tangier tangerines.  Nubile Nubians.  Blitzkrieg blonds.  Flighty darlings call, you fall.    Smooth white, smooth brown, smooth black (never slack) nighttime, laughing fighttime boyskin.  Watch out!  Your money’s soon gone.  Those innocent dears emerging directly out of the godhead.  They know.  They know you think you know.  You don’t.  I won’t go there.  Again.  And again.  And again.  I’m afraid I really do know there is no other meaning to my writing than that.  Divine, tainted love.  Boisterous gods in the cloister.  And in the morning a fainting blister.  Dream on, Gary.




6066  There is a great long tradition of alignment between boy enchantment and mystical theology.  Well, of course.  And why not?  Both are the most intense.  The heart, the head, the groin sink … tilt, veer off, rise up and explode all along the Great White Way.  It’s Opening Night.  The dancers are in the Dance.  The Form is eyed.  The glory of the militant host is out and about.  Divine devastation is everywhere.  Walk the streets, talk the talk, lick the sweets, it’s a rout.  Cruise the scene, he’s so lean, honey, you’re going to be seen.  Right out there with the boys in invisible light.  The long, long tight night of sweet judgment.  Collusion.  Concussion.  Bham!  You never knew. 




6067  I write incessantly of boy-gods.  Do they really exist?  Yes.  Out there on the streets?  No.  Where?  In writing.  But writing is real and they really are there.  The gods have taken up residence in literature.  Or don’t you believe in such a thing?  You have no idea.  Words arranged in divine manipulation follow me around.  They say, Look here, look there.  I am taken, controlled, rolled around.  Half-conscious, half-knowing.  The divine essence seeps out.  And about.  I am about dead.  He doesn’t care.  Soon the stairs.  I speak of what I should not.  I am doomed to be his groom.  I am up to it.  I write exquisitely.




6068  The last few times I wrote about boy prostitutes and religion.  The union of such marginalized things is so very traditional.  I am a traditionalist.  Mary is said to be ταπεινη, tapeinei, which is usually translated as humble and lowly, meaning meek and mild.  It really means struck and beaten down.  Throughout the Bible, God works through the bottom scum of society.  There is always violence involved.  And the fact that Christianity has lifted up a form of killing as its symbol itself has terrible meaning.  Therefore, boy prostitutes and our religion are of course naturally aligned.


I have also said that all of this intercourse of man and the gods is a literary affair.  If that is to make sense it must also be a liturgy.  Liturgical speech is not learned, expert dissertation.  It is a doing within the laity.  In liturgy the trashy part of town in held up as a holy offering.  Gestures and magical words fly through the air.  That is the street, the strewn pieces of being.  Out there everything is imbued with frightful mystery.  Irony reigns.  The queens strut.  Argot is spoken and visions whirl into place.  But only for those who can see and can hear the glossolalia.  The swaying prick.  The chanting cant that paralyzes the mind into the Mysterium.  The thorn pricks.  That is why our pristine academics want nothing to do with true religion, the metaphysics of back alleys, and they beat it red hot.




6069  In First and Second Maccabees, certain Jews are vigorously complaining about the increasing Hellenization of Israel, especially about the setting up of gymnasia.  That latter, of course, was where Greek pederasty was in full bloom.  The people were aware of the κιναιδοι, the catamites, that hovered about.  Ah, Greece!  And the story of the youth close by Jesus in the Garden of Gethsemane, the one who fled naked when the guards grabbed his Sindona – and maybe him.  That looks mightily like things Hellenic were afoot.  I think the early readers of Mark would get it.  Jesus too fled death and left his Sindona when in the tomb.  What’s going on here?  I let my imagination wander, just as, I’m sure, those early readers must have.  A cover-up was desperately needed for this uncovering.


A Sindona (originally from Sindh) was a fine and costly piece of loose linen, somewhat like a priestly surplice.




6070  The Greeks not only gave us cultural pederasty, they also gave us cultural anti-pederasty.  And while Plato wrote up the most exalted tribute to Eros in the Phaedrus, he also led us into extreme asceticism and erotophobia. There are many who credit the Church with modern homophobia, but it was the Greeks who started it.  All of which is not so surprising when you consider just what Eros and the Boy really are.


Consider Andre Gide, a modern pederast as seen in The Immoralist.  He believed that desire was most intense when it was not acted out.  Yes, we may all agree, but such intensity cannot be maintained, release is almost required.  Or is it?


In the Symposium boy love is said to be a transcendent, uranian love, not earthly as is love of women.  Thus boy love aligns with contemplation of the separate Forms.  It is finally a great stillness.  Is it really?  That is what I have written up at length.  But then again what I have in mind may not at all be what others imagine.  I reckon that it isn’t.  I have said many times that there is an eternal gulf between the ontological, as I have called it, and the ordinary.  I write something not only unrecognized, but probably unwanted.  I write an unrelenting intensity.  An ascetic eroticism.  And oblivion.




6071  The asceticism that is contemplation of the separate Forms is certainly outside the everyday sway of things.  Boy love, Greek pederasty, our gateway to the Transcendent, is definitely not considered to have a place in the proper ordering of worldly life.  It is less than marginalized, it is anathema.  But that thing offered up to the gods, a set up, is at the center of religion, if not of our secular freedom.  Now hardly anyone, though, understands the idea.  And such religion is in question or it would be if anyone cared.  Have the gods and man forever gone their separate ways, unrelated?  Hardly.  The accursed, το αναθεμα,  is still with us, the pederast, the daimon from the other side.  It is, as always, the unseen center, just as Platonism is still the very heart of philosophy, though no one claims to be a Platonist in public. Or if he does so claim, no one hears.


There is good cause for paranoia here.




6072  Being is stillness.  I write Being.  Therefore I use the ever-varying repetition of the prose continuum, not the chunkiness of poetry.  I love minimalist music with its ever-so-slight modulations.  Some have said that the cybernetic loop in the electrical brain in fact is consciousness, but no; it is only an image of that still greater unity that is transcendental simplicity.  Likewise, all the rhetorical tricks are a felicitous facilitation with falling into rapture into the beyond.


Long stretches of reading, the edge of sleep, hypnagogia, paedagogia, the captain calls and the tall mast falls, bricks on your head.  Advance!




6073  Do boy-gods exist in real life?  I have said, No.  They are only literary, ontological creations.  You understand.  It would be absurd to see that dull thing you meet on the sidewalk as a god.  Yes, yes, yes.  You do understand.  I understand.  But the gospels say otherwise.  “Insofar as you do it to the least of these etc.”  Do what? 


The  deconstructive beauty of mystical Persian poetry is that one cannot be quite sure if the poet is speaking of God or an earthly boy.  Oscillation.  And the Absurd of existentialist theology says the same.  Are we to jump into the sun?  I suppose so.  I have tried to write the sun.  It’s impossible.  Nonetheless …




6074  One of the easiest ideas to understand in ontology is that an ordinary object is different from a collection of things that placed together make up that object.  We could say that such a collection is, ontologically speaking, nothing at all.  A clock is not a box full of clock pieces.  In clockdom or clock-speak that box holds no sway.


Ontology itself is just such a box full of pieces.  A god-child’s toy-box.  Worlds are made from out of it.  And as with toys jumbled around, it is magical to contemplate.  Somehow the pieces strewn about. as are the stars in the sky, fascinate.  The Fascinans.  The Sky, the Box, the Mind of God … Being.  The List on a Scroll held by the bookkeeping angels, a Catalogue of all the ontological pieces, glistening jewels on the cheek of night’s chrism, the boy gazes at himself in the Mirror, acne rosettes.


The List, the collection, nothing at all, the swirling allusions of our allotropic poets.


In my philosophy, following Bergmann, I have the nexus, which is supposed to turn a mere collection into a proper unity, a one thing.  Alas, it becomes one more element in the list that now includes the bare particular.  Ontology and an ordinary thing are ever separate.  I have a God of the pieces.  Loose gems.  I rummage around.  I cruise the streets.  I list in the cold wind.  Frisson.




6075  I just had a rather pleasant little discussion about big matters with three very decent young Mormon missionaries out on the chilly sidewalk.  I more or less invited them to accost me, though they weren’t my type, but oh well.  I’m sure they thought I was crazy.  Maybe I am.  I gave them my usual spiel.  I accused them of worshiping the family and not God, and that went right over their heads making no sense at all as it passed.  To make a long story short, fundamentalists always end up in the same place with me, namely, I intellectualize too much.  They sadly conclude their words are going nowhere with me.  And the reason, I think they would agree, is that I live alone;  I should be married with a family to keep my mind properly occupied on my salvation, which I think means not falling into the hellish pit of intellectualizing.  I’m doomed.  Let me explain.  Fundamentalists are positivists, which means they think philosophical speculation is not only meaningless, but worthless, more than that, it is harmful to the soul.  In other words, metaphysics is bunk, maybe the spunk of an intellectual drunk.  And, as I said, the only sure way to stop its destructive power in one’s soul is to immerse oneself in the care of the family, even if it’s just the family of man.  Otherwise madness, aka philosophy, will get you and hell itself is in your head.  Surely though, not just fundamentalists, but almost everyone thinks that today.  Alas




6076  Here is my critique of Mormonism.  I’m writing this because three young guy missionaries engaged me in conversation about this and I went back to the universal source Wikipedia (I donated ten dollars to them and so should you) and learned a thing or two about that much maligned religion.  It’s rather Swedenborgian.  Anyway, I discovered it’s a fine religion for heterosexuals who want to have Jesus as their good friend and God as Father.  That isn’t me, though.  I don’t want such a set up.  I want Jesus as lover.  I want him as the one in whom I can lose my very self.  I want orgasmic oblivion in a mystical becoming one.  So gay.  So queer.  So not Mormon.  Oh well, to each his own.  Here is St. John of the Cross and The Spiritual Canticle.  Also in the upper right hand corner of this blog there is Dark Night of the Soul, my favorite.




6077  I’ve spent the last couple of days reading Wikipedia and trying to figure out fundamental Mormon theology, believe me it is a glorious mess.  Those early people were beautifully passionate, doubly pointedly argumentative, wildly assertive in describing their differing visions of heaven.  I love it.  Look out!  It reminds me of the fights that went on within my Grandmother’s Pentecostal Church.  She was a holy terror in theological debate.  I, of course, try to be the same.  And that is what sets us apart from the casual, laid back, who-cares attitude that has settled in hard today.


In addition to all the theological wrangling there was an over-abundance of sexual energy thrown about.  Polygamy and all that.  The male was hot.  I guess I am in there with them and the vision-thing is where I got it and why I can’t let go of it.  And why I don’t go to church where these days sweet smiles guard the door against thought.  In the Orient they fight over religion, why can’t we?


It goes without saying that I would love to take my queer theology into battle with the Mormons, but today they are too unconcerned with theology and they would just roll their eyes and walk away.




6078  Emile Durkheim made the claim that “the religious is the social”.  Thus religion has become one more place where the individual abandons himself to the group.  Other such places are the corporation, the military, sports, a musical group, a philosophical school, a political party and on and on.  It is a church denomination.  There is a certain pleasure and power that comes with such a joining together.  But it also leads to group-think and an inability to think for oneself.  This social or socialistic cohesiveness has both positive and negative aspects.  My problem when I want to discuss theology with religious people is that it is nearly impossible to find someone who hasn’t given himself over to the formulaic thinking of the group.  I end up talking to robots.  Of course they don’t see it as machine programming, but spiritual harmony.  Even those in the Schellingesque Nature religion of eco-spirituality and the Race are stuck in a rut and the roar of the Urge, evolutionary or otherwise.  I am already walking away from all of it.   




6079  The American fundamentalist churches, which of course includes most of Mormonism, speak incessantly and so very heavily of the family and its comforting, saving love.  But there is something screwy in that speaking.  It praises the family because, I think, it sees, rightly sees, the family as the great danger.  Matthew 8 - 21 Then another of His disciples said to Him, “Lord, let me first go and bury my father.”22 But Jesus said to him, “Follow Me, and let the dead bury their own dead.”  It seems that Jesus is forcefully subordinating the family to his strict discipline.  Even to the point of abolishing it.


Because I have lately been bugging a Mormon preacher about his beliefs he led me to a site that apparently was intended to lead me away from the violence of philosophical thought into God’s gentle love.  That love is what the church preaches above all the destructive forces out and about.  I think two of those forces are philosophical dialectic and the material family.  Both must be tamed.  The church sees itself as the civilizing element.  Otherwise, sexual energy runs rampant.  Raise the ramparts against it!  The gentle Jesus will save us.  I suppose there is some truth in all that.




6080  In “The Painter of Modern Life” here Baudelaire speaks of Beauty as something artificial, the product of reason and calculation, a spell opposing criminal Nature.  He is praising cosmetics and fashion as a sign of the civilized mind. Oh my, he seems so politically incorrect for our time.  Nonetheless, he is one of the founders of modernity.  He then seems doubly out of step when he praises the stylish woman for her ability to surpass the merely natural with pure artifice.


It was Aschenbach in Death in Venice who was forced to recognize and love natural beauty, as something greater than his intellectual compositions.  The boy was naturally beautiful.  Even so Tomas Mann did choose a boy and not a woman for his story.  And it was the Greeks who were so captivated by the sweet smell of a boy’s sweat after exercise and who derided a woman’s beauty from a bottle.  Baudelaire seems so anti-Greek.


I am the one who has said so many bad things about Nature and the Bitch Goddess and who has praised the Supernatural, but I have also praised the natural beauty of the boy.  I really have had almost nothing to say about artifice, though I have quoted Kenneth Clarke and Aristotle, both of whom asserted that it is the job of art to make up for the short comings of nature.  Also, I must admit that I do decorate my writings with rhetorical devices.  In truth the natural beauty of the boy and of art, including mine, is but a momentary, very fleeting appearance of the Eternal Forms.  I do see Baudelaire’s point and the Greek and the politically correct and the politically incorrect and the difficulty of speaking coherently about any of it.  The Via Moderna and the Via Antigua collide.




6081  Kierkegaard, in The Present Age, ridicules those who think that listening to speeches urging revolution is the actual act of revolution.  People go to rallies, they hear exciting oratory, they fervently want to act, then they go home and dream.  The point is that words and dreams never do become real action.  The existential moment is never reached.


And so it is in all of life; we never seem to be able to actually be.  We imagine and we compose a world in words.  Actuality eludes us.  Does actuality exist?  Is everything finally just shimmering possibilities?  Impossibilities?


The Police Chief of the World watches and listens to the discontented vociferously complain.  They rally in chat rooms.  He knows that as long as their pale existence is merely verbal that they are harmless to themselves and everyone else.  But if suddenly the chat room goes silent, he starts to worry.  They could be plotting to take action and someone may get hurt.


Revolutionaries who take the leap from words to action always make a mess of things.  Nothing good comes of it; terror is sown around.  We live on the edge where what isn’t real is about to be.  A knife’s edge.  Thrilling and frightening.  Then nothing.  Still, the world seems to have changed.  Or has it?


Is there really an existential moment when dreams become real?  Can we really bring ourselves to that magical place in time?  I think so, but it’s intellectually tricky.  Philosophy is just that trick in the night of the spirit.  Silence speaks.




6082  Materialism is fashionable in this virtual age.  It is really an inside-out Platonism.  Now, instead of having brute stuff and transcendent Forms, we have softness pregnant with sleepy life-forms.  That is to say we have jelly-fish brains attached to computer screens, sizzling with magic-lantern images.  The materialism of today is highly mathematical, set theoretical, cybernetic, and – who knows – maybe fractal.  It is a sweet compost of pellucid iterations.


No one knows what goes on inside a computer chip, not even the engineers who designed them or the Chinese kids who sort of made them.  Especially down at the quantum level where the gods live.  Yes, instead of up there, it is all down the scalar stairs to no-there-there. 


The problem with a world built out of sets infinitely ascending and infinitely descending, is that no solid ground ever appears on which we might firmly stand.  It becomes an everlasting swoon.  That is not matter.  Nor is it Mater.  It is a girl in reverie and a little heat.  The boys watch.  Or some of them do.  Others, I know for a fact, long for the hardness of the last thing.  Look straight ahead, he waits out there.




6083  I just watched Richard Dawkins and some other lesser-known atheist naturalists sit around engaging each other in very polite argument. Life and philosophy in a well-catered panel discussion.  A symposium without cushions or dancing boys breaking to disturb their placid composure.  Everything was as it should be.  Later, lying on my bed, I realized they were just a bunch of Mormons.  Could it be that Naturalism (with a capital N) is just Mormonism?  Let me explain.


It is well-known that Mormonism is extremely polytheistic.  And also that these gods have physical bodies.  In fact, the Mormon heaven is exactly like this crowded earth, except that everything is GLORIFIED and EXALTED (extreme capital lettering).  The naturalism they were discussing, I sensed, was a magnificent utopian dream.  It was exalted, glorified naturalism (this-worldism); it was SUPER-naturalism.  They all seemed to be having a vision of a place just like this earth, this world, except free of God and religion and all that oppressive crap.  It was sort of Ayn Randian.  That is Mormonism.  It is this world lifted up to be itself, or ITSELF.  No more other-worldly Platonism.  No more dancing boys.  How boring!




6084  The ever academic Postmodern style of writing is an attempt to escape from modern atomism, i.e. from decadence.  Here is an essay by Paul Bourget, The Example of Baudelaire.  In the section A Theory of Decadence he writes. “A decadent style is one in which the unity of the book falls apart, replaced by the independence of the page, where the page decomposes to make way for the independence of the sentence, and the sentence makes way for the word.”  Modernism broke things into pieces and then marveled at all the loose gems.  Today, such analysis is bemoaned as a loss of soul.  The Postmoderns want the Whole, a holistic, eco-systems cybernetic oneness.  And consequently their writing moves in the opposite direction from decadence, or falling, or der Verfall.  To read a young writer today is to be carried along on a smooth wave of words disappearing into sentences disappearing into paragraphs disappearing into long, very long happy essays.  The soul is joyful in its ability to get lost in the ocean of gently undulating unthought.  For these guys the mechanical ways of modernity, its cutting bifurcations, its alienating isolations, its butch ways, lead to the threatening prospect of a degenerating world.  To entartete Kunst.  Back to health! is now the byword.  Away from evil.  Toward synthesis and away from analysis.




6085  What is Satanism?  I can only guess.  I imagine a dandy.  He is making a very rational metaphysical statement.  He wants to say that all is the emptiness of elegance, best exemplified by an exquisite cut in the perfection of refined taste.  Satan is the fastidious man.  The aesthetic connoisseur. Balance and simplicity.  And he is the unstated biological grotesqueness that manages to ooze through the casual, but labor-intensive attire - never mind.  The Satanist is a man-about-town, pretending unpretentiousness.  Tortured by perfection.  Rational to the hilt.  Concerned.  Don’t worry, it’s all a great show and he winks knowingly.


Today, he fancies himself the protector of the female principle against the male.  Well, why not?  But surely the female doesn’t need his protection.  Nor does the world.  Glib, he lives in the underground above ground.  He is smooth, but boys talk behind his back.  Or am I thinking of myself?




6086  There are so many things to learn if you want to be an adept.  And because the adept is in time and transformations continue apace, and one guru speaks differently from another and the spirits themselves argue, it is finally impossible.  Thus the first lesson is learned: just make something up and have a profound, concerned, orderly, bemused … look on your face.  La Bêtise.  Be impregnable with your immovable soul.


Every religion, of good and of evil, is replete with correspondences.  The five this, the four that, the twelve of those, the three of another.  Names melting into other names.  Slicker than green snot.  A hot house paradise.  A rotting compost.  Art and biology at one.  Fauve.  Eco-putrification.  Intellectual crap.  For the computer head.  No one doubts the network.


I wonder what the ladies think of it all.  In religion women are turned into boys manqué.  I think they are not amused, but the guys feel better.




6087  I like minimalist electronic music.  And lately I’ve been thinking about buying a virtual synthesizer, so I went to Youtube for some insight.  What I found was something akin to ancient mythology.  Music really has become the religion of our time, which, I suppose, should surprise no one who knows about these matters.  The various orders and sects and disciplines are now called brands and product lines and version upgrades.  It’s all very computational.  One must first learn the arcane names of the primary elements and their generative functions.  Dials and settings and input/output.  Hierarchies of angels and gods and filters and feedback loops.  It is mighty complicated, but, hey, that heady complexity is the fun of religion.  It takes years to become a Master.  One eventually oneself becomes a motherboard among the Mothers (I conjecture), but that’s only a distant vision.  Geek talk is the same talk that went on among the young Egyptian priest candidates.  Oh, to be recognized as a Grand Sage!  Electronic hieroglyphic schematic diagrams are a safe image of the deadly biological Medusa.  To talk shop here is indirect dirty sex talk among teenagers.  Life is too dangerous if approached directly.  So many things to learn.  At least the hardware is now clean, no bad smell and no sticky softness.  The female has been saved from the Horror of Water.




6088  Wittgenstein is a seminal writer of our time.  And then there are all of his pregnant epigonous groupies.  I know those others exist but I don’t hang out with that lot.  I do, however, joyfully attend to the memory of the Master and also a couple of now almost-forgotten Old World fellows.  Really, I detest groups, aka schools.  Sadly, the truth is that only Wittgenstein’s latter work, his miserable success, is spoken of today.  His Glorious Failure, the Tractatus, is a museum piece.  I haunt the museum.


One more time I want to explain that philosophy.  The question concerns our awareness of logical form.  I recognize an object – it is a lizard.  And my senses send data up into my sensorium.  The thought that that is a lizard is not the same at all as the sensual field that inhabits me.  Today’s naturalists never wonder about thoughts; they only attend to the sensual wave. 


So I have, or am, a thought.  It has propositional form.  It is subject-predicate.  A property is tied to a particular.  That tie is pointed to by the word “is”.  That is a lizard.  And the property, the form, is the same in all such recognizing.  Sameness is a something.  As is universality and particularity and the ordering of the one to the other.  Order is a something.  And relations.  And that which is pointed to by the words “all” and “some” and even “and”.  They are all “somethings”, finally unspeakable.  That is Wittgenstein.  But few are interested.  I see it as the Logos, the Boy of Form and Form’s Form.  Thinking, he escapes.  I suppose I was he.




6089  Here is why I am definitely not an Epicurean, Lucretian materialist.  My image of those guys and of their modern descendents is of a gentle, intelligent man of reasoned pleasure.  He serves and he is happy to serve.  He enjoys life and he wants others to enjoy life also.  Of course, he values education.


The reason I could never be that is because for me life is the madness of erotic love, necessarily unrequited, always contentious, a demand that I ever continue on through one silent catastrophe into another.  Love is a severed head rolling down the street.  I twist and turn until I reach the orgasmic blowout and then after a timeless instant in the Nihil, I begin again.  I force existence back into myself.  Today’s neo-materialists turn away, not believing in existence.  Buddhist monks have told me they understand.  Real monks, not New Age bodhisattvas.


Love and philosophy are violent, thus I am a theist.  That is the God who raped Jacob and turned him into Israel. 




6090  I just spent a few moments looking up Nick Land and his libidinal materialism.  I learned a thing or two, very little.  His libidinal force is probably the Vis of Leibniz.  That’s good; I like Leibniz.  Or it is the dark, numinous sexual drive the Fascinans of Schopenhauer, which is, I suppose, a priori fascinating, but its femaleness scares me.  And then there are his Francis Bacon creepy biological things.  Bacon put all his paintings behind glass - I conjecture to put it all in that temenos that is art.  Anyway, Nick Land also seems to have the glass of academic, gentleman respectability about him and he thereby shoves his literary philosophy into the grove of the aesthetes.  Ah, the glass.




6091  A couple of postings back I wrote “Today’s neo-materialists turn away, not believing in existence.”  Then, in a comment, someone who may himself be a neo-materialist wrote, “The Lucretian path is not away from existence … .”  I think now it behooves me to defend my statement.  I faintly hear horses hooves coming behind me.


Is it possible for a materialist of any stripe to believe in existence?  As far as I know, for them, the world we directly experience supervenes on an underlying numinosity.  I have never had a clear understanding of supervenience, but I think it is some sort of dependency.  I think they mean to say that the world is an emergent property of whatever that underlying thing or unthing is or … .  Can we way that that whatever-it-is-down-there exists or is a thing?  Do emergent properties have being? My guess is that a materialist would want to withhold such “human” categories in the face of that great otherness.  As for the world, would they really say that it “exists”?  It seems to me that a something that supervenes on a mystery is rather far from true existence.  Doesn’t the world become a fantastic dream for the materialist, sort of a Matrix illusion?  Or have I become too “ontological” in my wonderings.  I think I have for what he was trying to say.  As I quietly sit in a rented room, my pseudo-transcendental analyses seem far from his terrifying encounter with the dark muse.  I will leave him to his intensities.  Love’s tears in my coffee are as far as I ever get. 




6092  As far as I can figure out a materialist believes that the world we see supervenes on a dark mysterious something or some-unthing.  Behind the bright appearances there is a shadowy Other.  I am not a materialist of that sort.  In my philosophy there is what appears or is present to our direct awareness and nothing else.  There is no dark mystery, no hidden Ungrund.  No abyss.  No material mesh.  In all that, I am somewhat like Bishop Berkeley and Malebranche, except for their having put it all “in the Mind”.  What is there before me is not in anything, not even Time.  It is enough that what is present to the mind’s eye exists.  The question then becomes that of just what it is that does present itself.  Thereby hangs a long tale.




6093  Am I a Cartesian dualist?  A damned Cartesian dualist?  Not really, though I do believe that mind and the objects it knows are two and not one.  That is the act-object distinction that used to be mentioned so often.  I think so many are against such a bifurcation L because they see it as the ground of man’s alienation from man and Mother Earth.  They see it that way because they are thinking of Cartesian representationalism, which I abjureJ.  Let me explain.  Representationalism, which is virtually ubiquitous, is the belief that the mind knows only what is in the mind; it knows the outer world indirectly through inner images of the world, through vicars, deputies, concepts.  Fie, as I see it the mind knows the world directly, without intermediaries.  Such concepts, surrogates, pixy proxies, don’t exist.  There are no re-presentations.  Thus the Cartesian-Lockean ideas are not there.  When I look out my window at the train going by I am looking directly at the train going by.  I am definitely not looking at some imprint on my brain or some virtual thing “between” my mind and the world.  I see the train and it is purple! and noisy.  It really is that.  And I am the perceiving and the thought that it is so.  Call me naïve, call me unenlightened, but don’t call me after midnight.




6094  There is one other piece of Cartesianism that I will have to abjure or forswear.  That is the distinction between primary and secondary qualities.  Primary qualities are supposedly objective and the secondary ones are subjective.  As I see it they are all objective, out there, independent of mind.  I think I am tacking against a mighty philosophical headwind by saying that.  Nota bene T. P. Nunn here


Likewise, I want to separate myself from those present day worries about scientific objects, such as the space-time (dis)-continuum and that lively zoo of sub-atomic particles.  (Brentano actually came to think that colors don’t exist, only the physical stuff that causes their illusory appearance in the mind.)  Today, so many of those who call themselves realists are thinking of a type of critical realism.  Somewhere beyond our subjective experiences (which, they say, is all we directly know, sort of) there lies the mystery that science so fervently wants to fathom.  We are back at primary and secondary qualities, only this time the primary thing is X and the secondary ones are literally nothing.


As I see it material things like clouds, earlobes, motorcycles, fire, and jack rabbits exist.  They are not “really” quarks or whatever.  They are clouds, earlobes, motorcycles, fire, and jack rabbits.  Or rather, ontologically speaking, they are exemplifications of those timeless Forms by bare particulars, matter if you will.  Then again the ordinary world is not the ontological.  It is there that I reach one of the limits of thought.




6095  An elegant man on the internet has recommended that I read Henry E. Ellison, so I will.  Or I will try.  He is a Kant scholar and Kant-Studien is notoriously difficult.  He recommended his idea of “two-aspect theory, where noumena and phenomena refer to complementary ways of considering an object.”  Oh my!  Before I start reading – I see his books are in the library – I want to say something about the notion of “aspects”.  But before that a little story about a very good Kant scholar I knew personally.  I’ll call him MG.  Back in the early 1970s he was a three-piece suit guy in a blue jeans era.  As a teacher he was tough.  He had medals from the German government for his work.  He was impressive.  And he and I spent a couple of months fighting over the same boy.  We both lost.  Oh well!  One of his books on the proper interpretation of the Critique of Pure Reason has as its main premise the assertion that Kant, not only misunderstood Aristotle, but Kant misunderstood Kant, the very Critique he was writing.  The truth is that that magnificent book is a mess as are all great books, Plato, the Bible, Shakespeare and on and on.  Now for aspects.


I really don’t know the difference between an aspect and a property.  And properties I assert are universals exemplified by bare particulars.  That aside, to call moumena and phenomena aspects or properties, to me, makes no sense.  Nonetheless, let that be, N and P are complimentary.  And they are ways of seeing.  I suppose they don’t exist except as ways of seeing, i.e. they are mind-dependent.  It seems there is a world out there that we see through ways of seeing.  And we cannot see around those ways.  The mind cannot get outside itself and its ways.  It is trapped.  Hasn’t it always been the desire of Idealism to get out of that trap?  What is out there?  X


Let’s suppose that N and P aspects are not mind-dependent, but real.  Do we intuit them directly or only through another set of complimentary aspects?  Isn’t the real always bifurcated (I love that word) for us.  Noumenosity is the phenomenal aspect of noumena and phenomen-osity is the phenomenal aspect of phenomena which would then make phenomena noumenal with cross-eyed re-spect to that.  I am reminded of Hindu logic and the pot-ness-ness of the pot-ness of a pot.  I think Kant divided N from P in order to stop just such regress into the pit.


Then there is Heidegger somewhat hermetically mentioning the Modes of Dasein.  Do you really want to go there?  Me neither.


I do right well understand the word “phenomena”, but the meaning of “noumena” remains numinous to me, a theo-poetic swoon.  So I speak of boys-gods and all that instead.  He’s close even now.  Bham!




6096  When I read those philosophers who today romance the void.  When I watch their rapture in a crush of words.  And Difference itself differentiates itself from itself from that beginning that is always beginning.  Again.  The end is long ago or never.   I am amazed.  The words keep coming and the emptiness builds and fire and the soul almost is, but then the oscillation and his mouth repeats something I don’t understand, but no matter, it is un-understandable, and I am out into the wind of high expectations.  Then nothing.  What’s the point?


Does time create the self of the self?  Or does the self create time?  I haven’t been myself lately.  A belated thought.  It’s all been said and done and all the fun has been had.  Numbers are pure.  Purity is a boy’s cheek.  But no, I must remain more abstract.  Purity is the difference between.  What is the difference between an orange?  Is it hotter in the summertime than it is on the farm?  It’s fucking Zen.  I’ve been had.  Bad.  There is no meaning to the word “create”.  I am a Humean.  Things just happen to be together regularly.  What could be more banal?  Evil is the most banal.  The non-self-identical.  The word “the” should be taken out of that.  Brute synthesis of nothing with nothing.  Such philosophy is not an order discovered and laid out, but pure performance.  Either you can do it or you can’t.  But maybe you don’t want to.  I think I don’t.  That god’s been had too many times.  Give me a virgin.  I have my own way of doing things.




6097  Here’s how we should understand Deleuze.  He is trying, he sort of says, to move us away from nouns to verbs.  He wants to go all the way to the pure event that is a verb.  He wants to get away from the dead fixed stillness of the noun.  Of course all that is hard to say without using nouns.  Or verbs that have a fixed, dead meaning.  Nonetheless, by twisting and twisting and twisting words into impossible sentences he tries.


He doesn’t succeed.  But ends up turning everything into the jargon of long noun phrases.  And his English translators only make it worse.  He finally lands exactly where he didn’t want to go.  Asphyxiation.


Consider this:  your lover surprisingly from behind bites you on the neck.  Nouns: a lover, teeth marks, a wet patch, your sore neck.  Deleuze wants to get beyond all that to the actual event.  And beyond that to pure biting or in the infinitive form he loves – to bite.  He wants to say that such pure happenings come first and that finite verb forms and the things that nouns name follow.  He wants the unthings that verbs name.  The purity of the event.  He thinks that is an anti- or inverted Platonism.


Here’s how I differ from Deleuze.  I too separate out the verb.  But more than that I separate out all the little connector words and the simple demonstratives and the bare generic universal and the quantifiers and the prepositions and the togetherness of all those things and on and on.  I end up with a great menagerie of unobjects.  Deleuze should be happy, but he’s dead so it’s too late.  All that is ontological analysis.  Radical cutting.  The act of doing philosophy.  Using one of those big frenchy, Lautreamont words, I will call it Dismemberment.  What Deleuze called an event, I call existence.  Extreme! Platonism.  The separate ontological things exist, and they ain’t ordinary things.  At the peak of perfect stillness in the caught-up breath.  That guy was just not radical enough.




6098  Philosophical writing is not scientific writing.  Heidegger was right.  Philosophy is now and it always has been a matter of style.  It is performance.  It is Broadway and off-Broadway and that perfect lonely stage all the way up on a high rock where decadent spirits lounge.  For me it has been the abandoned Prairie as the Wind lays his curls across my electric skin.  It’s all a matter of embodied geometry.  Well-timed lingual advances.  A shudder and then the frisson.  Whistling. You’ve been loved.


No adult performance is perfect every time.  Only in that special moment of adolescence are mistakes impossible.  And then there are the commentators and the translators and the editors who seem hell-bent on devastation.  Anyway, the point I want to make concerns today’s postmodern philosophers.  They revel in difficulty.  Sometimes they pull it off, usually not.  Every once in a while I listen to that Continental Crowd descending Jacob Boehme’s ladder and a few lines are delivered superbly.  The void shimmers.  Mostly it crashes.  It is good philosophy.  No adult can do better.  It is showbiz all the way.




6099  Can any writing in French, a language that has inherited the hard sounds of Imperial Latin, be properly translated into English?  No.  With Baudelaire we can gain the sense but not the sonority.  I suspect most French philosophers aim to capture the grandeur that is their tradition.  Mostly they fall short.  Of course.  And our academic translators and commentators, with a good heart, send the arrow of thought even farther off course.  What to do?  C’est la guerre.


Heidegger has shown that German certainly is capable of mystischen Ahnung.  English has yet other powers.  English speaks truth in the low register.  That is to say, in the naked grain of Anglo-Saxon.  Plain speech.  Low and hard.  Hardly anything at all.  Just that.  But truth then goes off to play hide-and-seek in our Norman gift.  The Northman, the Vikings, still gently lay terror in the thinking mind of the young student.  And that they learned to speak the language of Imperial Rome is grotesque.




6100  Another blog writer has pointed out that I am rather flippant about matters know nothing of.  Well yes.  I am an Iowa small town smart aleck.  (“Aleck”  comes from Alexander out to conquer the world.)  I can afford to be so because I have no institution I am beholden to, no hierarch I am humbled before, no puritanical scholarly tradition I must uphold.  I have nothing to lose.  Except heaven, and I will take it by force.  The Boy plays his games and I respond.  It’s magic.


Atheism is so damned serious.  So morally concerned.  So proper.  Here in my Temenos I fuck around.  The sacrifice is being prepared.  The timing must be perfect.  I am mightily constrained.  By something other.  A hand even now is moving up my back.  His wind blows.  My sail is high. 


A visitor came, his gazelle-like neck

Topped by a face, a crescent of beauty:

His glances flash with Babel’s sorcery,

His lips are sweeter than the daughter of vine:

His cheek puts to shame all roses,

His teeth surpass all pearls in whiteness:

May be enter with your permission?

Or will you let him depart, perchance?




6101  “No ontology of time is possible, and yet ontology remains the sole foundation for discursive practices. There are only the shattered spars and the parodies of philosophy, as ruinous time pounds thought into the embers of an unwitting sacrifice, wreathed in a laughter as cold and nakedly joyous as the void.”

- Nick Land, The Thirst for Annihilation


Is an ontology of time possible?  No, any ontology we do come up with will succumb to the ravages of time.  Still, ontology does remain the sole foundation for discursive practice.  Or does it? 


Time is the everyday, the ordinary, the life we get on with.  Ontology is definitely not that.  The ordinary and the ontological are other.  Time is nature; ontology is heaven.  But you may not believe in heaven, and then ontology is quite literally nothing.  Time, the everyday is Woman, the Boy is … well, he and his devotees have no safe place in this everyday world.  Plato said as much in the Symposium.  Ontology is a stillness at the end of time.  End?  At the peak.  Peak?  In the oblivion at the final moment of life’s orgasm.  Oblivion?  The happening of the happening.  It’s as though nothing was there.  Nothing?  The Nothing?  Ontology is nothing, nothing at all, in the everyday.  How could it possibly be the only bottom to things when there is no bottom – to run through?  The everyday world has no foundation, no top, no bottom, no final anything.  Ontology is the kingdom of ends, the terms of Being.  Time and ontology are ever at each other.  When the one is on the throne the other is exiled.  No ontology of time is possible, no ontology of the everyday, of the ordinary, of family and friends and good times.  Ontology is a cold wind on the prairie.  The pure geometry of Being.  Few are called out into its openness.  Few would want to be there with the lover that waits.  I think that is just fine.




6102  Anyone who has rummaged around in my philosophical writings knows that I speak incessantly about bare particulars and universals and a nexus and fact.  I’m sure it is bewildering.  On the other hand, those same readers, when they come upon any mentioning of the phenomenal and the noumenal, seem to understand right well what they are.  Therefore let me compare and contrast those two ontological systems.


An ordinary object has properties.  We see what they are.  That is the universal and the phenomenal part.  Universals are phenomenal.  That object, though, is not just a set of abstract properties.  It is something more; it is – here our speaking becomes strange – the very being of that object itself in its innermost core.  It is that particular one in itself.  It is the thing itself.  Kantians call that the noumenal; I call it the bare particular.  That is the comparing part.


Now for the contrasting part.  Kantians tend to believe that phenomena, universals, are mind things.  I look at a blue bicycle.  Its blueness and its bicycleness are sensations and mental or language constructs projected out there.  And they think that the bicycle in itself, the bare thing, is beyond our seeing.  I, however, think the universals (its properties) are out there, i.e. they are not mental (or even brain) constructs and, yes, they are phenomenal.  But I also think that the particular, the bare thing itself, is, in addition to being out there, is phenomenal.  We see it directly.  I look at a bicycle and I see (in Kantian terms, intuit) the particular just that one.  So the difference between Kant and me is that I have phenomena out there and both the universal properties and the thing in itself are directly seen, phenomenal.  There is no noumenal, unseen anything in my philosophy. 


For a Kantian to say that the phenomenal and the noumenal are two aspects of some underlying one thing, to turn them into aspects, is to make them both phenomenal, just as I have done, except for the Kantian, those phenomenal aspects become ways of seeing, i.e. mental.  And we are smack dab in the middle of Idealism.  And the one thing beyond those complementary aspects is a mystery. 


I too join universal with particular *by means of a nexus) and I call that a fact.  Thereby hangs a long tale, which I have take hold of many times, but not now.


One other difference between my way of doing philosophy and Kant’s, is that mine feels more like hard analysis, while his has the feel of the ghostly fantastic.  Mine, I think, more properly fits talk of the boy as being totally open and seen.  While the mysterious and the hidden, the unseen, the enfolded, belongs to woman.




6103  In the Land of Academia, I am an undocumented alien.  I have no papers giving me the right to occupy a chair.   Or attend symposia and get high on mutual respect.  I am the cause of a bemused nod.  I say my piece quickly and leave.  I speak to the angels.  I know how to speak convincingly to border guards.  I go wherever I want.  I am free.


I have taken up with the Logical Atomists.  But the Atom Boy I envision is definitely not what they had in mind when they got that professorship and took out a mortgage on suburban living.  I walk by their homes in the evening and try to see through the upstairs windows as I fly high on transcendental destruction. 


I have never wanted to write long essays.  Or even one of those long postings so unbridled in emetic blogslogs.  An elegant, street simplicity in my style.  A hurry-up exchange before the ped-agogs lead their charge out of range.  In and out fast.  On the run.




6104  Let’s say that I look up and I see a purple sphere.  That you look up and you see a green oval.  That another looks up and sees a black tubular thing.  That many people look up, see something or other and that all their descriptions contradict each other, but they are all, nonetheless, looking at one and the same thing.  Can they all be right in what they see?  It’s an old question of philosophy.  How do we solve it?  Kant tried by making the appearances of a thing other than the thing-in-itself.  He thought he had overcome contradiction.  He did it at the expense of postulating an unknowable mystery, the Noumena.  I don’t want to go there; I don’t much like such mysterious things.


Let’s advance the question into a modern problem of physics.  Feynman spoke of the Sum-over-Histories.  Say we shoot an electron at a target.  According to Feynman, the electron doesn’t take just the straight-on shortest path to reach its goal, but every possible path.  At least that is the realistic way of interpreting the calculus.  A more idealistic way is to say that the calculus is only talking about the statistical probabilities of the electron taking a certain path.  It doesn’t really, but it may appear to do so.  An objective, ontological interpretation or an epistemological, subjective interpretation. 


Another example is that of parallel universes, where in one universe a something has such and such a property and then one and the same object has such and such different properties in another universe - totally different properties that contradict each other.  Can one object be in two universes?  Personally, I think it can, but what I think is neither here nor there.


So how do I solve the problem of a particular exemplifying contradictory properties.  Like this: let’s say x is G and y is ~G and that x and y are one and the same thing.  What I do is let x and y be two things with the relation of Identity between them.  The two are one because of the identity relation.  In symbols, Iden(x,y).  Do you think that’s a trick?  Well, yes it is, but it is true, because existence is just such a trick.  Live with it!  Every erotic philosophy, such as mine, crashes.  There is no other kind of Eros.  I have no choice but to dance across the floor with a partner I cannot leave.




6105  Superstition.  Science is not ontology and ontology is not science, no matter how much the new believers in scientism superstitiously bow down.  Wittgenstein has given us a definition of superstition.   


5.135  In no way can an inference be made from the existence of one state of affairs to the existence of another entirely different from it. 


5.136  There is no causal nexus which justifies such an inference.


5.1361  The events of the future cannot be inferred from those of the present.

Superstition is the belief in the causal nexus.


In science, we of course use the words cause and effect justifiably.  We search for patterns.  Such regularities are bound to maintain.  Bound to?  In ontology we ask what the cause and effect nexus is.  Is it a simple existent?  In everyday speech we say that one thing or set of things has the power to effect another.  We say that one thing or set of things exists because of another thing or set of things.  Ontology asks what power is.  What the word “because” names.   Is there some existent there?  A acts on B.  Acts on?  Somehow in all that we seem to be saying that one something brings another something into existence.  Brings into existence?  That is not strange as long as you really don’t think about it.  Are we saying that one thing or set of things has the ability to create?  Create?  There is something screwy here.  We are close to magic.  Close to superstition.


There is no such existent as the cause and effect nexus.  Rather there are patterns of repetition.  To say that A causes B is no more than to say that A and B happen together almost always.  To believe that the one has the power to bring the other into existence is mystical poetry, neither science nor ontology.


When an ontologist says there are no supernatural causes, only natural, he is speaking philosophical gibberish.




6106  A couple of postings back I tried to speak about the ontological ground of Identity.  I of course left an unsightly mess on the page.  Many have tried to do the same and no one has neatly managed.  That two are one is strange, to say the least.  Nonetheless, other considerations reveal something similar, if not identical.  Ontologically speaking, what is a set?  It is one thing; it is many things; it is a one-many.  Look at one of your thoughts, say the thought that you forgot to lock the door.  That thought is one simple thing, but the meaning of it – and the sentence that expresses it – are many.  One thing “maps” onto “a” many.  Screwy.  Nonetheless, that’s the way it is and we must be true to what we philosophically see.  And then there is that moment of anguish when Nelly said, “I am Heathcliff!”  Lovers become one, at least in love’s understanding – which may be the truest understanding of all.  Such is the devotee’s self sacrifice.  None of this is easy to watch or figure out.


And this is part of the critical anguish we have trying to unriddle cause and effect. 




6107  Today, Whitehead is very popular.  He is the philosopher of common sense and thus the heir of all those “scientific” young men who wanted to pull the minds of other young men out of the angelic skies and put them back in bodies that could walk steady and sure on solid ground.  He was a builder of systems.  He looked around for bugs of incoherence.  He believed that we should be able to interpret one system in terms of another.  There should be a smooth interface.  Of course it wasn’t always readily achievable, but it was the goal of system building.  No system stands alone, but together the systems explain each other.  In this manner, everything in the world is captured and explained and has a proper place.  The key word is “coherence”.  Things hang together in the System of systems.  In our cybernetic world of systems analysis, all of this is very easy to understand; it has become common sense.


In a system, individual things do not exist by themselves; that would be meaningless.   Therefore, such a system philosophy is not a thing philosophy.  I have a thing philosophy.  I break up the systems and put the individual atoms up for dis-play.  They become ανα-θεμα, literally “placed up”.  They are the old anathema, which meant that which was placed up on the altar, that thing destroyed in sacrifice.




6108  I suspect that those who call themselves Neo-materialists are really old systems analysts.  There was a time not so long ago when it was fashionable to think of  man as one active element in a giant eco-system.  Man  was a machine within a greater machine.  And within and about his body there were countless interactive lesser machines.  It was a magnificently balanced system.  All within the Absolute, the One Super-system called the Cosmos, a self-regulating, self-creating Divinity. No need of any outside guiding hand.  Supposedly.  It was an ideal vision.  Often we find these New Age hippie, Silicon Valley networking freaks still insisting that they are the true believers in a beautiful future.  It seems a  long  ways from the old materialists of yore and it's a long ways from the anything-but-ideal monster The System has become.  Rage is growing. 

Today, these guys all work for the VERY BIG financial, computer, educational, publishing, entertainment, ... Mega-Industry.




6109  The reason goal-oriented, decision making agents are always found in New Materialism, a resurrected teleology, is because of the controlling idea of our time - cybernetics.  And thus, for our eternal amusement, a general parousia of lesser loops: inter-connectivity, coherence, the System.  Self-generating, self-organizing, self-correcting folds within folds within folds.  A fractal fracas forever.  The informing form is neither above nor beneath, but immanent.  In the rhizome, in the wormhole riddling, rafting down rivulets of information receding into bad literature.  Alice of Wonderland and Bob the Encrypted.  There's no way back.

But what if the Whole, the Multi-verse, is not a cybernetic machine?  What if loops don't exist?   What if there is no "what if" leading to anything at all?  No sequential ordering.  No tentative squid-like probing.  No feedback bareback riding.  Well then, never mind.

The philosophy I have presented in not a teleology of any kind.  In fact, it is the Parmenidean stillness across which I slip my unmoving hand as though directing the advancing battalions of dreams along the form of sleeping eternity.   Beauty knocked on my door after midnight and I dutifully opened.  These things just are.  No agent.  No freewill.  No self.  He lies there in perfect revelation.  In the blank of the naked sun.




6110  It  may seem in the last few postings that I am arguing against a cybernetic model as a  proper description the Cosmos and all its sub-cosmoi.  As St. Paul says, "Mei genoito", let it not be.  In fact, I trust science to give us a glimpse of the divine form of the cosmic body.  I only want to have a closer look.  I want to get up  there on the catwalk with that model.  I want to ravish it.


Really, I'm doing philosophy, not science.  Philosophy has nothing to tell science and vice versa.  Science contemplates great structures.  I take out the wrench of love and begin deconstructing.  I am looking for only That.  Somewhere in the wreckage I will find it.  And that will be the end.


"The law was added so that the trespass might increase. But where sin increased, grace increased all the more, …  What shall we say, then? Shall we go on sinning so that grace may increase?"


If I sin against science, I do it that the grace of That One might blissfully destroy me.


What is the very essence of the cybernetic loop?  Who is that dark-eyed Narcissus?




6111  Does God and his cohort of gods exist only within the rhythms of the silent chant of reading?  The pada, the cows of the Vedas.




6112  Simple vs. complex.  Should we have an ontology of simple things or of complex facts?  Consider the lovely fact that it snowed today in Iowa City.  We could of course break that down into its simple ontological pieces.  Eventually.  Let's do it with something much less complex.  Consider a loud, high-pitched sound.  The simple things that make it up might be loudness, high-pitchedness, soundness, and also a bare particular to make it just that one and a nexus to tie all them together into one complex unity.  We could go "deeper" and separate out qualityness, particularity, nexusness, and on and on, somewhat like Hindu Nyaya.  The list can become quite extensive.  Just what is in it, though, for the moment, is not important.  The question is whether or not these simple things should be considered ontologically fundamental and therefore ultimate existents.


In Buddhist thought and also in Hegel's no simple thing can be said to finally exist.  Rather X exists only insofar as it is different from not-X.  Perhaps we could say that X is not-not-X.  But that "is" is Negation negating.  Coming up for breath, I will say that only the complex whole really is - in a mediated "is'.  In other words, the being of every thing is mediated by or through something other.  Indeed, in both of those philosophies it is the non-self of pure Negativity itself, i.e. simple negation iterating into itself as necessarily other than itself, that "matters" itself.  Mediated immediacy.  The emptiness of emptiness.  Neti, neti.


I, simply, maybe flippantly, negating all that, have an ontology of simple things, things just themselves.  Loudness is loudness even without anything else in existence.  Up is up without a down.  But because our normal thoughts are propositional, a simple complexity!, all that is very difficult to think.  It is almost ineffable, except that I just said it.  Nonetheless, it is the most refined thinking of all.




6113  This is going to be yet one more "attack" on Neo-materialism.  I don't attack anybody because they or their philosophy are evil, but simply because I thoroughly enjoy philosophical argument.  Like Socrates I think it is erotic.  I love my faggot verbal testosterone coming at you.  Anyway, why do materialists and idealists spend so much time worrying about trying to get to the outside, to that beyond the confines of their own minds?  I have adopted the philosophy of direct or naïve realism.  (Or it has been forced on me by the coming-at-me of Eros.)  Minds and thoughts exist and they "know" the world without mediation.  The world is as I see it – all those ineffective arguments about error and illusion notwithstanding. 


Berkeley was basically right, except for one thing (or maybe two or three).  He said that when he looked at the world he was looking into the Mind of God, and, because God was pure actuality, the things "in" Him were real.  Take from that that the things he saw directly were real.  No nothing was "behind" them.  They are not "in" matter.  They just are.  Color, sound, shape, feelings and on and on.  Berkeley's mistake, it seems to me was that he put all he perceived "in" a mind – after taking it out of matter.  (Apparently he needed to have things in things.)  I have existing minds in my philosophy, but the things I perceive, know, are not "in" it, i.e minds (though they are in my philosophy).  Rather there is an intentional nexus, a tie that joins mind and object in intimate unity.  I know that many philosophers like Husserl who speak of intentionality end up as idealists, but that is because they don't have any nexus as an existent.  I do.  Those pesky little things are extremely important if you're God and you're going to build a world.  No nominalist could ever make it as God.


All of this is just to say that when I look at the face of love before me, I am not looking at some interloper representative of that in my mind or brain.  I directly see what is there.




6114  One of my favorite books is Camille Paglia's Sexual Personae.  I have plastered pictures of her Greek Beautiful Boy all over my blog.  If you want to understand why they are there, you will have to read her book.  You will love it.  Then again you might throw it at the wall.


The Greeks put such a one up as an idol in order to counter-act the power of the Medusa, the pull of the chthonic.  Well, yes!  Ms Paglia thinks that it's an act of desperation and it will ultimately fail.  I think it is an act of desperation and it will work.  That though is beside the point.  She is marvelous at giving account of the bewitching realm of Persephone in the underworld and the androgyne that haunt the central places of our art.  I have learned literature from her.  And I see the truth of religion there.  We only differ on the shape of the final outcome.  The Lady or the Boy.  We are close to the Anathema and the cross.




6115  I am not a process philosopher, one who speaks his personal thoughts to a small group concerning a rather arcane objective at a single moment from a certain perspective limited to a particular aspect of a dubious characteristic often associated with an ambiguous half-presence slowly coming into view. I write the thing as it fully is, not as it appears.  All that puts me at odds with artists of depth.  I write the flat surface, the unchanging essence.  I write the Boy, not in a particular setting having a special form from a distance, but up close just as the universal.  It's a matter of taste.  A taste for the very abstract, the empty form.  To each his own.




6116  As I sit here on my bed looking across the room to one slowly removing his shirt, I unexpectedly wax philosophical.  At least I do at the beginning of this paragraph I am about to write.  The question becomes that of whether I am looking at him doing that and nothing less or am I looking at a very limited appearance of a something beyond, something I only dimly infer.  Do I see the object itself or only an aspect of it?  I assert that I directly see that one himself.  I do not live among the mere scraps of a cut-up unworld.  I am not tossing about in the fleeting appearances of an unknowable world-beyond.  I see the world and the things of the world in the fullness of their being.  I am not confined in the prison of my mind.




6117  I have travelled in and out of airports and hotels into rented rooms then overland by bus and out onto  sidewalks definitely not made for wheeled luggage and back, ever back along the same route until I'm exhausted and I crash.  Today I travel again for Christmas and last  night, after cramming my ideas into a couple of paragraphs and then dreaming about packing, I realized that packing my luggage and writing are exactly the same.  I shift from one to the other.  Here's another.




6118  As far as I can tell the fight between the Idealists and the Materialists is that the latter think the former have no weight in the world of ideas.   They agree that existence has form, even the extremely complex geometrical forms of quantum-relativity, but somehow geometry is not enough.  It seems that pure, abstract geometrical forms cannot account for mass, for gravity, for inertia/acceleration; there has to be (to speak anthropomorphically) material heaviness.  Thus, in Thomistic terms, there must be some hyle in this hylo-morphic world.  I agree.


The Boy, so well-formed, lies heavy beside me.  Without that weight, my world would fly apart.  It would not exist.  That strong presence is Necessity with being.  And I too dislike those "concepts" that Idealists find so delicately wafting in the mind.  I prefer those out-there, weighty Forms that press on my mind, on my body, on my writing.  The Platonic Forms have weight.


In the Koran, it is said that God will reveal his Thigh.  That word "thigh" is usually translated as Power, so the poor believers won't become too excited and turn to idolatry.  I keep the original and I am such a devotee of the Body of God.  Christian idolatry, they would say.  So be it. 


I have posted a lot about the Jewish Phallic God, a God that His own have tried mightily to erase and turn into a moral abstraction.  Search Phallic God on my blog.




6119  I like to play around with quantum mechanics, just as so many others do.  I have often said that philosophy and science have nothing to say to each other, except to stay out of the other's territory.  I do earnest believe that; therefore, what I have to say here is not philosophy, but only the musings of an amateur scientific theorist.


Phase space, a Ψ-wave, the quantum wave of possibilities, impinges on the actual.  An infinity of parallel worlds are close by.  Indeed, because of the magic of infinity, they "occupy" the same space.  Of course, "occupy" is anthropomorphic.  Nonetheless, continuing to use it, it is like an infinity of plane-geometry, possible shapes residing within or occupying the infinity of points on an ideal white sheet of paper.  Or so a Aristotelian, instantiationist realist might say.  Matter, for such a one, is the storehouse of possibilities - Potentia.


The question arises as to why those other parallel universes MUST be there.  It is because all that impingement is what gives or accounts for the stability, the inertia, the massive weightiness, of it all.  Or so I have read.  It feels right.  Gravity is the mystery.  It is the so-called God particle, the Higgs Boson, that gives mass to the massless particles.


In writing, it is rhythm, repetition, meter, the drone, that gives weight to ideas.  And that is why so much conceptual writing, sentences so unrythmical, seems to say nothing, and instead merely sets our heads aspinning.




6120  The person of Jesus is, to say the least, viewed differently by different people.  For Paul he is mainly, as I read or misread his tortured thinking, the final, manifest Victim of the Temple sacrifice.  We eat his death and we live his resurrection.  Americans are more casual and sensible.  He is happily our best friend who will lead us through troubled times.  For me, he is the object of a final blowout in erotic intensity, that gay perfection we decumbent ones all worship. 


This gay breeze skimming your eyes even now and the holocaust of the temple sacrifice are one.  A dithering nonchalance.  Beauty will reach the sublime.


All of which exists in order to avoid the horror of death.  The Medusa, the Dark Lady, a Fey in the Waters.  One must do the Sidestep.   Otherwise, La Belle Dame sans Merci, a fairy's child, will leave you alone and palely loitering.  Perhaps with the Opium Eaters.


Jesus said that one must be as sheep among wolves, as cut off as the choking and as pure as the encircled.  All of which is very confusing and maybe impossible.  Such is love.  I am super-imposed on him.  The strangeness of a dream.




6121  An interesting guy on the Internet here has a fun-to-read, slam-bham take on Parmenides and us Parmenideans.  I'm game.  First I will lay out what I think makes an ontology Parmenidean and then I will defend it.


 τ γρ ατ νοεν στν τε κα εναι.  Thinking and being are the same.


Χρ τ λγειν τε νοεν τ' ἐὸν μμεναι· στι γρ εναι, 
μηδν δ' οκ στιν· It needs must be that what can be thought and spoken of is; for it is possible for it to be, and it is not possible for, what is nothing to be.


As far as I can tell, in these two sayings Parmenides is saying that what he thinks is the very kind of thing that is.  What comes before his mind's eye, what is present to his awareness, is that which is.


Well, Yes, I agree totally.  Let's call it the Principle of Presentation.  It is the claim that whatever is thinkable exists and vice versa.  Whatever presents itself to my awareness is.  That is certainly not the claim that only what is actually thought exists or that to exist a thing must be the object of an actual thought.  It only says that what exists is thinkable and what is thinkable exists.  If there were no minds at all, then what exists would not be thought – but it would all still be there and it could be thought if minds did exist.


So what does all that entail?  What kinds of things present themselves to my thinking mind?  Anything I can think.  I think: This is a wireless mouse. That is a sweet poem.  Those are complex numbers.  There is a pink elephant over by the wall.  They exist.  Therefore we must obviously include facts, even such outrageous facts as  negative facts, imagined facts, imagined negative facts, relational facts (such as that lemonade tastes great on a warm Summer evening) and negative relational facts (such as that lemonade is not made with a chainsaw).  Thus general facts, in addition to particular facts.  Furthermore there exist erroneous facts, illusory facts, half-baked facts, indeterminate facts and questionable facts.  More than that there are ontological facts, theological facts and all scientific facts of every stripe and color, true and false and maybe.  Everything that is thinkable is. And everything that is, is thinkable.  But now how about ontological things?


Do universals and bare particulars and logical ties exist?  According to me and, I think, Parmenides, they do if they are present to the mind's awareness.  That is the question.  Nominalists say that there is no thought there, nothing is present before the mind's eye.  I say I am aware of them and they therefore exist. 


How about thoughts of facts?  Of course.  I have thoughts, I am thoughts, thoughts exists.  And they are not the things thought of. And feelings and expectations and doubts and on and on. 


So you see I am a hyper-empiricist.  Though not a mere sensualist as were the ordinary empiricists of old, the mighty English Empiricists, sensualists all.  And I am, you must admit, a radical realist. 


My defense is that there is no other way to think about this without falling into Idealism.  Or materialism, which doesn't know what it finally believes it, but it dies rather like the feeling of soft mystery.




6122  Parmenides is famous for denying the existence of becoming and passing away.


Τς γνεσις μν πσϐεσται κα πυστος λεθρος

Thus is becoming chased away and destruction not to be found out.


Non-existence cannot come to be and existence cannot cease to be.  If all things thinkable exist and their becoming unthinkable is unthinkable, then they cannot cease to exist.  The logic is tight.  So what are we to think of this world of seeming change? Of the becoming and destruction all around us?  Is it all error?  It is the middle world.  The everyday, ordinary world.  The world at which we dare not look with a precise looking.  As Augustine and Descartes said, I understand time perfectly as long as I don't think about what it is.  A close reading of existence, so far from the work-a-day world, reveals marvels of stillness.  And a slight divine madness in oscillation.  Decide which you want and go with it.  I prefer Being against becoming.  De gustibus non disputandum est.  Does it really matter?




6123  In the Barbarian Hold, Land der Dichter und Denker, philosophy must be heroic.  And that hero, best described by Milton, is Satan prostrate on the ground of flat ontology.  It is also Nietzsche's Übermensch, but quite more serious.   Here is Ernst Jünger at the end of On Pain:


But the only things beyond doubt are the destruction of old cults, the impotency of culture, and the wretched mediocrity of the actors.

            We conclude, then, that we find ourselves in a last and indeed quite remarkable phase of nihilism, …One grasps how an enormous organizational capacity can exist alongside a complete blindness vis-à-vis values, belief without meaning, discipline without legitimacy … One grasps why one yearns to see the state in such an instrumental age not as the most universal instrument but as a cultic entity and why technology and ethos have become  synonymous in such a peculiar way. … In such a situation, pain remains the only measure promising a certainty of insights.  Wherever values can no longer hold their ground, the movement toward pain endures as an astonishing sign of the times; it betrays the negative mark of a metaphysical structure.

            The practical consequence of this observation for the individual is, despite everything, the necessity to commit oneself to the preparation for war—regardless of whether he sees in it the preparatory stage of ruin or believes he sees on the hills covered with weather-worn crosses and wasted palaces the storm preceding the establishment of new orders of command.


The Franco-Teutonic marshes are today secreting apocalyptic philosophies of the End-Times.  Well, why not?  Apocalypse is always fun in boring times like these.


As for me, through various blood lines, I am of the Northmen, the Vikings, the original, the most unrelenting terrorists.  I can feel them coursing through me.




6124  At the beginning of the twentieth century, certain philosophers in England and Austria jumped over Kant and Hegel and landed back with the Scholastics.  They were once again doing what Aristotle called First Philosophy.  They wondered about what kinds of things belonged to the fundamental categories of Being.  They were once again asking about the existence of such things as substance and universals, bare particulars and connectors, actuality and potentiality, classes and logical operators.  They considered intentionality and fact—all those very abstract pieces of Being.  This was Logical Analysis.  The realist-nominalist argument started up again.


Other philosophers were busy trying to get beyond all that.  They declared First Philosophy to be a dead thing.  They wanted Life and Process and Imagination.  They inherited Protestant pietism as their mystical touchstone.  No more monkery and fag delicacy.  Philosophy was to belong to the heroic individual. (There's something paradoxical there.)


Strangely enough the logical analysts saw themselves as the tough-minded ones against the soft transcendentalists.  So what are we to think of Aristotelian metaphysical system building?  Are those boys lounging in Scholastic hide-a-ways preparing to join the militant heavenly host by studying the Trivium and the Quadrivium or a band of sighing Platonic lovers? 


Who's top; who's bottom?  I have sat cruising the beauties of  both camps.  And then gone home alone.




6125  Do we live in apocalyptical times?  Is there something hidden that is about to be revealed.  No.  Nothing is hidden.  The final things are evident right now.  They press.  We know exactly what is happening.  And there is pleasure all around.


But for those who love the hidden, none of that is true.  So for them we do live in apocalyptical times, except that though the revelation is tantalizingly close, even titillatingly exciting, it will never happen, because there is still nothing hidden.


I, like my grandmother, am a rabid charismatic.  I speak in tongues.  And no one need interpret.  Because there is no hidden meaning.  "That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we have looked at and our hands have touched--this we proclaim.


The ordinary world, on close examination, is not ordinary.  Pay attention.




6126  I am a theist.  I have a religion, not a daily practice of spiritual exercises.  I wait to be waylaid in the night by a god.  Like Moses and Jacob encountering Jehovah, I expect rape.  This is not intellectual speculation about an underlying unity that I might call the One.  This is not neo-Platonism.  Adonai is out and about.  His hand presses on me.  This is a philosophy of a presence.  The thing that exists.  An uncanny entity is here.  There is no escape.  Nor do I seek one.


It is obvious from my writing that I am not a scholar.  I'm not a proper intellectual.  If anything, I am a temple catamite, except there is no temple.  In Nepal, in some of the out-of-the-way temples, there are boys who dress as girls waiting for the dark, midnight blue, Lord Krishna to ravish them.  I understand exactly. Horripilation.


1 Samuel 19:19-2419 And it was told Saul, “Behold, David is at Nai′oth in Ramah.” 20 Then Saul sent messengers to take David; and when they saw the company of the prophets prophesying, and Samuel standing as head over them, the Spirit of God came upon the messengers of Saul, and they also prophesied. 21 When it was told Saul, he sent other messengers, and they also prophesied. And Saul sent messengers again the third time, and they also prophesied. 22 Then he himself went to Ramah, and came to the great well that is in Secu; and he asked, “Where are Samuel and David?” And one said, “Behold, they are at Nai′oth in Ramah.” 23 And he went from[a] there to Nai′oth in Ramah; and the Spirit of God came upon him also, and as he went he prophesied, until he came to Nai′oth in Ramah. 24 And he too stripped off his clothes, and he too prophesied before Samuel, and lay naked all that day and all that night. Hence it is said, “Is Saul also among the prophets?”


I come as a thief in the night.




6127  Some years ago I had a beautiful young friend, not really a lover, but almost, early twenties, who styled himself a C. S. Lewis, struggling with Wormwood, Christian.  He loved, or rather hated the fact that he loved to get high in the vertigo of blinding guilt while dancing in the midst of a group of groping males and have his clothes slowly fall off.  He tried to be a writer, but couldn't.  I do virtually the same thing.  Except that I am a writer, a real philosopher, and I, in the guilt of real writing, turn and turn in vertiginous syntax before the groping, raping eyes of self-styled readers.  I am waylaid in the night of the mind.  The gods live in words and the sacred act of reading.  Yes, dear reader, we are there even now.  And I expect to come away rather bruised by your rough handling.




6128  It's fun to read Hegel and the Hegelians.  But at midnight I leave them to their cozy, uncertain middle-class home life and go out looking for that wild one.  I want presence, a firm hand, the undeniable.  Hegel's vertiginous dialectic, everything dividing from itself back into itself off into the spinning void, is no doubt a trip, but not like that revealed thigh in the luminous dark.  Here, Being does not give way to non-being.  He is ever and ever himself.  The pretty transformations of myth stop.  Now there is just That.  The last thing.  The oblivion of completion.  He's there waiting.


And then the horror of his going.  Back to Hegel and the interminable dividing against oneself.  Hegel is for the abandoned.  The hell of his absence.  Then always right before the last fainting sigh He appears on the horizon—and it begins again.  Who is strong enough to endure such love?  No one.  But it's inevitable and there is no release.




6129  Parmenides set off the fireworks we now call philosophy proper by neatly separating the way of truth from the way of falsehood.  There is something there in the gap, that division, that is fiery.  On the one hand, you have being is and non-being is not – the way of each being identical with itself.  On the other, you have being and non-being mixing together in the mixing bowl of life – the way of non-self-identity, mythological transmogrification.  In that no-man's-land between the two ways, argument surges and explodes into a calm breeze on a lazy Summer's evening.


So here we are, arguing the logic of logic.  The Gap.  Which of course is nothing.  A clothing store.  For the children of the well-to-do.  The burgers live with juicy burgers and buggery.  I sit in my nice rented room and dream of boys.  And of the author of the Tractatus leaving his and going out to the dark parks of Vienna looking for his midnight man.  Let's face it Parmenides both is and isn't there.  That pedagog Hegel wants to police the place.  But it's only that Eleatic in schoolmarm drag.  The elements of Being stand out clearly in the dark.  And the gap.


Those who know the Tractatus and Frege and Russell know that great battles were being waged over subtle trifles.  Is a proposition something different from propositional form?  Do empty variables name?  What is the paradoxicality of classes?  What about "the".  Exactly the same kind of considerations that Hegel wanted them to dwell on when faced with a presence and an absent essence.  Is a universal something separate from the existence of that universal?  Is thought real?  Is that shadowy figure over there a present absence?  And what about tomorrow morning?  The Gap is God.


Plato wrote: We say that the one and the many become identified by thought, and that now, as in the time past, they run about together, in and out of every word which is uttered, and that this union of them will never cease, and is not now beginning, but is, as I believe, an everlasting quality of thought itself, which never grows old.  Any young man, when he first tastes these subtleties, is delighted, and fancies that he has found a treasure of wisdom; in the first enthusiasm of his Joy he leaves no stone, or rather no thought, unturned, now rolling up the many into the One, and kneading them together, now unfolding and dividing them; he puzzles himself first and above all, and then he proceeds to puzzle his neighbors, whether they are older or younger, or of his own age that makes no difference; neither father nor mother does he spare; no human being who has ears is safe from him, hardly even his dog, and a barbarian would have no chance of escaping him, if an interpreter could only be found.


Rumi wrote:  Go forth, my comrades, draw along our beloved, at last bring to me the fugitive idol; with sweet melodies and golden pretexts draw to the house that moon sweet of presence.  And if he promises, "I will come in another moment," all his promises are but cunning to beguile you.  He possesses a flaming breath, by enchantment and wizardry knotting the water and tying up the air.  When in blessedness and joy my darling enters, sit you down and behold the marvels of God!  When his beauty shines forth, what shall be the beauty of the comely ones? For his sun-bright face extinguishes all lamps.  Go, fleet-paced heart, to Yemen, to my heart's beloved, convey my greetings and service to that ruby beyond price.



Bergmann wrote: The differences among some of the several existents are very great indeed.  I, for one, would not hesitate to call them momentous, or enormous.  That, I submit is a major source of the resistance serious ontology has always met.  For these differences are much greater than most are prepared to face.




6130  Let's say I have become aware of the fact that I am perceiving that there is a mole on his cheek.  I am aware of my awareness of a fact.  I am an act of consciousness of an act of perceiving that … .  How should I ontologically analyze everything there?  It is a direct awareness of a perceiving of a fact.  The perceiving and the awareness of the perceiving are two.  Two separate particulars.  Both have a character; one is a direct awareness and the other is a perceiving.  Both exemplify a thought; one is  'I am perceiving that …' and the other is 'there is a mole on his cheek'.  Both intend their object.  That intending is grounded in a simple nexus.  Thus we have two mental acts; one is a direct awareness and the other is a perceiving.  One exemplifies the universal of direct awareness and the thought that … .  The other exemplifies the universal of perceiving and the thought that … .  And of course there is the fact, separate from the two mental acts of there being a mole on his cheek.  That mole is not a mental thing; it is a material thing.  And then of course, there is, moreover, in addition to intentionality, the nexus exemplification.  That is a very rough schematic of it all.  I will only obliquely and in hurried passing mention bare particulars.


Notice that there is no mention of cause and effect, no mention of a reason why, no history that accounts for act or fact.  And that is because all those things are the concern of science, not philosophy.  When philosophy tries to answer those questions, it becomes pseudo-science, of which there is too much out and about.




6131  Science follows logic.  Logic is constrained by the law of non-contradiction and the excluded middle.  A is A.  Outside of that we are in myth, which is at times beautiful, but it is not science.


Because it is in time, the world succumbs to incessant change.  Entities are deep in shape-shifting.  The sky moves.  Birds swirl.  Hair grows.  Legs twitch.  Science is an attempt to stop the arrow of time in flight.  Then time and flight are no more.  Mathematical symbols are fixed.  In the emptiness of perfection.


Some today want to keep the movement of life in science and not let it drain away.  Then we are back at myth.  Transmogrification.  The thing our science came to stop.




6132  A young man on the Internet wrote this:  "I've heard many arguments for the existence of God. The one that bothers me is the ontological argument. To me it sounds like begging the question. Can someone explain how it is or isn't valid? Thanks.  I do believe God exists. I just can't seem to get my head around this approach . . ."


Here's the argument, more or less:

1.  God is that than which there can be no greater.

2.  It is greater to exist than to not exist.

3.  Therefore God exists.


The problem is number 2.  Let me change things a little.


1.  God is that than which there can be no greater.

2.  It is greater to not exist than to exist.

3.  Therefore God does not exist.


1.  God is that than which there can be no greater.

2.  It is greater to maybe-exist than either to exist or to not exist.

3.  Therefore God maybe-exists.


The people who prefer the second form are enchanted by nihilism.  There are many rather poetic reasons why such enchantment takes place.  The great Buddhist Nagarjuna, one of my favorites, is such a Nihilist.  In a chant of unrelenting logic, he knew Nirvana, that blowing out of the candle.


"The last form is the one that should appeal to many today.  Tzvetan Todorov says this of the Fantastic:  " Either the Devil [or God] is an illusion, an imaginary  being; or else he really exists  precisely like other living beings—with  this reservation, that we encounter him infrequently.  The fantastic occupies the duration of this uncertainty.  Once we choose one answer or the other, we leave the fantastic for a neighboring genre, the uncanny or the marvelous.  The fantastic is that hesitation experienced by a person who knows only the laws of nature, confronting an apparently supernatural event." 


The young man is unsure about the argument; he says he is not unsure about God.  He is bothered by the argument.  I suspect that he may be one of those today who love the moment of hesitation.  Maybe he loves horror movies, the Fantastic. He, no doubt, loves God, but this other love may be vying for place.  Which is greater?   I, of course, have no way of knowing what he thinks and feels; I know absolutely nothing of him.  I am merely imagining.


As for me, I have always loved the first form and I think the logic works superbly.  Then again, I like the feel of being face to face with a strong, undeniable presence.  Before That I do not hesitate, rather I am paralyzed.




6133  Philosophy is phenomenological.  We must take the world as it appears.  There is no place within it for speculation into the unseen.  Speculation belongs to science, which deals with cause and effect.  When philosophy becomes speculative, as much of it has now, it becomes the pseudo-science of sci-fi poetry.  Such poetry is eerily fun, but it is not philosophy, nor is it real science.




6134  Wherein doth the ancient beauty of materialism lie?  In the Iliad.  Just as Simone Weil laid it out before our reading eyes in The Iliad or the Poem of Force.  Today's stultifying display by computational Wizards of Cognitive Circuitry, fanatics in the dark subliminal neural labyrinth, lovers of the Matrix, the Medusa lair, they cannot outdo Homer.  Theirs is a watery, airy night breeze.  The Iliad is sheer Force.  Here are the first couple of paragraphs:


            "The true hero, the true subject, the center of the Iliad is force.  Force employed by man, force that enslaves man, force before which man's flesh shrinks away.  In this work, at all times, the human spirit is shown as modified by its relations with force, as swept away,  blinded, by the very force it imagined it could handle, as deformed by the weight of the force it submits to.  For those dreamers who  considered that force, thanks to progress, would soon be a thing of the past, the Iliad could appear as an historical  document; for others, whose powers of recognition are more acute and who perceive force, today as yesterday, at the very center of human history, the Iliad is the purest and the loveliest of mirrors.

            To define force—it is that x that turns anybody who is subjected to it into a thing. Exercised to the limit, it turns man into a thing in the most literal  sense: it makes a  corpse out of him.  Somebody was here, and the next minute there is nobody here at all; this is a spectacle the Iliad never wearies of showing us.


                                    …the horses

Rattled the empty chariots through the files of battle;

Longing for their noble drivers.  But they on the ground

Lay, dearer to the vultures than to their wives.



Motionless, he  pondered


                                                            … the horses

Rattled the empty chariots through the files of battle,

      Longing for their noble drivers.  But they on the ground

                                    Lay, dearer to the vultures than to their wives.




                                    Motionless, he pondered.  And the other drew near,

                                    Terrified, anxious to touch his knees, hoping in his heart

                                    To escape evil death and black destiny …

                                    With one hand he clasped, suppliant, his knees,

                                    While the other clung to the sharp spear, not letting go …



Soon, however, he grasps the fact that the weapon which is pointing at him will not be diverted; and now, still breathing, he is simply matter; still thinking, he can think no longer:


                                    Thus spoke the brilliant son of Priam

                                    In begging words.  But he heard a harsh reply:

                                    He spoke.  And the other's knees and heart failed him.

                                    Dropping his spear, he knelt down, holding out his arms.

                                    Achilles, drawing his sharp sword, struck

                                    Through the neck and breastbone.  The two-edged sword

                                    Sunk home its full length.  The other, face down,

                                    Lay still, and the black blood ran out, wetting the ground.



'The Iliad is the purest and the loveliest of  mirrors."




6135  The greatest poetry has been about war and death and the end of love.  The reason great poetry cannot be written today is because now no one believes in death, war is only debate (and some Oh dear moment on tv) and love exists forever in the circulation of omnipresent Life.  That is to say that the ideas of Panpsychism have taken hold.  Now there is no dead matter, everything is alive.  The cosmos is a living being.  Even the Nothing surges into quickening motion.  It is asserted that mind/soul and matter are one.  No separation.  No separation of life from the body.  No negligible thing is left lying there.  The body at the appropriate time merely vanishes back into the Vortex of Life itself.  Death and dead things are no more.




6136  Anarchists claim that order will spontaneously arise out of free association.  Order is defined as a first leading to a second.  In Greek, the first is ΄η αρκη, the archei.  Therefore, it seems that anarchists are claiming that archism will arise out of anarchism.  It is a self-defeating idea, or appears so.


Today, flat ontology is popular.  No hierarchies.  It is set theory.  Sets of sets of sets without a greatest or least.  No first, no last.  Anarchic.  Perhaps they are saying that order arises momentarily only to fall away.  A temporary Archei.  A purely democratic group cannot have a first.  Still, set theory does speak of an ordering.  (a,(a,b)).  Or is it (a,(a,a))?  Whatever it seems to me that order and anarchy are contradictions and no order will spontaneously arise – except in an imperfect system.  Perfect anarchy is only a fair dream.


One cannot speak clearly and in an orderly fashion, in a subject-predicate language, about something beyond clarity and order.  A mystical Beyond.




6137  Once more I am going to try to interpret these verses.  I did have something to say in 6126, but I have a new idea.


1 Samuel 19:19-2419 And it was told Saul, “Behold, David is at Nai′oth in Ramah.” 20 Then Saul sent messengers to take David; and when they saw the company of the prophets prophesying, and Samuel standing as head over them, the Spirit of God came upon the messengers of Saul, and they also prophesied. 21 When it was told Saul, he sent other messengers, and they also prophesied. And Saul sent messengers again the third time, and they also prophesied. 22 Then he himself went to Ramah, and came to the great well that is in Secu; and he asked, “Where are Samuel and David?” And one said, “Behold, they are at Nai′oth in Ramah.” 23 And he went from[a] there to Nai′oth in Ramah; and the Spirit of God came upon him also, and as he went he prophesied, until he came to Nai′oth in Ramah. 24 And he too stripped off his clothes, and he too prophesied before Samuel, and lay naked all that day and all that night. Hence it is said, “Is Saul also among the prophets?”


The problem is the really stupid translation of איִּתְנַבֵּ֤, yithnabeh, as "he prophesied ".  The real meaning of that word is "he raved and acted like a madman".  Thus a so-called prophet is a raving madman.  It's the same in almost all religions.  The church of course tried to clean them up and make them respectable preachers of wholesome righteousness.


What we have in that story is Saul trying to get David to come to him.  This is a lover's story and the lover's plight.  I have been there.  And I know very well the fury that comes over me when he won't come.  A lover's fury is the most intense raving madness of all.  It is blinding, electricity under the skin.  The "prophets" were lovers of God.  Raving lunatics because he calmly dallied.  I do know all about it.  And I know the cool hand of the beloved when he appears and the raving instantly stops.




6138  Those who call themselves Voluntary Anarchists "advocate for a free society organized on the basis of voluntary and consensual association and cooperation, free from the coercive monopoly of the state."  I think that means that they want to be free to join whatever group they want.  Most of the people who advocate this political philosophy are young and healthy and intelligent and good-looking enough to be among the winners in life.  They have enough money to live on, but not over much.  The problem is that they find themselves coerced by the government to be a part of and contribute financially to the community at large which is anything but young, healthy, intelligent and good-looking.  The winners in life don't like to have to associate with and take care of the losers.  Especially when they themselves are not the really big winners financially.  Giving money in the form of taxes to help those others galls them.  Whatever the case, they will probably change their minds when they are suddenly shunted from one  group to another.




6139  If, like me, you enjoy reading Notes from Underground, you may also like Nick Land's The Thirst for Annihilation, here.  He says that what he wrote is a laughing matter, and it is, but it is also a serious presentation of the death of God, which means, and I think Nietzsche would agree, the coming of full blown nominalism, the dissolution of the Platonic Forms in the slightly acidic waters of the flesh.  It's a fun read.


There is of course nothing new in what he says.  We have known the way of all flesh for a long time.  Both Catholics and Buddhists have been expert at describing it.  Cold, watery excrement.  But without the transcendence of the Forms that is all there is, no Eternity, no Nirvana, only slop and finally … who knows, we won't be there, assuming there is a there there.


I could, I suppose, give my defense of Platonic Realism here as a counter to that nominalism.  But that would destroy the fun, the laughter, the adolescent play that we all love.  Yes, I will admit that nominalism is the place where comedy takes place.  And comedy is now in fashion, if, indeed, it ever did go out of fashion.  So I will leave my defense for another time and go back to reading professor Land's really quite nicely written book.  I enjoy this light respite from all my love tortures.


By the way, I still think the Iliad with its portrayal of Force has more truth in it than this chilly, damp up-draft from hell.  Or so he would like to portray it as.


The limp, flaccid feel of what he is after is captured well in his use of the word excrement, instead of shit.




6140  The gentle pushers of Voluntary Anarchism seem to me to be mostly upset about the brute fact that we live in a material world where force (they call it coercion) rules.  They want free will.  If matter didn't exist and all was mind, then maybe it could be (though even then it is questionable).  Such a belief is a dreamy, spiritual heaven.  The Nowhere of a pure Idealism.  Here in the flesh and with our two feel being pulled firmly onto the ground, we must deal with force and coercion and an unfree will.




6141  One more thought about Voluntary Anarchism (I really do want to stop thinking about this) and their principle of non-aggression, or not wanting to be coerced into paying taxes.  Sometimes they call it love of family.  They want freedom they say; they will not steal from the government and the government should not steal from them.  Their freedom is freedom from theft.  They want to keep what they have and live securely in their own private domain.  Yes, what they are after is not freedom to do, but the security of freedom from worry about losing it all.  I think they have a strong sense that everything they have could disappear in a flash.  Security is paramount.  A quiet, secure family life.  Except that their kids are probably going to grow up and demand money and there it goes.




6142  There's dialectical materialism, dialectical idealism, dialectical realism, and (who knows?) maybe dialectical cooking and dialectical sex.  The word "dialectical" there simply means that you take something apart into its most basic constituents.  And by basic I mean really really down-on-the-ground last things.


Of course, down there, which is really way up up up in the clouds there, in an intellectual basket, things hang in a rather rarified murkiness.  Argument takes hold, which is good because we need to be held in that no-there-there nowhere, or we become a sticky sublimate deposited back down onto the sidewalk of life.  Like sex, it's fun but messy.




6143  It's that vision thing.  Delicate Baudelairean fragrances.  Viscous Sartrean secretions.  Time has stopped and we are everywhere.  And nowhere.  The Wild Boys damage you.  Change has become impossible.  We are on the other side. 


Depth is gone.  Flat surfaces.  Inside a singularity.  Another banal infinity out onto the endless plain.  1920s St. Louis lounging in the back yard. The new age is beginning. The pin prick of beginnings.  Yet again.  It's always the same.  Nothing changes.  Imaginary numbers.  Forward  and backward, it's all the same.  The perfection of perfection.  Lines on paper.  Intersection vivisection.  A marvelous geometry.  Tenth grade.  Back when the boys were so pretty.  They're all here.  Nothing has changed.  Nor could it.  Time has stopped and we are everywhere.  It is simple mathematics.  And not a little taste of daring on the tongue.




6144  A virtuous person is one who is willing to own up to, to own, the consequences of his own actions.  What one does redounds to oneself.  We live in a world that is full of danger and risks must be taken.  Sometimes you win; sometimes you lose.  The unvirtuous person is one who tries to shove bad consequences off onto another so he himself can walk away unharmed.  That person without virtue cleverly identifies just that point where things could go bad and he makes sure someone else is standing there to  take the fall is things  don't work out, but if everything turns out well, he himself will gain the reward.


In business today, this matter of shoving off risk onto the unsuspecting is common practice.  Heads I win; tails you lose.  The most successful is the one who plays the game best.  Business is not, today, a matter of taking risk, but of learning how to  take no risk.  Thus there is no virtue in what they are doing.


Of course, this sloughing off of risk, this avoidance of danger, is not just in business, but has become the way of all of life for us.  We spend our time thinking how someone else might suffer in our place.




6145  The gods live outside the law.  They kill and steal and lie and rape and go unpunished.  That right is what makes them gods.  Among humans the Hero is for a time granted the privileges of a god, but then he is struck down in sadness.  The glorious die young.  How are we to live among the gods?


What we have devised is to separate off a small place where divine killing can safely be performed, the gods will then smile and the act will not infect society at large.  The problem is that there are those who want to eradicate any and every appearance of divine malevolence in our human world.  The want that temenos, the temple, destroyed and all mention of God and the gods wiped away.  Divine immorality must go. A well-regulated life will blossom.


When the sacrificial altar goes the whole world becomes the killing ground of holy terror.  Danger lurks.  Every action becomes risky business.  The gods are out and about in force.  Thus, today, we have great enterprises being set up to handle risk.  Shove it off onto the unsuspecting.  Be aware of where it lurks!  We are in game theory.  Betrayal and dirty dealing.  Expect it.  We too have now become gods.




6146  On stage he has the appearance of an angel.  Later he watches himself in a highly edited video.  He sees that one, the very one that he stood there as a prop for.  At the time he was merely at work trying to remember his lines, his movements, his correct glancing about and that precise smile.  And frown.  So much to remember.  That theatrical image was someone, something else.  Should we say it was really a something?  Or that it was manufactured?  Was he momentarily possessed?  His viewers now think so.


To stage such a production requires a lot of labor.  Mental energy, stamina, patience.  Arguments ensue, streets are pounded, brains are wracked.  Work.  Erg.  It is en-erg.  An org and orgy of compacted time.  Is that the stuff of an angel?  It seems so.


The act of creating is long and difficult.  And if it happens, it seems to happen in spite of all that.  Then in an instant it's gone.  The angel-actor grows up overnight and another takes his place on stage.  The artist loses as soon as he wins.  Could it be otherwise?


Here things deliquesce so fast.  Form appears, then vanishes.  Then the repetition.  For us the eternal is just that ever coming again.  Even the migraine headache returns.  Should we, instead of Form, learn to love the dissolute run off?  It seems impossible.  We surely cannot cheat eternity in such a back-handed manner.  And those who say they will speak in perfect obedience to punctuation.


So raise up the theater lights one more time.  It's Opening Night once again.  The omega point of God is where the theatrical image becomes one with the ordinary boy, but we only dream of  such a thing  … unless I can work my dialectic into ecstasy.




6147  The Perspectivists want to tell us that in this great ocean of Being we can only see one small part.  They want us to admit to being very limited creatures.  They are a humble lot.  And they worship Mary the lowly, meek and mild.


Up on the shore, on dry land, are those who see the universal.  ΄Ο Κάθολος.  They worship a priori and necessary truths, the Boy of the Logos.


In the history of philosophy, so-called analytical truths have been separated from synthetic.  The former are the empty statements of logic and mathematics; the latter are the contingent statements describing this or another possible world.  Analytical statements cannot be other on pain of violating the law of non-contradiction.  Synthetic statements could very well be other and probably will be soon or in a neighboring city. 


Perspectivists as a lot are uncomfortable with the very idea of necessary, universal statements.  Mathematics and logic are for them mere momentary abstractions.  Their perceived universality is only the inability to shift into another perspective.  They could be other; damn the constriction that is the heavy law of non-contradiction and the excluded middle weighing down on their freedom.  They turn their back on transcendence and embrace the homely.


Those reaching for the universal, the Transcendent, love the bondage that is logic and pure, empty form.  Perfection and the exactness of exactness. 


Perspectivists become nationalists, those who find their being reaching down into their roots.  They revere the soil from which they grew and they expect others in other places to do the same. 


The universalists find nothing but seasickness there.  They want the safety and the stability of a high rock from which they can calmly watch the shifting tumult of Life down below.  They are the elite in the airy ecclesia.

The debate about necessary truths has raged on.  Believers are few but constant.  Lovers of  life's inconstancy are many. 




6148  Last time I mentioned analytic, necessary truths.  They are seen by those who stand high up on the rock of contemplation.  They are seen in the glaring Light.  Above the pain.


And yet they are the most common, evident pieces of life.  Everyone knows that if you have the pair ab, that you then have a.  Or that if you have the element a and the element b, then you have the set ab.  To even mention such obvious things seems no more than silly.  Well, yes, but how do we know those "truths" of logic?  They are transparent, we might say.  To what light?  To the Light of Knowing.  Capital letters, if you but let yourself dwell of it.  And there's the rub.


To gaze at that staring you in the face is unsettling.  The soul quickly agitates.  And the body soon aches.  Who would do such a thing?  Those who know the ineluctable pain of life.


The way to the rock of contemplation is through pain, unbearable unending pain.  Then the cold stillness.  These truths are crystal hard.  You go blind in the blaze.  If the night is freezing cold and you have a feast spread out before you, the night remains freezing cold.  The logic is fixed.




6149  The two main forces acting upon our soft minds are hard classicism and the sweet rot of Decadence.  Scientific laboratories and bank lobbies are the former and your personal banker with his pictures of sunken valleys and terminally pleasant family life on the wall are the latter.  The former because its military ordering will protect us from the inevitable pain of the second.  Avoiding disrupting waves of pain that might soon come onto our delicate, open faces is the goal.  That is our goal in life – no pain.


But of course it doesn't work.  And the minimalism of those lobbies and the uniformity of those smiling professional voices open the door to boredom.  It there any hope?


No, we must abandon ourselves even more to the discipline of science.  Face the pain of its military ambitions head on.  We must sacrifice our bodies in the experiment called laughingly life.


Or not.  And vanish into a parallel universe no more than an infinitely small distance from this one, but where you will not be seen or heard.


Or you could spend your days downloading videos from Youtube.  The eternally hopeful hope for the Apocalypse, maybe financial, maybe oil-peak, maybe climatic, maybe even a divine parousia.  But it ain't coming.  Just a numb painlessness forever inside our ordered columns.  The free individuals and their bourgeois pleasantness are totally gone.  Pain avoided is pain retained.




6150  In mathematics there is the rule that says a negative times a negative is a positive.  But we could just as easily have a rule that says a negative times a negative is a negative.  In fact we do sometimes use just such a mathematics.  Then we insert the little letter i and call it an imaginary number, the square root of minus one.  It amounts to the same thing.  It's like switching to a non-Euclidean geometry.


In Nepal, they don't say x times y, rather they say x into y for multiplication (not division).  Who taught them that?  Or do they just see it differently?  Or not.  Does it take a twisted mind to find that interesting?  As twisted as one who likes to contemplate imaginary numbers? 


Why are imaginary numbers so important in relativity and quantum theories?  Time is imaginary ispace.



6151  The rule that a negative times a negative is a negative can change into a substantial thing and then it is i the imaginary number.  The rule congeals, coalesces, hardens, stiffens, comes to itself.  Voilà, a thing is there.  Reification.


Imaginary numbers can be used to quantify distance in time; then ordinary numbers are for space.  Time is an imaginary dimension of space.  But space can be seen as an imaginary dimension of time, in which case imaginary numbers are used to quantify space.   Likewise, time, for us, is strictly ordered according to direction; we can't move around in it; it moves at a constant velocity, one second per measured second.  Space is loose, for us, and we can move around at will as fast as we want, but we can only be in one place at a time.  But if everything is switched around and time is loose, then space is strictly directional and things are  no longer restricted to being at one place at a time (all of which is almost impossible to imagine, much less write – I'm sure I screwed it up somewhere, somewhen).  The math does work, though, even though we have to use imaginary numbers.  It's great fun.


Duality and paradox are everywhere.  Those who think they can easily overcome the mind-boggling by speaking in a measured thoughtful voice are inviting the Imp into their open throat.


The nothing nothings and still there is nothing. 




6152  One philosophy I have never liked is the one that is mesmerized by an underground Life Force causing us to procreate.  It is rather heterosexist, isn't it?  I have though agreed with Freud that there is an underground violence lurking in human beings.  Indeed, I think it is in all of existence.  And that violence does appear as the erotic.  The question is whether or not that violence is good or bad.  The obvious answer is that it is both, but that answer does not stop the questioning.


In Christianity, Jesus is almost always seen as the one who calms the stormy sea.  He is the one who overcomes, for us, the anger of God.  He is David soothing the nerves of Saul with his beauty and his sweet singing.  Is Saul, is God bad?  And those who can read well know that this same God comes over the ones he loves usually more like a rapist than a gentle, caring spirit.  What are we to think of this underground Force?  Is it good or bad?  Is it accepting or accusative?  Is it creative or destructive?  Is creation itself destructive?  We are in a difficult place.




6153  The violence of Being, when controlled, is so very attractive.  The attack in poetry and music is what accelerates the mind and the groin into attention.  A sharpness of taste and color and touch, when precisely regulated, is exquisite.  When his glance pierces my head I fall into sweet vertigo.  But, of course, you know that such a glance from such a beauty is rare because the setting and the person must be exact.  Violence must be precisely managed to be heaven, or it is hell.  And without quickening violence there is nothing at all.


It is said in the Vedas that the meters of poetry are what protect both humans and the gods from the Fire.  It is Form that lets us approach the great agitation. Just as when your heart is pounding from love's anxiety, you must sing gently ordered refrains.  Chaos without order is nothing at all; from chaos alone comes only chaos.  Our God of the whirlwind must be played with by the beautiful boy.  Jesus, the balm in the palm of His hand.  Jesus, the fair lover of the executioner.  Without that boy on our side we are destroyed. 




6154  In a review about a review about a book on Deleuze, I read this,


"The question this raises is, what is the grounding of modern philosophy? For Deleuze, the idea is no longer a representation of reality, but an opening onto a range of experimental possibilities, which, as Deleuze states, "belong to the order of dreams, of pathological processes, esoteric experiences, drunkenness, and excess" (17)."  I think this is part and parcel of his attempt to overthrow Plato.  Which is a continuation of a twentieth century attempt to overthrow metaphysics.  Which is Nominalism pure and simple, but they won't admit it – they think they are beyond that.


Why this great need to get rid of Plato?  I think it all comes back to a hatred of the madness of boy love, παιδεραστια, but that will take some explaining.  Hellenistic Greek thought was also erotophobic when doing philosophy.  Eros was outside philosophy among women.  The gymnasia were being unbuilt.


The same attempt was taking place in Christianity, where the beloved disciple was left unnamed and unknown.  A dangerous memory was being erased.  What is it about boys and love that sets people off?


For Plato, Eros was divine madness.  Deleuze also talks about madness, but of a different sort.  What is the difference?  It's the difference between the hidden absence, the generative emptiness within the folds of the female oceanic vastness.  Contrasted with a readily seen, open, firm presence, a still perfection without mediation before you that is a boy.   The madness of absence vs. the madness of presence.  Metaphysics, all agree, is Presence.  To each his own.




6155  Ontological, that is to say, metaphysical things are unchanging; they are still.  They are just themselves.  Their existence is final.  They are ultimate things.  Nothing more need be said: they are known.  They are otherworldly.  They are separate.  The mind contemplating them is detached from life here.  They are There.  Simplicity and elegance and power.  A subtle, unsettling power.  You are not sure.  But they are sure.  You hover, waiting to be taken by their lure.


Without a care, secret, hopeless, lovely, beyond words, indefensible, lost, red lips, lithe delicate limbs, a tool, a warrior's glance, force, a thing, just that.


No one could say that they are a momentary whiff of mind.  Eternity is much too long.  You are the knowing of their existence that could not not be.  The rabble is gone.  Pierced incautiously through and through.  Stopped.  That's all there is.  The last thing.  That one there.  He has you by your hard indestructibility.  Things ensue quietly.  The stillness ever hangs.  And the long, silent shiver.


The Boy of heaven will brook no rival.  No one is beyond that mood, that severed head, the invisible Vision.  In his hated mirror he preens and careens and there's no more to life.  Or existence.  I've seen that sweltering night when all the blankets have been thrown on the floor.  Being finally lies naked.  Very still.  After the orgasm of thought worked itself.  Into the rapture of oblivion.  The weary end of all analysis.  Around the slender waist, along the graceful arm.  The people are in rebellion.  I lie in wait for his arrival.  His heavy rook.  I want no other.  The final, unchanging Thing.




6156  Saussure is the fountainhead of Difference.  Or was it Hegel and the Nothing that nothings.  It all seems so sophistic.  It was the Sophists!  But they were only following the Parmenidean way of doxa, the seemly and the honorable. Things fit together a little too tight.  Alas, it is an ancient wrestling hold.  In the hold of a leaking ship on the nauseous sea.  We di-gress.


Those who love a good show at the palladium, the flash and the it-never-was, reel in enchantment at the hyper-syntactical.  The empty vessel.  A vassal of the eternally absent lord.  A wooly freedom.  A wordy fiefdom.  Cattle dancing.  Pada, pada, pada.  Lovely illusion.  Collusion with crank.


That which simply is and is a feverish simplicity, the undifferent, from itself, demurs.




6157  Today's Boreal philosophy, mainly political, is rabidly against Plato, that tenacious Spirit, Emissary from Transcendent Sparta.  ΄Ο τυραννος ΄ο του ουρανου.  The Tyrant of heaven.  Destroyer of the loveliness of the simply human.  These anti-philosophers want out.


Yes, Plato has presented us with a tyrannical philosophy of tyrannical Being.  And it may indeed become political, but not for the sake of grubby money.  It is the power of Beauty oppressing the lover.  The handsome Prince, the one you think you would die for, the one to whom you offer your body lying at last in the mud and the blood and the screams.  You look up to see his Vision.  Yes, he is there.  Such is the power of pain.


Other than for that, the Boreals, in their Protestant pious love of the homely man, have a  point, but who cares?




6158  I really don't like to read stories or watch movies or listen to gossip.  It's the human drama that wearies me.  I do love, though, to trace the history of ideas.  There is a certain dispassioned inevitability, even necessity, in their unmoving movement.  Connections connect timelessly.  Tyrannically.  We have no hope. But I figure it's for the best and we might as well get on with it.


Lovers come and they go and nothing much gets done, if anything, anything worthwhile.  He started to look old, but he was still sexy, in a rough way.  I do prefer the glabrous.  But I figure it's for the best and we might as well get on with it.


Love is a tiresome mystery.  And then vigor and certainty and that scary absolute inevitability come again and we are of necessity happy again, ecstatic, and here we go again.  Despair is impossible.  Talk to him.  Tell him about the realm of heavenly Ideas swirling overhead.  Make up something.  Something with whipped cream and ice cream and a banana.  It is all true.  You have no choice.  It's hopeless.  But I figure it's for the best and we might as well get it on.




6159  Philosophers of immanence diving into the inner workings of Nature find …  Geometry!  Matrices and vectors and loopy, twisty conjunctions, so many dark, surprising detours into, out of, and around near-death singularities.  Differential jumps.  Dynamic entrapment.  Open sailing.  And the ever-present slight breeze.  I too love  geometry, but it isn't philosophy.


At the beginning of any study we find the primal elements, connectors and canonical orderings.  These simple things transcend the built-up complexities.  I know it is fashionable to think of them as epi-nothings defined in fine magical emergings in the manly act of doing.  Philosophy is fashion.  And fashion is almost always  wrong.


Ontology searches for those simple things at the beginning.  But is the beginning in essence a belated arrival?  Philosophers of immanence, thinking everything comes naturally from inside the inside, seem to hate the outside.  The outside is the faux beau.  Unfolding folds refold in yet untold holds within these ships at sea where we pee and da da da.  But they never come to the end of their story, so I just leave.


Ontology searches and finds the simple, elegant things at the beginning.  The slender waist, the graceful arm, the turn and glance, the near-miss.  The kiss and teeth marks.  Transcendent gods.  Exquisite geometry all across his outer form.  In the dorm during the storm when hands glide smoothly over daringly white sheets.




6160  Nominalists begin by pledging to each other that there is no such thing as a bare particular.  And then if there are no bare particulars, it must be true that there are no universals.  Without matter to individuate, there can be no Forms to unite.  So what they end up with is a strange animal called a trope, half-individual, half-form.  Perhaps the concrete universal.


In onto-logic, it is symbolized as a bare x and an F as property, F(x).  Let's say B, the property Blue, B(x) – this is blue.  Our nominalist friends, not believing in anything bare, either particular or universal, have instead b1 and b2 and b3, meaning this-blue1, this-blue2 and this-blue3.  Three different blues, none of which is a true universal or Form and none of which is a bare particular, matter sans property.  So far so good, but of course the dialectic proceeds.


Now consider the fact that this is blue.  Now consider an ordinary blue object.  And we will disregard the fact that such an object would of course be much more complex than that.  Now we have facts and the ontological things that make up a fact, either bare particulars and universals, or a trope.  And we also have the ordinary object.  Ontological things – facts – ordinary object.  Are those three one and the same?


Bergmann wants to say that ordinary objects are facts, then he says that facts assay into ontological things.  Yes, he does sort of have them dissolve together.  No, he wants them to be separate, but that separation is, alas, finally nothing – or is it?  I work harder to keep them apart, and I am left with a gaping abyss between.  I have not moved away from that vision.  Refusing to countenance the trope, I am stuck in stillness.


Nonetheless, continuing on – probably by myself because I have long ago lost my reader – I now consider the thought of all this.  I have, along with Bergmann, thoughts of facts.  There is the fact B(x), but there is also 'B(x)', the thought of the fact, the thought that this is blue.  I also have thoughts of the simple, bare ontological things.  And of the facticity of the facts.  And that facts assay into things.  And of the difference between things, facts and ordinary objects.  And of difference itself, though this one is hard to see.  And on and on.  It's all there.  Analysis goes on into the long intellectual night.  A pleasant endeavor.  And as with all things of pleasure it devolves into a mess.


It seems that the nominalists were thinking ahead to just that outcome and they were trying to head it off.  Their puritanical fingers were not to dip into that ecstasy. 




6161  Both Socrates and Jesus fought those who used twisted logic and misleading rhetoric to change truth into untruth.  To win the battle they had to outfox the fox in a terrible game of cunning.  They had to be more evil than the evil.  Luther and Pascal and Nietzsche understood.  The fighting and the trickery continue.  That is the glory of philosophy and theology.  The systems that have been coming at us from both are masterful puzzles. 


For some time now there have been those who want to ground our thinking in commonsense in order to avoid such deception.  Even ordinary language.  They want the simple, homely, go-to-work family man to have his say and help overcome these secretive elite.  Let the masses decide.  Let public opinion be our guide.  Be an ordinary guy!




6162  God is the furious lover.  God is the gentle beloved.  Jehovah and Jesus.  But he is also, in Hinduism, Rudra and Shiva, the Rage and the Auspicious.  In Islam, He is the Power and He is the merciful.  In today's eco-theology, Nature is Sublime but also gently beautiful, chaos and cosmos.  God has two sides.  The danger is also our refuge.


Love, sweet love, is at once violence in the soul.  The loveliness of human flesh is also the most nauseating.  The reasoning of an enlightened mind proliferates as creeping paradox within logic.  Everywhere the gentlest beginning turns and threatens.  But then the night transforms itself into lover and you know you are in for a wild ride in his flashy new car. 


I too know fury in my soul.  I know jealousy.  I know rage  at the dalliance of the unconcerned beauty.  And I feel his gentle hand sooth my temper.  I am tempered hard and I glisten with his beauty.  Without him I  am totally lost.  With him my madness calms into song.  Fire is my salvation. 




6163  For quite a few centuries barbarians with their blood-thirsty gods from the north threatened the Roman Empire.  In time the uniting of those two forces created modern Europe.  Today the same thing is happening, except that now it is coming from the south, blood-thirsty barbarians with their strange religion are again attacking us in the Empire.  In time there will be a uniting of these two forces and a new Entity will be born.  It may take centuries, but it's inevitable.


Would it be a mistake to say that we Europeans (I include what has been America) are still the blood-thirsty Germanic barbarians only now moving on south to attack the remnants of Rome in exile in Africa and Asia?  Or are we innocent lambs being led to the sacrifice?  Maybe we all should simply give up on comparisons and just try to get along – a rather boring non-idea, but then it could be that life is ultimately just boring.


I think we are being taken for a ride in our young god's flashy new car and he's cutting dough nuts.




6164  Are boy-gods literary creations, only literary creations, a trope?  A trope is etymologically a turning.  Why turn?  In Sanskrit √trap means to turn away in shame.  We use rhetorical tropes because for some reason we are afraid to speak directly.  Maybe like the Hebrews who are afraid to pronounce the name of God.  A trope speaks and doesn't speak at the same time.  The boy is a god and obviously not, at once.  A trope is a trope, a mere trope, and also not.  It is an ontic thing separate from its meaning and it is that meaning intimately.  The meaning is ontological, an eternal Form, a god.  What is the nexus between the ontic trope and the ontological meaning of it?  Can we overcome the hard dualism between signifier and signified that Saussure gave to us?  Is it a part of man's childhood only to think that the object is "in" the words?  Is absolute literature perhaps, as distinguished from today's mere journalism, a embodiment of the thing itself.  Could that be?


For me writing is not mere scratches that point to something else.  The words move; the sentences flow and build into breathing paragraphs.  Writing is of the mouth; perhaps they are something logocentric, but they activate my body.  They have the form of the sexual boy.  Around and around until the orgasmic conclusion.  A literary creation, not only has a separate meaning, it is a sensual body with me.  In words the ontological Form itself is there.  Or so I have blushingly learned to see it, as such.  The form is the content of my writing.


And I have come to see the "real" boy as text.




 6165  Pop corn, alarm clocks, furious hands.  It's a little incantation made to be repeated, repeated, repeated until it wears out and dull daylight sinks.  What is the connection between a word and its meaning?  For a long time now we have been accustomed to thinking that it is by mere convention we associate those two very dissimilar things.  Nonetheless, we can feel that association is not nearly strong enough to capture the fusing together of word and meaning.  They are much too intimate for that, even though the word is very different in  all the different languages.  The word seems to possess the essence.   Or the essence possesses the word.  There is magic going on there.  But the day's repetition seems to kill it.


So just what is that fusing?  I really don't know what else to call it other than fusion.  The name is not important, though, for what I am about here.  I'm intent on catching a glimpse of the nexus itself.  So, in my roundabout way I will talk about the thing itself.  Anyone who has read much of my philosophy knows that such connectors are at the heart of it.  They are things.  They are ontological things, not ontic or ordinary, everyday things.  Let me begin  with  something a little easier.


The boy is closer to me than is the sun, but he is also farther away.  Look at those words "closer to" and "farther away".  They name relations.  Are relations things and are they external to what they relate?  Whole philosophies hang on the answer you give.  Any philosophy that goes by the name of realism will have to answer that, yes, they are things and they are external to what they relate – though they are obviously not in space.  Relations exist and they are other than what they relate.  Still, a way has to be found to connect up the relation with the things related.  Voilà, another nexus, it too being external to the relation and the relata.  You may be very hesitant about believing all that but you may get my (almost unimaginable) point.


Now then, take fusion as the nexus between a word and its meaning.  On my account it is external to both word and meaning, though, of course, it is the very ground of their extreme intimacy.  Or so I will vigorously argue.  I am a dualist, but that dual pair is mediated by a third.  Without the third, all the various nexus, the world falls apart and we're sunk.  But the world doesn't fall.  Corn  pops, clocks alarm,  and fury is handed to us.




6166  Last time I once again mentioned the great importance that connectors have in my philosophy.  That importance shows itself in my writing in the presence of so many little connector words articulating the sentences.  Rummage around in what you read here and notice all the prepositions and little particle words that complete the verb.  I use only a few simple nouns and those verbs are rather generic, like take and turn and show, and they are often intransitive and almost nothing, such as he lies there, turns, while the wind blows.  Even the simple words and, or, of, with, into etc. stand out.  I'm sure you saw right there the words "stand out" as an example.  Connectors are of the essence.  I love their articulated moving on.  And when they take a bow in propria persona they become otherworldly ontological things, so close and then so far away.  Slight beauties.




6167  Ross Wolfe, who usually posts really interesting articles here about the history of architecture, has instead written about the new views on Nietzsche.  He is being derided for being a very undemocratic aristocrat type, which seems to me like suddenly criticizing Hegel for being perplexing.  Well, of course he was that and everyone has always known it; nonetheless, I think the real reason Nietzsche has fallen in the eyes of so many is because Joachim Köhler in Zarathustra's Secret has proven rather conclusively that the man was gay.  Indeed, that strong masculine type he so loved was a homosexual dream, one like him who was not afraid.  Young men as comrades.  Walt Whitman and all that.  Even those quasi-military groups that sprang up here and in Europe at the turn of the twentieth century.  Lothar Mochtan in The Hidden Hitler has shown, again rather conclusively, that even Hitler was a part of all that.  Faggots everywhere.  And I, being a proud faggot myself, and not afraid to say so, report this state of  affairs outright, unlike these timid academicians who are afraid of offending the likes of me.  They also don't want to imply that all these years everyone was taken in by a worried fairy.  I still like Nietzsche, however, even though I have never liked his physiological perspectivism. 




6168  We all know what beauty is, even those who argue that we don't.  And we all know that it is very fleeting.  Thus, we all know anxiety.  Those who assert that beauty is in all things at all times are simply trying not to shake because of its ready departure.  That beautiful one will never return, only the replacement comes.  We are driven forcibly into consciousness.


Sartre was a master at describing such anxiety.  We are each a naked particular, an existing formlessness.  We search for a form that we might become a real something of the world.   We want to be identifiable.  So we grab at an essence.


Then we feel the loss of that freedom we were when we were nothing, only a nakedness.  And we run from what we have become.  But what is a naked particular?


I have called it, with the magic of English, the bare particular.  I have said it is an ontological thing.  Only the formed particular is granted real existence in the world.  I become anxious thinking that Sartre may agree.  But other bare things ontologically exist: the bare universal, the bare nexus, the bare set, the bare fact.  Not one of those is encountered in everyday life and any vision we might gain of them through analytical work is nerve-wracking.  So they are denied.




6169  If you read any encyclopedia article about Platonism, you will read about a belief in Eternal Forms, each of which is a real universal (as opposed to being a mere general concept) and you will also read about imitators of and participants in the Forms, not fully determined themselves as being or not being like or unlike those Eternal well-formed Things, and then you will be told of a third thing, το τριτον γενος, that kind or thing or stuff that receives or lies under the Forms and the  imitators; it is the completely indeterminate. 


In my philosophy there are the Forms and then there are the perfectly determinate bare particulars that individuate and which pellucidly exemplify the Forms.  I have no indeterminate things anywhere.  Indeed, everything is exactly a just-that, perfectly itself as itself. No flaccid maybe.


I do however have the anxiety and vertigo of love.  I speak of falling and turning and not knowing.  Yes and no and up is down and the necessity of it could have been otherwise.  And yet, as I read my words, those things are all very definite in being what they are.  The Indeterminate is a clear as the crystal night Form.  Light shines even is total darkness.  I know nothing but Light.   Innocence and absolute knowing.  A playfulness released from the confining receptacle filled with dark, bloody passions.  Or so you might think, but not read about anywhere, my darling ontological boy.




6170  What drives one philosopher this way and another one that other way?  Surely it is some beloved one that is calling.  Do you worship an earth goddess or a sky god?  It's an ancient division.  And there will be no getting around it.  You will choose.  If not, you will be chosen.  By this or that, the tug will be there.  Then after sides have been laid out in order, in opposition, the battle ensues.  And after that, who knows?  I am with the sky god.


I don't mind.  Some things are obvious.  To those to whom they are obvious.  The night of battle is pure horror.  Exquisite beauty.  Devastatingly sensual.  It is always the prelude to Stillness.  Then rampant knowing.  At last.


Does the act of thinking go on and on without resolution?  What would be the point?  Surely every little section holds the sexual moment.  There comes a time when there is no more time and it is right there.  The glistening.  Sweet oblivion one more time.


The well-formed ones unerringly find the hands that caress. And digress into dim lit recesses of late night thought.  Always bought, caught.  Up taut, until it breaks.  The players pay with understanding.  Things do compete and complete.


Who will win?  Arjuna and Krishna discuss the wearisome affair and stare at perfection.  The sky rains down like a bull and the trolls stroll by.  The toll finally is collected.  Oh well.


Awaiting the rising sun, smooth skin listens, teeth bite tight and the sheer of this and that veers off into his casual gulp.  You simply watch.


I write up the unmoved mover as he says nothing.  And I am furious.




6171  The only understanding I can come up with for atheism is that it is whistling in the dark.  Surely everyone can see that we the living are in a dangerous place.  Threatening matters follow us at every turn.  The flesh is so very weak before the blast.  The mind gives way.  The crowd pushes in.  All our attempts at knowledge collapse.  We die.  Where is there refuge if not in God standing firm against God?


To simply deny the fury and the ravages is folly, it seems to me.  To think that one can calmly handle even the simple horrors of the everyday, not to mention the cosmic, is simple-mindedness.  The whirlwind soon comes into the schoolyard.  The safeguard of home and house is blown away.  Love turns to hate so easily.  The gentle is beaten down.  It is so common.  Where is our refuge?  Is there none?  Do they think that death will lay them down gently and a great dreamless sleep will ensue?  Wishful thinking.  Whistling in the dark.


God is the Fury.  And only God can be our safety away from God.  The Dionysian yields to the Apollonian.  The warlord calms down when the boy who carries his armor sings a soothing lay at his pillow.  The beloved of God himself carries the scars that would have been ours.  The boy is the heart of God.  Love is bittersweet.  It is bitter, but it is also sweet.  Without the sweetness of God we are left with the bitter, which cannot  be  denied.


I think the atheists are trusting in art, the mirror at one remove in which they see dimly the rage of Being.  But will art protect them?  It's too much to ask of such a delicate thing.  It is a fine silk scarf in the hurling wind.  Finally it's the beloved of God, a one who has only the charms of a naked boy, a cunning that can endure, only he will notice we are in need and understand our pitiful attempts.




6172  I'm at that age in life when most people I should become wistful and anguished about the approaching end.  I'm neither.  If fact I can hardly bear to be around those who are, either in person or in their writing.  All my life has been an attempt to get at him and maybe I am getting closer, though the distance feels the same.  I fully expect to come face to face with that god.  This is realism.  I have not imagined it all.  The dialectic has worked and the nakedness is uncovered.  But then, it was so from the beginning.  Hardly anything at all has changed.  The presence is present.


It is common today to think of philosophy as an eternal questioning with no answer.  What a waste!   Love does reach its object.  It has done so from its first moment.  Nothing has changed.  The final moment will be with me always.  He is there.  It was not just imagination without reality.  And those who disagree, the mature ones, have, like Keats, simply been in love with melancholy from their youth.  Nothing changes.


And so being young

and dipped in folly,

I fell in love

with melancholy.


            Edgar Allan Poe




6173  I have an electric tooth brush and it is currently working just fine.  There are physicists today who speculate that that piece of information I just gave you is imprinted on some great cosmic Tabula.  Maybe it is the tachyonic quantum field somewhere in the elsewhere outside the lightcone we live within.  Who cares?  Some might even speculate that that is the Mind of God.  That's all God is for them?  My toothbrush is here now and I venture to guess that it is not going to leave here and go there.  And I wonder if their God reads his Tabula and thinks about it.


The problem is that some people confuse information about something with both the something and the knowing of it.  Mind as awareness is not the object of awareness.  Information about everything in the world may be recorded somewhere, but that is not the world.  Just as the world is not stored on giant servers owned by Google et alia.


I think this points up a common misconception in this virtual age.  People mistake an image for reality.  The mathematical model has become the thing itself.  But I guess many have been saying that for a long time.  I love my electric toothbrush; it so sensual having a  vibrating thing in my mouth.




6174  A few paragraphs back I wondered why anyone would be an atheist in the face of this overpowering danger we are in as a frail quasi-existent tossed about in a whirlwind.  I should think the fear would be immense.  Nonetheless, I can think of a few reasons why.  It isn't a whirlwind; it is the sea.  The Deep. And this great unknown Beast is the Great Mother.  For the fearful child the mother is both a terror and succor, a giantess with enfolding arms. Materialism is finally Mater.


The Veil is the proper symbol for such a majestic being.  There is always and necessarily something hidden.  There is the I-don't-know-what.  Proust wrote, "Quand je voyais un object exterieur, la conscience que je le voyais restait entre moi et lui, le bordait d'un mince lisere spirituel qui m'empechait de jamais toucher directement sa matier."  When I saw something out there, the consciousness that I saw it remained between me and it, bordered by a thin spiritual veil that prevented me from ever touching directly its matter. 


The materialist will willing let himself be wrapped into that.  He hopes for benevolence, not violence.  But the chthonic threatens and there is no knowing.  He is searching for pity, La Pietá.  And ever the frightful male figure is close by.  That atheist is finally a believer in the gods.  He just wants to hide in the labyrinthine folds.  In agnosia he inquires about the gnosis.


Materialists are hesitant satanists.  They recognize a terrible destructive power out there, but they want to peer out at it from within the safety of the enfolding arms.  Eventually the arms squeeze him too tight and he suffocates. 




6175  Last time I once again quoted Bergmann's quote from Proust.  Un mince liseré spirituel.  I translated that as a thin spiritual veil.  It suited my purpose to translate it as such, but liseré is perhaps more properly a border or edging, a narrow band or even boundary line.  But Proust said it was an impediment to touching, which I suppose means either with the hand or the eyes, therefore a veil.


What I am talking about here is the intentional nexus.  Liseré as nexus, nexus as liseré.  Bergmann in his late philosophy abandoned such a thing altogether.  I suppose that means a thought is "right up against" its object without an impeding veil.  Or the two are "mutually inside each other" as a kind of internal relation.  I'm not going to second guess his choice of metaphor and, instead, I will examine the thing as I think it is in itself.  (Aren't you glad your beautiful skin hides your internal organs?)


I call my philosophy direct realism, maybe even naïve realism.  I am looking immediately at the object, no mediator.  I look out my window I see a red-winged blackbird.  I am not looking at any kind of mental or neural image; I am looking at a bird out there – I see it in propria persona.  That should be obvious.  Also when I think about a mathematical form or a the color red or the form of bird, I see those directly and they are real existing things, not my mental or neural  "creation".  Such creating doesn't exist.


Therefore, if the nexus exists, it cannot be a blockage.  Should I say it is transparent?  Rather, let me say that it is the job of a nexus to unite intimately.  Because of it I, as an awareness, am one with the object, but not in such a way that the difference is abandoned.  The two are united as one.  But the dialectic goes on into greater complications, which are for next time.


In love the two become one flesh; they know each other; an intimacy that transcends the division, but doesn't destroy it.  If they didn't remain also two and ultimately separate there  would be no escape from the suffocation that is the threat of loving.




6176  From a distance, I watch two lovers, one of which may be me.  I am the thought X loves Y.  That thought is a thing that is different from its referent, the two loving.  And I also am in a separate thought the thought that I am that thought and that that is the form of thought.  Complications set in.  I can handle it as well as you.  But we need intellectual strength not to let it set into a viscous clot.  Differences must be maintained, connectors must be stated and hooked up properly, separation, where separation exists, must be preserved.


A thought is a simple universal exemplified by many awarenesses.  Introspect your own thought that X loves Y.  You will see a something that could be the thought had by many others.  But the thought itself – look hard  at  it – is not a composite thing; it is one simple thing.  Only the referent of the thought is complex, a composite.  It's magic.  Do you believe in universals?  If so you now have another type.  Don't forget the connectors between it and you as a particular.


I am sadly sure I lost almost everyone there.  I wander alone in this circus out on this desert beside a ruined city of jinn. 




6177  We speak of Platonic realism but also of Platonic idealism and everything gets mighty confused.  We think of him as the one who denied the artist, the poet, a place in his Ideal Republic, but then we know that he is by far the most artistic of philosophers.  He seems to preach the abstract, unseen, pure Forms away from all sensual appearance, then again he is the philosopher of the erotic vision in divine madness.  He denies the body, but he uses disembodied logic as a tool to capture beautiful youth.  He rushes toward the flesh and he pulls forcefully away.  What is going on here?


I think we should look to Walter Pater's Conclusion for a clue. ”Philosophiren, says Novalis, ist dephlegmatisiren, vivificiren. The service of philosophy, of speculative culture, towards the human spirit, is to rouse, to startle it to a life of constant and eager observation. Every moment some form grows perfect in hand or face; some tone on the hills or the sea is choicer than the rest; some mood of passion or insight or intellectual excitement is irresistibly real and attractive to us, --for that moment only. Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end. A counted number of pulses only is given to us of a variegated, dramatic life. How may we see in them all that is to be seen in them by the finest senses? How shall we pass most swiftly from point to point, and be present always at the focus where the greatest number of vital forces unite in their purest energy?


To burn always with this hard, gem-like flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life."


For Plato, as for Pater, the Ideal does appear, but only for an instant and then it is gone.  The material body is to be evaded only when the inertia that is matter's nature overwhelms the beauty of form.  And that, alas, is most of the time.  Beauty and youth soon, so very soon, depart and we are left with a fallen thing.  It is as though it never really appeared at all.  Could there be a perfect vision of that thing without matter's dull deadness present?  What is that inertia?  Is it necessary?  Must beauty always and essentially be for an instant?  Those are the questions that must plague the Platonist, not the question of how we are simply to remove ourselves from the material world.


Plato was an extreme sensualist empiricist, but he knew, as we all know but find hard to admit, that the empirical senses usually give us something hardly ideal.  The Charioteer in the Phaedrus hesitated to approach the present fleshly thing at the moment of its highest beauty, not because it was flesh, but because, at that extreme, it was divine and he pulled back out of fear of offending it.  We all understand.


Beauty itself comes through the artist, but the artist himself is anything but beautiful.  Still, he does burn with a hard, gem-like flame, and that is the exactness of the logic of beauty within him as he works the Hephaestian Fire.  Yes, the body and the flesh are to be reviled, except for that Instant.  Yes, the pure Form is away from dull matter, except for that exquisite moment.  Yes, the artist must be kept away from the gods who live in the ideal republic, except that he will steal in and engage them in bewildering dialogue that he might capture a very fleeting vision of their nakedness.  Platonism is real life.




6178  There are those who insist that true beauty is an inward thing; it is of the soul; it is, indeed, the goodness of the person.  They are usually the same ones who overlook the decorative elements of rhetoric and look for the deep human meaning of the author's passionate words.  Therefore, they have little time for considerations of style and the literary.  They believe we must always look through appearances, things of little worth, and concentrate on substantial reality, the hard telling of it.


If you look at today's scientifically-minded materialists, the physicalists, they are never the ones noted for eye-catching fashion; they have no time for such frivolity.  Thus they think that the world as it appears, full of color and fragrances and sweet sounds, though momentarily pleasant, must finally be derealized as mere physiological fluff and the hard stuff of hadron acceleration and detailed engineering, coupled happily with firmly enforced world peace, should be elevated as honest reality.  They are - of course - not dandies and fops.  They are real men unconcerned with ornament and embellishment from our deceptive senses.


I write with style.  I highly value the outer appearances as the reality I am after.  Thus I am a mere intellectual faggot.




6179  The pieces are few.  The combinations are simple and well-regulated. The heart climbs into the head.  Again and again.  There will be no end to  it.  Forward and backward in time, at last the center holds.  And then gives way once more for the first time.  And the last.  Then it repeats.  The eternal return returns.  And I am writing.  As I have always and never been writing.  It is filled with necessity.  He is here.  And I am satisfied.


Outside of it all in the realm of the square root of minus one, I imagine faster than the speed of light and remember nothing, except the future.  Surely grammatical constructions deconstruct.  And meaning deliquesces.  In perfect understanding.  The wind blows in the Aeolian harp.  Once again.  And a2 – b2 = c2.  Pythagoras stands on his head in the elsewhere.  It's so very simple.  I blush at his smooth skin against mine.  The Cypress trees are tall and like flame.  I blame no one.  Never ask permission.




6180  I sequester myself in the vocabulary.  His syntactical maneuvers tie me up.  I am among his impending combinations.  Recombinations.  He says me through ruby lips.  Wet ruby lips.  And brown skin smooth as eye saliva.  In a favela of Rio de janeiro.  His narrow waist wastes no time; he's mine.  Among the least of these.  The beast lives.  My stupidity, cupidity radiates, masturbates.  We are beyond knowing.  I lie back.  He tacks against the wind.  We wind down.


This then that and its meaninglessness is a fine brew.  He knew me when.  And then the old hen came and … well, it was over.  I reconstruct.


Sweet bright dawn.  The fawn of yore.  Or your bite and yawn, it's all one.  The way ahead is blocked.  He knocked.  I answered.  He averred that I was the only one.  That we were one.  The flesh is a wreck.  What the heck.   Words come and go and so. What?  If you learn mathematics well and you can spell and play the piano like a fool's tool, then all is in the dell and bells quell your nasty beasties.  Testes.  And cum. 


Timelessness and topologiclessness and a headache.  Soon Spring will be here and fear will increase.  What if he pounds on your  door and you're not ready?  You have to answer.  His pointless questions.  About necessity and that mess  in the  city.  And his importunance.  Impertinent!  Bitch.  He's rich.  So you hop in his car and go to a bar.  Far away.  On the moon.  And instantly you're back lying on you bed.  Undead.  The night will continue.


Surely he is thinking about someone else.  And all you have is perfection.  Dreams.  Reams of dreams.  It  seems so long.  So long ago.  Drop it.




6181  Each person is unique, but I'm not interested.  Perhaps I am interested in that thing called uniqueness, the singular.  And I am truly interested in the bare particular that makes him just that one, but as for him in his life's convoluted story, I'm not interested – too much drama.  Let's keep things simple.  I'm looking for the god in him.


I hover about.  A form lies there.  So gently.  Love oozes.  My chest aches.  It's another one of those times.  I'm a sweet vampire sucking the life right out of him.  I'm just like God.  I will teach him philosophy, real philosophy, deadly Platonism, and cover him with an ascetic's hood so he can contemplate the Hand.  As it glides over his arm.  His thigh.  His cheek.   Before he dies unto himself and is reborn as That.   The Force.  The Power.  The glance.  The sigh.


There's no one special there.  Only the universal thing who has never not been,  In dreadful existence.  Surely the Forms are nightmares.  An unending cringe.   We binge on fair ambrosia.  His approach devastates.  The clamor rises.  And madness descends.  The singular sings and stands up in queue and on cue the blast.  No one in particular.  But I know It well.  Beyond mere life.  Gone away.   Again.




6182  Every philosophy is built up out of a few basic elements with a few repeating progressions.  Major, minor, augmented, diminished.  Life itself is no more than that. It is real.  It is captivating.  We are easily impressed, easily diverted, magnificently riveted to a moving spirit.  In the sky.  In the earth. In the quintessence.


Cheek, lip, an encircling arm so smooth, so delicious, so threatening.  Simple forms forming a pattern.  A pattern you have known forever.  You knew before you knew anything.  Magically obvious.  Mystically heavy.  Weight.  In the pit of your stomach.  A nervous arousal.  The final carousel sickness we call an ordinary day.  Gradation, modulation, cadence.  A fit of fine desire.  Hidden in plain sight.  He knows. 




6183  He has mass because he is a contradiction.  He won't budge.  His exquisite precision.  Stiff, on the point of the fulcrum.  Canceled out.  Placed in place.  Solid.  So I lower him down an octave.  Nothing, he is the same.  I rotate him around.  Identical.  He's stuck.


When something like his thing is everywhere symmetrical through rotation, then al-dunya.  The world slides into a slaver and wince of Being so easily.  So many things to think about. The condensate.  He is wet on me.  A viscous ooze.  I snooze.  I suppose I should be going.


All of our science is set up to find the unchanging, the immovable, the one thing.  Without that there is no understanding and we float.  Play must end in the final prick.  And the infection.  The sickness of thought blithely called love.  We await the sweet lips of the caregiver.  He smiles knowingly.  The Cause.




6184  Nietzsche announced the death of God.  God had been the symbol of all things majestic.  Great metaphysical-theological systems had been constructed to reach to the very summit of the divine mind.  The grandeur of our architecture overwhelmed us.  Poetry had embraced the twilight and the depths.  Great men led us on great campaigns.  Our militancy and war rivaled the glory of heaven.  And our love conquered dissolution of the body.  We were the center of creation.  But man grew tired of it all and wanted only a simple cottage with a loving family and rest.  The bourgeoisie now ruled and they were the new gods.  Man came to worship Woman.


Scholars had been at fault.  They looked and saw that God was a sham.  They pissed their acerbic bile all over our high blown systems of understanding.  Now resentment and pettiness come to the fore.  And the Romantics who wanted to return to blood and soil have only exacerbated our plight so that now confusion reigns, but it is called joy.


I write up the old systems, the old love, but it is hopeless.  And I don't believe, along with Pascal, that if we only increase the darkness that God and the gods will return.  I look to the seductively disruptive ways of the boy, so far from glory.  Jesus as the urchin.




6185  Jerkiness.  An electric current.  Paralyzed.  Nothing much.  Touch this.  Then that.  Wait.  What was I thinking?  The volume is too loud.  Turn it down.  It's ok now.  I can barely hear it.  Barely.  That smooth curve moves so smoothly.  Bumps on the spinal  cord.  He's getting hard.  He can't move.  I slip in.  The thing has me.  Thought.  This is thought.  Taut.  Release.  If you please.  I did.  I slid.  Shudder.  Butter cheeks.  Reeks, leaks, freaks.  He peeks around at me.  I smile, grin, his thin arm has me.  Soon I'll be free.  I have to pee.  This electric current.  Jerk jerk. There it is.




6186  Does an object have a definite, determinate set of properties before it is observed?  That is the big question today haunting quantum physics.  Two main answers have been given.  The first says that it does not.  Before it is observed, it is "surrounded by a cloud of possibilities" and the act of observation causes the cloud to condense or collapse into one determinate set of actual properties.  That cloud is a field and it is described in wave mechanics.  The second says that that infinite number of sets of possibilities is in fact not a gathering of mere possibilities at all but rather sets of actualities, each in its own universe, thereby avoiding contradiction.  In the second view observation chooses or somehow causes one of the sets to be actual in this world.  Did you follow that laying out of syntax?  Do you think that one is possibly correct?  Or maybe both are correct, but each in its own intellectual realm.  Logic gets entangled, though grammar seems to come through unscathed.  There is, of course, no way for us to figure it out right now, but we are certainly invited to muse.  I wonder about my dreams.


It is easy and puckishly exciting to lead a young mind through the maze.  And at the center is … the Monstrum.  But you have no thread to lead you back out.  He is stuck there with you.


Possibilities and actualities ride on the knife's edge.  Titillation.  No harm will come.   Life itself is already harm itself.  To have done it and to not have done it.  A tear in the cloth.  Nothing can mend it.  The contradiction is permanent.  We are that.




6187  I have recently been reading a number of books on quantum physics explained for the populace.  I have come to see space as something else.  Because we have so often been told that the atom is mostly empty and that electrons, indeed all particles, are really clouds of possibilities, I had come to think of it all as an airy, even breezy,  vacancy.  The void was everywhere and it was a less-than-soft nothingness.  But now I think of the quantum grid that is space-time as incredibly hard.  It takes a tremendous amount of energy to break off a little piece of it.  The force holding it together is monstrous.  The Grid, the metric Field, the eternal Crystalline Oscillation.  Gigantic, very tight concentrations of pain.  Hard.  Light is almost impenetrable.  Or it absolutely is.




6188  There seem to be two versions of matter.  One is the extremely hard metric of strong forces, that achingly tight, multi-dimensional space-time grid.  The other is the crumbly stuff we are made of.  Matter as an Urcompactness, a fiercely fixed field.  And matter as a flimsy heap of particles, loose grains of detritus.  Somewhere in between there are the tough tendons of muscle.


The first kind of matter is Aristotelian and all those philosophers who have a vision of an oceanic swelling.  The second is Thomistic, materia signata quantitate, the bare particulars.


Waves vs. particles.  And quanta which are an attempt to have something that is both.  The idea of quanta is unstable.  Our science is unstable.  The world is unstable.  But we are in silent correspondence living on and in a most reticent, rigid intellectual grid.  Thus we and all things hang tight and we fall apart at once and eternally.


Our  escape is too close to be easy.  His muscular being hurts.




6189  Matter, whether the rigid space-time grid or loose crumbly stuff, is not all there is to real being.  Indeed, the very geometrical forms of the grid and the loose falling-apart, particulate nature of the very fragile are universals that are not material things.  Matter, either as field or particles, as studied in physics is not the most elemental.


When we consider the particular space-time structure that we live within, should we consider it one thing or many?  Is it the only such structure?  Might there not be an uncountable number of them?  Isn't the abstract form of being a space-time structure also a something?  We have landed in ontology, that place where most thinkers begin to fidget.  Separate from any space-time there are the Ontological Things.  And the gods of beauty.  And all such metaphysical madness.  Which may be an idea to your liking or at least to your fancy, or maybe not.  To each his own.  Those who want an escape have one.  The others should never mind.


Why is it that the religious beliefs of some are so offensive to others?  Even I can hardly brook agnosticism.  And when I am finally able to calm myself down when confronted with it, it is usually too late.  Matter, I rigidly insist, is not all there really is.  Arguments crumble.





6190    Confessions of an anti-Deleuzean, right-side-up Platonist.  First, the fact that I label myself and take on a well-recognized Form is anti-that.  I know that that Form is impossible to pin down, but that's only because it is a transcendent thing.  Second the further fact that I not only go after boys instead of women but I also indeed label myself as a Platonic pederast is anti-that.  Third, the fact that I see difference as identical with itself is anti-that.  And, for now, lastly, that I have a definite orgasmic end to these philosophical layings-out in the Boy is contrary to his ever-going-on. 


Yes, I am an unreconstructed Platonist.  But is all that really anti-Deleuzean?  That guy is a serpentine thing and I suppose he could weedle his way into any philosophy in order to love it to death.  Only Deleuze is anti-Deleuzean.  Still, I am anti-Deleuzean in the minds of his epigones simply because I label myself an Anti-Deleuzean.




6191  When I read Deleuze write about the Plane of Immanence it seems so much like Brahma in Hindu Vedanta.  And his giving priority to Difference is, it seems to me, the same as what is done in Madhyamika Buddhism, whether Mind-Only or Nagarjuna's Absolute Nihilism.  And of course it's so very Hegelian.  If you want to strike a difference, go ahead; it should be easy – all such strikings in philosophy are easy.


The only difference is that those two august religions have their great texts written up in meter.  They have chanting monks working day and night to bring the world to a close.  Is there  any way to put rhythmical chant in modern, western philosophy?  It would be a real challenge to try it with that syntactically heavy mass it now resides in.  Still, Sanskrit too loves a hard compounding of words – it's an Indo-European specialty. 


What remains of the Brahmanic Pure Consciousness when the timing of meter is removed.  The Fire.  And we then have no protection against it.




6192  I write desire.  I am standing on the Deleuzean Plane of Immanence.  You think not?  Can you prove it?  I'm sure you can.  But your proofs are scholastic Platonic rot.  I too am a Platonist.  I dance the academic dance.  I am atop the everlasting walls.  Ivy grows out of my nose.  I am an American dream. I am free. Desire stirs in me. That ancient Form.  Primping boys in truck stop mirrors.  The gods have returned.  For a night.  For a bite of earned food.  It's all transcendence and your remittance.  The eternal blinking lights.


That of course was a bit of poetry.  You've been there before.  Soon for you glamour in the  slammer.  A martyr for love.  Well, no, nothing much really ever happens out here on the plains.   We imagine and belabor the old ideas.  It's a dear pleasure.  A treasure.  A measure of time and slime.  Your spirit, I know, can spin on that dime.  Just desire.  Tomorrow another gilles, another goat.  In his lead bed and red-assed work.  Philosophy can take the good right out of you.  And put it in the sky.




6193  There have been arguments for a long, long time about the meaning of Platonic sexuality.  It is intense, but is it real sex?  We can immediately dismiss the idea that he advocates abandoning sex in favor of a sexless morality.  Rather the question is whether or not he thinks that constraint on the spirit heightens desire and increases its longing.  That, I think, is indeed the refrain he sings.


Just like Michel in Gide's The Immoralist, he is one who in the stillness of having another close by feels the seep of the boy's existence flow into him.  Platonic asceticism drives sexual feelings into excess.  Bham!  That is my life.




6194  So often in art and our Bible the prostitute comes forth.  Why the fascination?  I too have written up the Catamite.  And surely that is the meaning of the sindona stripped from the boy as he escapes his captors after that fracas in the Garden of Gethsemane.  Even the Greek gymnasium was so close to that.  Is it because domestic life, the destroyer of divine madness, is the great evil to be refuted?  Well, you know my  answer.


The public market place is where the temple was built, or rather the temple is where the public market place was built.  First the temple then the city.  That mercurial boundary.  The crossing over.  Intercourse with the gods.  Thieves and interpreters and secret transactions.  The demi-monde of the spirit.  Boys milling around who know exactly what was going on.  They know how to grind the man down to get his money to buy flash.  Even now, hidden in plain sight.  He loiters.




6195  Those who think they are realists because they blog about, about grounding appearances in the Collapsing Void somewhere out there in the Nowhere are clearly wrong.  The nothing-at-all will surely not brook such an attempt to substantial-eyes it.  Also, if I may be so bold as to think my own thoughts, there is not one Reality before which or whom we must all bent our aching knee.  There are many.  Nor is there one past leading up to this moment nor one future leading out.  There are many.  That many is surely infinite.  And furthermore, none (not one speck) of that is merely the positing of forgetful minds or The Mad Absolute Mind, aka pure puerile consciousness or the (air)plane of immanence.  The whole fucking shebang in it infinitude is real.  And when it finally breaks apart into all those shining ontological jewels that the narcissistic god who rules our day and night puts on his cheek then  … then nothing.  We're paralyzed in amazement.  Void schmoid, he's right there hard and hardly collapsing.


Then, after the oblivion of orgasm has worn out and you have come back home from that job you sort of like and you sort of hate, he stands very tall and still in your darkened room and you just know you'll give in one  more time. 


Bloggers are simply marking time with their magic marker until the next time.




6196  The Myth of the Given.   That is the name of what those who do not believe in direct realism call what they think controls that dreaded corruption of thought.  I am a very direct realist and, yes, maybe it is a corruption and maybe there is something of myth to the given, nonetheless I do absolutely believe in that unavoidable Given.


The alternative to direct realism is indirect realism.  That is the belief that every characterization of every individual thing we think we see is "theory-laden".  That is to say that we are looking at that supposed thing through the filters of language and social teaching and historical meaning and brain presets and scary dreams and on and on.  In other words what we think is given isn't really.  The argument seems so convincingly heavy.


But it's like our fear of ghosts.  If we can just convince ourselves that what seems to be "out there" really is just our own over active imagination, then we can get on with the nothingness of our tv-watching lives in peace.  Life is tv of the mind projected into empty space.


That I do find scary.  Those who don't believe in the given do believe in ghosts.  I believe in the solid givenness of the world I directly see.  I have no interest in ghosts.  And so I am outside the box of this fantastic time.




6197  I believe in the Given.  What is present to my mind exists.  There are things outside my mind and they stand face to face with me. It's as simple as that.


Those who are uncomfortable with such beings right up against them balk.  They insist that what they directly see isn't.  They believe only in what cannot be seen.  Or felt.  Why?


Have you ever had someone staring at you, maybe desiring you?  For the male it is unsettling.  God does that and most hate it.  He desires you.  It's too much.  His hand comes over your soft smooth skin.  The pleasant curve of your back is irresistible to him.  Run.  But he will catch you, if he wants to.  And like Ganymede you will be taken to his heaven where you may never have wanted to go at all.  So maybe you should learn a philosophy that can convince you of the unreality of the world.  Where is safety?  Is the one who believes absolutely nothing because he is an intellectual your savior?  But maybe you want that hand and those eyes looking at you.  Maybe.  It's as simple as that.




6198  Why do such bad things happen to human beings?  Can you imagine a world in which no bad things happened?  It would be excruciatingly boring.  We love drama.  We love to see other people in danger.  We like a comfortable seat from where we can watch.  Like the blessed in heaven taking great joy in watching the tortures of Hell, we relish the prospect.  And we say, Oh my! Oh dear! How horrible.  Then we vow to take action because we also like the feeling of indignation and anger and we dream of how we can beat someone's head in and participate in the great drama of life.  We sit and dream of how we could be great actors on the stage of life.  Theater is wonderful.  God the dramaturge is superb. 




6199  Dialectic is the fourth madness, the erotic madness Socrates describes in the Phaedrus.  It is the raving fury of Saul wearily travelling to fetch David who tarries lost in a beloved's dalliance.  It is the incessant analyzing of jealousy that the one who was abandoned works at day and night.   Thus it is Shamanism, a word which finally means to weary oneself with ascetic labor, the work of love's worry going over and over and over what happened.  Love consumes vast amounts of energy.


And it is thus related to poetry.  Poetry is punctuation by other means.  And timing.  And the tension between line and syntax.  Between meter and meaning and the moan.  Between diction and his form.  Poetry is work.  Dividing and dividing and more dividing.  And the force of holding the parts in one collapsing frame.  Analysis and synthesis and the prosthesis of a god's voice.




6200  In order to not appear uppity and thereby call down opprobrium on your head you must, of course, be very humble and make no pretense to know Truth.  Man's mind, it must be acknowledged, is horribly limited and prone to intractable error.  Then, after you have shown that you have not placed yourself among the gods, you will be allowed to lie among mortals.  No swords are to be brought into the places of mutual respect.


Alas, what finally exists, the entities that are ultimate, first things, if there be such, are not to be mentioned.  It would be unseemly to do so.  We must be polite.  Such is the scientific method.


I, contrariwise, have not been so humble and polite.  I, from the beginning, have spoken of those things at the end of analysis.  Ontological things.  We know them directly.  They are in-your-face things.  At-your-groin things.  They are inexorably there.  Nor does it make sense to question their finality.


Consider existence, that thing which all existing things have.  Existence exists and that is the end of it.  Consider the connectives and, or, not, if then, part-of, equal to, different from.  We know the essence of all of these intimately and  they are obviously ultimate things.  If I assert that, do you think I am uppity for thinking I know that I know that?




6201  The most damning act today is to accuse another of being a troll.  A cunning individual who engages in eristic.  Discord for the sake of discord.  Not a friendly respecter of another's ideas, but the spectre of inconsequential difference.  The very crime that brought down Jesus and Socrates.  The subtle crime of dialectical argument.


This is the act of a lover.  Quietly, he plots a verbal attack against the one who has softly rejected him.  Against his slightest slight.  And at the instant of victory it is all forgotten and perfect concord is firmly set up again.  Love is vicious.  And only another lover can see the joy within it.  Eros and Eris are one, the bone of sweet contention.


That is why on the Day of Judgment we will need the Paraclete, the one who will argue our case.  That is why Jesus is the incarnation of the Logos, reason's ordered argument.  God is the Troll of Being.  He prowls waiting to engage you in difficult thought.  Questions that bore into you.  The attack.  An act of heightened love.  Lovers understand.




6202  Being pursues us with questions that cannot be answered.  Being offers us the tool of Reason.  Being argues the argument in our place.  The arguing goes on through the long night.  You must stand and wait.  All attempts at getting these warriors of Being to lay down their swords are cur-tailed.


The people have learned to hate philosophical argument.  But it is God with us.  Theology is anti-life, otherworldly.  It destroys pleasure.  Except for the one addicted to love.  Pointless, ordered agitation.  A twisted ordering.  Fire.  More questions, more answers, more questions.  Then the absurdity of a perfect resolution.  At the end no one can deny the argument.  Thus no one can deny God.  God is this pressing of the point.  The Paraclete will help you but he will also make you hopelessly fall into love's incessant turning.


Or do you disagree?  We have time to argue.  And really we have nothing else.




6203  There are two ways to speak to the great writings of our culture.  We can happily trust that what they are saying is straight forward and open or we can speak hesitantly darkly consumed by the presentiment of a labyrinthine enclosure.  I blithely assume the first.




6204  Shakespeare's Sonnets speak the rhythm of beauty dancing with death.  Of course the boy, the earthy boy, will succumb.  But not the Boy.  The Dance, Beauty, that Face and Fair Form, all the trembling and hesitation, will ever be just as it is – but not here.  The words he wrote will ever suffice to lift the one here to There and save that uncertain loved one – for those who know how to read well.


The meters carry us over and beyond the Fire.  Oscillation.  The little mouth.  A swinging in the breeze.  The heart that finally breaks.  And breaks through.  This trance of raving madness.  Those piercing eyes that see.  The mole of unity.


 Yes, this is what real poetry does.  It places the beloved among the stars.  The poet's love with rhymes in time conquers death and slime    Otherwise, what good is it?




6205  Every great religion has its holy books and a band of scholars who comment on them.  God, the holy books and institutional commentary.  Eventually God drops out of the picture as unnecessary.  Then the holy books themselves come to be seen as the edited work of unknown scribes and copyists.  At the end there are only scholars arguing over nothing.


In the battle between scholars and God, the scholars always win.  The academicians are always right.  And God is a drag on the system.  Mid-level minds take over.  That is the atheism of the schools.




6206  When I was a kid I found a small electrical rectifier, a compact green box about 6 inches across.  All it did was hum.  I stared at it.  It was my favorite thing.  Now I write sentences that turn the oscillating current of the sentence into white noise.  I'm sure no one knows how to read them.  Look at them to their rhythmical structure; look through them to their meaning.  This then that.  Faster and faster.  Oscillation.  That little mouth swinging in the breeze.   A Dionysian seduction.  Suction.  Rectification.  The Rite of Spring.  He springs up.  Thick clear light in the coolness of a hot afternoon.  Ό νυμφος in the water.  I totter.  And slaughter the words.


Nothing is as it should be.  And that is how it should be.  I work the serpentine line.  Noun, verb, preposition.  The phrase doesn't faze me.  My face erupts.  Small electrical irreconcilables.  Green pus.  Little mouths.  White porpoise declamations.  Meaning smears across the vacuoles.  The moan.  I'm torn asunder.  And thunder in the sky at night.  Tight.  The  sentence holds.


This then that.  And another thing.  Always one more clinging thing.  And the thingness of things rings in my ear.  Here.  He hears me.  But says nothing in reply.  I ply his thigh.  My boat is in his throat.  My mast in fast in his musk.  His tusk bears me bare.  Onward.  Ever and anon.  But at noon we get up go out and it's another day.




6207  Ontologically I divide an ordinary object up into its unordinary pieces.  I make a sharp, absolute cut.  Here and there.  I'm no longer in this world.  I am where nothing changes.  Nothing comes into being.  Nor leaves.  Where existence itself is a separate thing.  Where actuality and potentiality are themselves entities.  Where everything is bare.  Simply self-contained.  There is, of course, no way to put all the pieces back together again and make an ordinary object.  The extra-ordinary it firm.  Once you eat the fruit of enchantment you can never again leave this thralldom, this prison paradise of clear thought.


To those immersed in commerce here there is no such place, no seductive beauty, no allure of that fascinating god of the cut.  To those who are There, the world, samsara, the hothouse of commerce never was.  I am here in the complete nihilism of Nagarjuna.  The world never did exist.  No illusions, no movement, no life at all.  And mind simply isn't.  Only bare entities.  Things that never could make a world.  Those excruciatingly pure things that the world and time disappear into.  There never could have been such a place as this place.




6208  I've been thinking about this for quite some time – years.  The highest value of the middle class is cleanliness.  It's high praise to call someone's design project clean. The environment must be clean.  We want to make a clean break.  The only place where it still isn't a compliment is in the fine arts, including fine cooking.


Impressionism and abstract expressionism was attacked for not being bourgeois clean.  They were painterly.  The materiality of the paint and the drawing stroke stood out.  Can fine art be clean?  I don't think so.  Fine art has to touch raw existence or it isn't fine art.  The wisdom of poverty is the nerve of great art.




6209  A clean materialism is a contradiction of terms.  The flesh is a viscous trap.  The sticky syntax of tongue language licks.  Sin.


For us here living on this neat and orderly golf course, the rest of the world has become a hovel where the untouchables barely live at all.  We have our freedom of movement inside our paradise prison; they are constricted in the vastness of unthinkable Being. 


Poverty is suction seduction.  Sweet pressure.  I write paragraphs where I congeal.  And peel off layers.  Naked ganglia.  A gang of wasps sting.  Smooth swellings.  The wind blows.  Testes roan crinkling.  I break out.  I am the zits of so-called life.  My property was auctioned for seed.  I am leisure.  I eke.


Middle class materialism is a fine breeze.  Manicured nails.  It speaks blithe comments on far comets and flatulent forebodings of a distant future.  Nothing pressing.  The inflammation is gone. 


We are weak within their power.  The poor.  The sick.  The gaudy paralytic.  He's coming.  Soon the surge.  And then what?




6210  Canonical literature, including the Bible, always sets up the panic of pederasty.  Augustine, Dante, Anselm, San Juan de la Cruz,  Bacon, Cervantes, Shakespeare, Goethe, Leibniz, Newton, Milton, Whitman, Twain, Carroll, Nietzsche, Gide, Eliot, Genet, Ginsberg, Burroughs and on and on.  They all had, somewhere in their ambience, the youth that causes fire to arise in the breast.  And it has always been interpreted out.  The deliberate misreading.  Even Freud has been overcome. 




6211  This thought came to me after eating bananas and oatmeal (or porridge, as most of the English-speaking world calls it) but before my coffee, namely that there is death of the author and then again there is death of the author.  The first kind is Barthe's meaning, which the Internet is kind enough to overwhelm and confuse us with, and the second kind is a softer kind that the rest of us are now forced to suffer.


Consider the fact that I know next to nothing about you or your whereabouts.  I know more about your possible ancestors.  I am writing/speaking to …. ?.   More than that I have the feeling that you are writing from a cubicle at your job, or so I imagine.  Such at-work writing must, of course, be brief and not filled with more than pleasant greetings and salutations.  There is no time for lengthy intellectual argument – unless you want to lose your job.  What to do, that's life in this workers' paradise.  We all know this other kind of death of the author.  As St. Paul says, we mustn't kick against the pricks.  He also said that he who doesn't work, neither shall he eat.  The snow is beautiful.




6212  Yes, pure perception, that's what I am after.  I look about and I see three books on the floor beside my chair, a set of three books.  I see, not only each book, but also the set.  That seems to me straightforward and clear.  As such it is a pure perception. 


It is a complication, no longer pure, to then speak of the concept of a  collection (or collective – I can't see the  difference) a group, an abounding plenty, a perpetuation, a manipulation, an appearing aggregate, a boxing into categories, etc..


As I see it the simple (pure) word "set" communicates and the complications of that into higher and higher abstractions does so only barely.  Therefore, if the goal is to communicate, we should stick with things of pure perception and not those things that find their meaning in intricate definitions of conceptual correlating.  On the other hand, grand explanations have a certain poetic obscurity about them that, though they fail to communicate well, they do give a heady, intellectual enchantment.


Grammatical Form, what is it?  Let me answer by asking a different question.  What is Justice?  That is a favorite question in the Platonic dialogues.  The interlocutors go round and round and finally end up in aporia or failure to answer the question.  Justice simply cannot be defined.  Every attempt proves inadequate.  In the recent history of attempts at defining grammatical form or at laying out some table of rules and how we learn to apply them, all have failed, including that of Chomsky and mimesis.  Grammatical form remains a mystery.  So where do we go from here?  As I see it, when something proves to be beyond definition, we should then see it as a simple, ultimate existent.  Thus, not only Justice, but the Good, Beauty, Being, Form, Set, Love, Boy, Life, and a whole multitude of other fundamental things simply exist.  I know you don't like the thought that it is "just there".  And that is the ultimate stupidity of things, their meaninglessness.  What to do?


Do words and sentences stand for things and facts in existence in the world?  Or do they stand for concepts or ideas in your mind?  If it is the former, I can understand what you mean by looking at the world.  But if it is the latter how can I ever know what your mean since I cannot look inside your head?  Or perhaps you think I understand because I am part of the great Noosphere of human inter-subjectivity.  Intellect communicating with intellect through the spirituality of language without needing any material referent.  I admit it is an lovely idea.




6213  Platonic Love has had a time of it.  Is it sexual or not?  Did Ganymede learn rape or rapture?  If that madness is not chaste, it must be goatish.  We are caught in the middle.  The ambivalence lands squarely in Nihil.  A hard blank.  A bank of nerves.  The verve of prickly timelessness.  Scholars of deconstruction glower.  And the knowing literati.


Philosophy is, or may be, only rhetoric.  Timing is essential.  But I have no line break.  So I have made do.  I do have a time of it.  A fit.  A zit on the face of it.  Or something more spiritual.  A god-zit.  I am a Turing  undecidable.  The halting problem.  He's here.  Will I halt or run?  Pure thought runs down my leg.  A flood of possibilities.  Wet dreams of empty mathematics.  Loop.


Well, yes, I could drop all this and run to politics as the others have done.  The sighing sensualism of Platonism, its back alley lust, is a little too high-minded.  Its intellectual chastity cracks the back side.  The mind reels in its lure and an ordinary boy wanting gifts awaits.  Still, there is that smell about him.  That odor of eternity.  That musk of dusk.  And tomorrow's wash.


There's no way out.  It's not one or the other.  It's not both.  It's not neither.  It's not both and neither.  Etcetera etcetera etcetera. The flames of agitation.  Agni. Ό πνευμα αγιος.  It all looks and feel like verbal, come here gestures from a refined boreding school.  The boys have a time of it.  No time left.




6214  The four main twentieth century philosophers I like best are Husserl, Wittgenstein, Bergmann and Grossmann.  They are all Jewish.  I should say they are what late, very late, rabbinical Judaism has become – a highly intellectualized, moral force.  Somewhat like late Platonism.  Their God is so thoroughly disincarnated as to be non-existent.  Thus this form of Judaism is generally atheistic.  It is the last step in a long process making its way away from that phallic war god of the early Torah.  Christianity has mostly followed suit.


I take that philosophy of scholarly journals and that religion of moral abstractions and reincarnate them in an aesthetic rush, a rhythmical flush of plain English logo-erotics.  I do what any small town, over-sexed young intellectual would do out in the hills along the railroad tracks.  I romp with the scape goats and play in the fire. I and Jesus have run away from the middle-earth church.  He shoots up along the parabolas so they will not understand.  He mounts up on wings of eagles.  This new and ancient Ganymede.  While I move about among the Aryans and wait with the waiting catamites.




6215  The poet is able to see the truth of what is going on.  He is able to divine the hidden ratios.  He knows the secret code.  He is a Cabalist, the one who has received terrible understanding.  The prophetic voice.


The philosopher moves about.  He dances.  The beloved is near.  He feels faint.  He neither is nor isn't.  Eros prowls.  Strike!  Take!  Ravage!  Be careful.  In an instant.  Nothing can be said.  God is revealed as simple beauty.  There is no secret, only a glance.  And those resplendent ratios visible to all.


Look at that temple of the Spirit.  Should we say that in its ratios there is given to those to whom it is given knowledge of the future and the past?  Or should we stand in amazement at the beauty present.  Do we look at what isn't now or at the eternal Now now present?  The poet sees what is absent; the philosopher sees what is exactly right there in the There that is here.  Which is more confusing is anyone's guess. 




6216  Ganymede is the symbol of a love that lifts an earthly beloved to divine heights.  It is a love that many boys here have known.  After many a lover has looked and fallen in worship of the idol standing before him.  The scene is an embarrassment for all around.  And fury arises.  And fear.  Then brain waves in chaos.  And headache.  And the glorious invisible halo.


I suppose one could avoid all that by simply paying no attention or getting an all-consuming job.  That would be easy enough.  Unless you're an addict to love and this god has you by the balls.  In which case you will have to jump onto his merry-go-round of the dialectic and spin spin spin.  I write spinning.




6217  Today's philosophies of immanence, as far as I can tell, are all a working out of the Hegelian Phenomenology of Spirit.  The world is spirit moving within itself.  We might say that we are peering at appearances in the mind of God – sort of like Berkeley and Malebranche.   Today's philosophers would of course reject my idea because they are die hard materialists and atheists to boot.  Nonetheless, it is what it is.


Let me put it in more materialistic terms – sort of.  What we are doing is peering into Space-Time.  Again, unfortunately, sort of like the (rather beautiful) Immensity of Malebranche's God.  This Space-Time is divided up into regions of cause and effect vectors.  Physicists quaintly speak of a Horizon of Events Cone.  It's a horizon because one can never actually reach a horizon and it’s a cone because if all those vectors didn't radiate from a central point (again unreachable), a now – well, can you imagine the mess of them all going every which way?  The interesting thing about that cone is that there is an outside to it – we will call it the Elsewhere.  And the interesting thing about that is that there (in its un-there-ness) cause and effect vectors "move" backwards in time.  Or, if you want, forward in square-root-of-negative-one i-space, imaginary Space-Time.  Or whatever.  Which means, if you have been sleepily following my gist, that the future is the cause of the past.  And since we here now are the future to all that went before (a cute but meaningless phrase), we, the now, are the cause of our past.  In other words all of time is neatly coiled up in one tight bed with itself dreaming.


It's all immanent.  L'Eminence Immanent et Grise. I think the problem with such a view is that it assumes that there is only one past to every now with only one future radiating there from.  Then again, who am I to say, the one whom the Boy has in thrall.  I think we nod down along his anodyne length.  And I easily blank out.




6218  Life is theater and it is unreal.  We must not look to reason and science to tell us just what is going on.  We have to ask those who know the stage.  Rationalists and scientists are just actors, as we all are, playing their part.  All the world's a stage and we are … you know the rest.  But do you know the denouement?  Of this unreality.


And now the paradox enters.  The philosopher has recognized his cue.  He proceeds.  He tells you that we are right now at that magic, dialectical point, call it God if you wish, where the unreal touches the real.  This theater, this holy stage, is all there is.  There is no foundation to this building.  Nothing outside the walls along which we sit.  This is it.  The really real is this very unreality.  But alas, the thought is so difficult.  Still it is true in its untruth.  We are on the verge.  As Rumi said, "Be quiet and sit down for you are drunk and this is the edge of the roof."




6219  Socrates is philosophy and philosophy is Socrates.  That is to say, here is the presence of the erotic.  Many have today mistakenly come to see him as the one who magnificently challenges all authority with his relentless questioning.  He then becomes a comic who brings down the haughty and the high.  He is a leveler.   But that is hardly what he is doing.  He is setting up a beauty to be ravished.  He is playing the game of dominance.  He is the authority, the hierarch.  The hard rule.  His logic, his lust is αναγκη.


Eros is dominance of one by another.  The one succumbs to the other.  Finally both succumb to each other.  It is mutual destruction.  Beauty is taken and beauty crushes.  That is why so many today want to substitute sensualism for the erotic.  Nice pleasant sensual touching here, touching there, relax.   Eros is chased back up into his heaven.  The republic on this flat plain network, this anti-ontology, will not tolerate his high-flying Art.




6220  Philosophy is erotics.  That is why so many modern "philosophers" are trying to overcome it with an anti-Platonism.  Erotics is dominance-submission.  It is aggression.  It is violence.  Man's immortal spirit enjoys having its way with mortal flesh. 


Religion and art are erotics.  All three must be performed outside the walls of the new republic.  Out where sacrifice and chaos and midnight kisses prevail.  Hard, tight ritualistic matters.  Where the will is never free.  Where God has his  hand all over you.  And he  slides in so easily.  Until oblivion.


Then the eternal return.  Headache mania.  Nefas.  Here there is only cutting presence.  And essence.  And the incense of musk.  A tusk.  Close to the ram parts.  The wall. 




6221  In the religious schools of the Middle Ages, the teaching of grammar was seen as both a metaphor for pederasty and its cause.  Grammar proceeds by means of rules of dominance and that sets up an authoritarian scene.   Thus erotics.  Thomas Nashe wrote, "Nouns and pronouns, I pronounce you as traitors to boys' buttocks."  Thus, in this new age when all education is to be relaxed and uncoerced, allowing the youth to walk his own path and choose his own thoughts, no one will be molested by the rod of pedagogy.  The will will be free.


It may happen that the youth will learn from all the travelling salesmen on the Internet, but without the erotics of dominance-submission something will by aesthetically missing.  Then again aesthetics should perhaps disappear into an easy-going goodness.  Maybe not.




6222  Good Morning, let's see what my mind can come up with after having slept and dreamt about it.  We have two realms: the ordinary place we live in everyday and the magical place of Archetypes we intuit when our worldly eyes are closed.  I surmise we all know how to move in and out, back and forth from one realm to the other.  And we all know the great difficulty encountered when we're trying to overcome their separation.  The one without the other does seem incomplete.  Nonetheless, every once in a while, we all do, I feel, come across some entity that maddeningly somehow unites them.  And it is right there that I am going look for the priest/priestess.  It is my contention that the instrument that such a person uses to affect that union is language.  But you must remember that language is more than words: there is the language of color and shape and sound and even clothes and food. It's all around us.  Usually language is ordinary and everyday factual, but sometimes it becomes sacerdotal.  A priest makes oracular utterances.  Ritualistic contrivances to force the presence of other-worldly Ideal beings.  It's a tricky business and it often seems like a sham.


I think you know all about it.  You yourself have often performed that rite.  You write.  And when you do you use sentence structure that is anything but ordinary.  There is some je ne sais quoi about it that makes it different.  Let's call that different quality X.  That X may be disconcerting to others; it may be momentarily enticing; or it may just feel wrong.  You may have seen some other person have that X in his manner of walking or sitting or dressing or glancing about.  That X maddeningly brings the two realms together, but all you can do is stare at it.  And the priest/priestess has no idea how he did it.  Or only an inkling.  How to capture that inkling?


What is that X that some things possess or are possessed by that unites the two realms?  I don't know.  And I suppose we should also remember that the priest always officiates at a sacrifice.  A killing where chaos reigns for a moment outside time.  But that is another consideration. 




6223  Behold, I come as a thief in the night.  Every formal system crashes against the rocks of existence.  Every scientific enumeration of facts fashioned into a coherent whole comes apart at His appearance.  Unless we cut off a sacred place, a temenos, where the gods can play, we are done in by their killing whims.  The Boy walks with you as you build your intellectual contraption.  He too loves the butch force required.  He knows he will ride it in glory.  He will ride it to ground.  And then walk away.  You have no appeal.


Metaphysics and the end of metaphysics are one.  A useless, meaningless, divine invasion.  His rapture is your rupture.  The sutures in the Hindu Sutras dissolve in the sweet acidic night within His glare.  Smooth silky skin.  A lick and the poison seeps.  Medicine for the soul.  The mathesis of puck.




6224  Every philosophy eventually needs a little fixing up because certain problems appear in its basic idea.  You may have always had an inkling they were there.  Or you may have known full well they were there but you always thought you could just go on.  So you set out to try once again to deal with them.  Inevitably, you fail and aporia glowers at you.  There really is no way out of your bind.  I too am there always, so I will take that bind, that aporia, that no way out as my primal thing.


God is that within which we live and move and have out being.  We are ringed about.  He has us corralled.  There is no escape.  God is our aporia.  Philosophy always leads to that.  It is just like love.  There is no way to quit your lover, either this divine Thing or another.


Here's one of my favorite aporetic (maybe even operatic) puzzles.  Science grounds the truth and falsity of its statement in facts.  What is a fact?  Consider the fact that p = mv, momentum equals mass times velocity.  The elements here are p, m, v, =, plus a proper ordering of them.  Altogether they make a fact.  But what is the fact other than or over and above the elements and the  ordering principle?  It can't be an additional element.  Is it a thing at all?  Apparently not.  So, I guess facts don’t exist.  But of course they do.  Or what?   Maybe it's an additional connector element that ties all of them together.  I suppose it is; I have said it is, but them the fact isn't that tie, but that tie tying all the rest and .... oh, well it becomes an ever bigger mess.




6225  There is one way out of the aporetic mess for the ontological analyst.  This is the way I have always taken.  The problem comes when you try to back off away from all your analytical cutting and put the pieces back together into an ordinary, everyday object.  What you need to do is recognize that you can't.  you have entered the Land of Analytical Enchantment and you can never go home again.  The Boy now sits and stares at you, waiting for you to realize what happened.  So just walk off with him and forget the world.  All the pieces become gems on his celestial skin.  Like sprinkled pearl.  Like a jewel is a rich Ethiop's ear.  Beguiling Krishna.




6226  You have mentioned a couple of times that the changes you see are ringed around.  They are limited or restricted and not pure flux.  That thing which does the limiting is not too different from a fixed Form.  Differences could of course be found but still there is much in common.  Something has to hold things in place at least for a time.  You should dwell on that and try to think it through.  Or not.  I'm just musing about.


Here's one reason I am a Platonist caught in stillness: when I speak of love (which I invariably do) I am not imagining happy times together doing this and that in the ecstatic sun with a soft caressing breeze or lying about in the coolness of evening.  Rather I am thinking of the love that is a sitting apart alone and feeling the anguish of an uncrossable divide.  A sigh.  An incessant, obsessive remembering of one minute speck in being that tortures my heart in sweet pain.  The old poetry of Andalusia captures it well.


I am wondering if you really write mobility in love.  Maybe you do but so far from what I have read it is all rather tortured and not too far from stillness.  Then again there is much about you I do not know.  Or ever will.


I want to say something about sacrifice.  As you know, the Bible says man was kicked out of the Garden of Eden, not because he sinned by eating from the Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil, but so he could not get at the tree of Life and be like the gods, who had now grown fearful of him.  "Trial and/or testing" means killing.  Science gains knowledge by destroying whatever it is studying and watching to see what pieces are left on the autopsy table.  There is no other way to gain knowledge and we are preeminently those beings who have immense knowledge.  It's amazing how much we know.  But life is not to be ours.  That is our fate.  So we will go on destroying and killing and examining and challenging the gods, but without having eaten from the Tree of Life.  Trial and/or testing is what we today call sacrifice.  It's the same deadly thing it always was.  From that act we gain power, but still no prospect of life.


I think you were very correct in describing science/knowledge as coming out of anger.  Out of Fury.  Knowledge begins in the fear of a jealous God.  We are afraid for good reason.  In the Christian religion the one who walked straight into that Fury, which was God Himself, in order to calm Him down was Jesus.  Just like David used to calm the fury of Saul, the Son of David sings sweetly and calms the Fury of Being.  Saul loved David but his jealousy was overwhelming.  Only David could handle him. Love and the acquisition of knowledge both court the whirlwind. 


Well, my goodness, I wasn't expecting that!  Yes, I feel called to action.  Circles and phase space and vanishing absolutes.  Please, let me jump right into it.  Solid-state physics, you say, and thermodynamics.  Let's, for the hell of it, assume there are no contradictions in those powerful engines of modern knowing.  (I just lost my coffee cup.  How can a person lose their coffee cup? It, without a doubt, slipped through the interstices of some fractal grid and it will pop up under my bed or wherever such things navigate.  I need some caffeine)  Anyway, yes, scientific theories.  What in the name of all things holy do theories have to do with the real  world?  Are they cosmic commandments that must be obeyed?  As far as I know they are generalized statements of the for-all-instances-of-x, if-this-then-that kind.  And it seems that they always have some constant that no matter how you twist things around that constant is ever miraculously constant.  So we're faced with general facts represented by equations sporting some value that doesn't change no matter how much you poke at it.  Equations!  Functions!  What is a function, anyway?  Moreover, a generalized function?  And how do they act on matter – if there is such an inane thing?


I'm stumped.  Walking back from Walmart through the falling snow thinking about how I would rather be back in Kathmandu was sweet, but this is just a mind-fuck.  Yes, just what a scientific law is and how they connect up with the material world is one of the current  hot topics in philosophy.  Soon they will realize they haven't a clue and go on to something else.


Well, no, I'm not doing epistemology or psychology or rhetoric.  I'm talking about the very being of a thing, which is how I understand ontology.  There's a big difference.  When I say x is F and I look at the "is" and the great gulf between the x and the F, I am not looking at a way of logically, or rhetorically describing the thing or at an epistemological or psychological understanding of it.  I am looking at a rip in its very existence.  That difference is not a subjective determination of mine.  That is a thing that gives great difficulty to the soul, yes, but it precedes any understanding of it, human or not.  It is objective.  Even  if there  were no conscious beings around that difference would still be there.  And when I or anyone else feels it, they are present with something inhuman and real.


you may have guessed that it is my habit to get up for a short while in the middle of the night and then go back to bed.  In these little intervals my mind is fairly lucid so I enjoy thinking then when the world is quiet - not that it ever is really noisy here in the  middle of nowhere.


What you are presenting here or rather what is being presented here (since there is not subject "you") is magical.  Dreams without a dreamer.  Thoughts without a thinker.  Running without a runner.  Writing without a writer.  It's marvelous to think about.  Yes, you are bringing the reader or rather the reader is being brought closer to the reading, but it is a reading without a reader.  Something is being read without someone reading it.  It's a magical, mystical vision. I love it.  Or rather it is loved by …




6227  Music exists.  And, though it is "attached" to instruments and air waves and the body's nerves, it is something other.  Mind exists.  And, though it is "attached" to the instruments of body and hard text and nervous gesture, it too is something other.  The mind loves music because it sees in that something akin to itself.  Tenuously attached then flying free.  They fly through number and order and cascading emotions.  They coalesce and they are one thing.  They cohabit the uninhabitable places.  They scrape along.


On the one hand you have the hard materiality of the instrument, the rough, coarse, grating thing.  On the other the fine elegance of high order and spiritual pirouettes. When they unite, then art ravishes.  Mind is a bite on the neck.  Music is a thud.  Extreme things soaked with holy fright.  The sensible middle ground is gone.  Thought is close to crashing.


Coarse matter and the most refined intellect.  That is the playground of music and mind.  The beloved is attached then flies free.  Then comes back and resumes the horrible game of love.  There is no end to it.  Then the blank.




6228  The intentional nexus.  There are two ways to know an object.  Indirectly and directly.  The former is to know it through one's own, through, dear reader, your own personal perspective, through your feelings about it and your impressions, through what it has meant to you, through what connections it lies within and what part it plays deep in your life.  You are then looking mostly at yourself.  The other is to suddenly find the object itself bodied over against you so you are looking right at it.  You are face to face with It.  Then all subjectivity falls away and there is only That, just there.


Direct knowing, though striking, has something mystically peaceful about it.  Feeling is gone.  The stillness of "it is just there" remains.  An unknowing knowing.  The elemental stupidity of things.  You are at the edge of forgetting.


But how do we know an object except through inner representations?  How do we escape our own mind and go to that thing?  There must be a way out and over to the other. What is that "to" in face to face.  Without that we are lost in subjectivity.  It is necessary.  We know that thing when we suddenly encounter the object itself.  The Encounter.  In that nexus you get away from yourself and see what is there.  I think it comes with practice that we can forget the self and its cares.




6229  I encounter a piece of paper lying in the street.  An encountering is different from finding or merely seeing.  Those latter acts would probably mean that I was engaged in figuring out the meaning of it: what was written on it, where it should be instead of in the street, where it came from.  An encounter is a simple being with it as it is.  A mere piece of paper.  Suddenly it strikes me as a thing from Being.  Its existence is enough.  It is.  But what is it?  It is a Form from out of timelessness become just that.  It is a bare thing, a just that, taking on the Form of  Paper.  No more than that.  That is enough to make it an event.  Should I say that Eternity has ingressed into a pure happening as do the Whiteheadeans.  I see no reason why not.  A pure event without form is ingressed, transgressed toward my awareness.  A rather simple paradigm.  It is sufficient for seeing all the way to the End of Existence.  It  exists.  Nothing else is necessary.


The difference between a bare particular and a pure event prior to ingression is minimal, if anything at all.




6230  Ingression vs. exemplification.  Going in vs. taking out.  An invasion into time.  A choice made from out of the gems in heaven's loot.  Naming the nexus is a back and forth thing.  A circuit is made.  Heavy traffic.  In the dark.  And it is your job, dear philosopher, to take that machine apart and peer and try mightily to see how it works.  But will you be able to put it back together?  No, the world is lost.  Then again, the world may never have been.  It was a long, long time ago.  You too are falling apart.  From too much thinking.  Lay down your sleepy head.  And someone will come and wonder about you too.  A thing.  Just a thing.  Force from the sky did you in.  And out.  And all about.  I'm about done.  But one more thing.  That vs., the turning, churning in your stomach.  Wretch.  You'll feel better.  Good night.




6231  Last time I wrote about a piece of paper lying in the street as a thing from Eternity present with a particular presenting itself to the mind.  That seems a stretch.  And yet a piece of paper is a basic shape.  Still paper is such a matter of contingent unfolding.  Historical branching and the purity of the fractal a priori.  I wonder if I could speak of the Eternal Form of a Candy bar wrapper ingressing into the present moment.  Exaggerated play and the necessity of Spirit.  The clash is tenuous.


The boy in my writing is God.  That too seems a bit much.  A bit rich.  As though I'm walking in the conscious staging of The Absurd on Corn Silk Broadway.  But you, dear reader, surely by now can think such a delight.  I do, though, hint at sexuality and there's the problem.  The boy is pure play, freedom of the will, imagination, innocence.  Then along comes knowing and entrapment.  He senses his prey.  He smiles.  He seduces with beguiling delicacy.  He moves beyond knowing.  The ancient thing is transmogrifying.  Sex as hard necessity.  A serious matter.  Too much to look at in a mere boy.  But there you are.  Nabokov understood.  Νυμφοληπτος   


We try so hard to maintain our purity and our freedom.  The problem is that every time we have matters arranged, according to the truth of what was, the Holy Spirit changes the past and we stick out like a throbbing thumb.  Glistening balm and a tell-tale glove.  What was it he wrote before he tossed it to the wind … and away?




6232  Through vs. At.  Today we mostly have Through-ontologies.  For example, I point to a couple of penguins flying overhead.  I ask if the universal Forms of Penguin and Bird and Flying exist.  My T-ontologist answers that, No, those are only concepts we have devised to categorize.  Certain objects and actions fall under them.  And as we look up now we see what we see through our conceptual filters.  Indeed, when we look at all of the world we peer out through a complicated mesh of concepts and semes and hurtling syntax.  Moreover, when we look inward at the very concepts themselves we look at them through another level of meta-concepts.  One concept has its total meaning and existence in and through another.  These concepts fall continually into and out of each other.  Each is run through with its other.  There is finally no end to it.  The world slips through its own fingers. Concepts don't exist.


An At-ontologist assures me that, Yes, those Forms do exist and we can look right at them and recognize them as they are in themselves without that great apparatus of slip-sliding concepts.  And the Form of Living Creature and Movement are also fully present in timeless existence.  We can look right at all of them.  None is only a gossamer concept or a mere lingual dewdrop.  We look at and not through because each is a substantial thing, not a ghost of vanished intentions.


For some time now there have been those who want to assert that everything is meaningless.  They look about and they see objects and forms that serve no purpose.  They just are.  That tree is just there.  Some of us like that vision.  It is an At-vision.  Then along comes a T-stroller who wants us to see the magnificent interconnected dependence of all things into the All.  He loves his vision also.  I make a gesture with my left hand and he wonders what that means.  I assure him that it was just a movement of my arm, a rather graceful curve, and it had no meaning.  I was satisfied with my answer; he wasn't.  To each his own.  We part and as he goes he turns and reluctantly tells me that penguins can't fly.  He was beautiful in the telling.




6233  One of the most controversial poets is Wordsworth.  He is often seen as a rather too-sweet Nature poet, but that isn't quite right.  He early on wrote about his childhood out in Nature as the source of his later thinking.  It was fake.  What he was doing was trying to get back to the time and place before thinking started.  He put that with a now dead, unremembered child, himself, but not himself.  He is always doubting his imagination of that time before thought.  Well, of course, How can one think that before thought?  Still, it is a powerful draw.  Later poets, notably Keats, called him out as a fraud.  His supposed simple language of nature and childhood went nowhere.  And so I too am looking for that initial intuition before elaborate thinking sets  in.  I see a set.  I see the setness of the set.  I see the difference between the set, the setness, and the elements.   I see it all.  Then that basic perception is expressed in words.  Simple words.   All that is before philosophical amplification and complication and an entanglement in the filaments of ontological ideas.  I am looking for the elemental power of an elegance expression.




6234  Here's the problem.  Early in my life I fell in love with mathematics and later with symbolic logic.  I just stared at them.  A holy stillness.  In math and logic there is no change and becoming.  The philosophical question is whether or not logic mirrors the form of the world.  A world without change or perhaps a world where time's becoming is an illusion. Hegel saw the problem reconciling logic and the world we know and he devised a form of dialectic in which the most basic laws of non-contradiction and the excluded middle are challenged.  He tried to put Becoming into logical form.  His followers today elevate Becoming over Being.  Surprisingly in physics today, in the most abstruse theories of 12-dimensional string theory and others that are similar, there is also no time and change.  Curt Gödel, who changed modern logic so drastically, thought that all time and change was an illusion.  As do many Buddhists.  The problem is to bring together logic and the world of change  we know.  Or to recognize that they are forever different.  I still love the great systems of logic.  There is still no place for becoming there.  Hegelians and process theorists might disagree.  We make the bed we will sleep in.




6235  What do we encounter before thought, before meaningful thought, i.e. before propositional thought?  We encounter the simple ontological pieces that are the constituents of fact, which the text expresses.  Those meaningless things just are.  In timelessness.  Just at the universal thought of a fact, of that fact, is timeless and we have that as a constituent of the fact that we have thought it.  The key insight is that all ontological things and even all facts are timeless.  Time is only a relation, another universal, that enters as a constituent.  There is no time aside from that.  Therefore, there is no before.  I suppose that is a mystical thought and will only appeal to the mystical.




6236  Let's consider, if you don't mind, the relation between the Platonic Menagerie, what I call the realm of ontological things, and God.  I want to call that teeming thing the Logos, if you kindly will (but really I don’t either mind or care if you do or don't).  Now then let's be Christian about the whole matter and say that the Logos became flesh in the meaty body of Jesus.  Furthermore let's forego the modern, rather Hegelian, crappy idea that all that is a metaphor for the Spirit becoming more and more manifest in the world.  As a Kierkegaardian  of sorts, sometimes out of sorts, I insist that we are talking about a male body walking around with that disciple he loved, whoever that was.  Forgetting K. can we make any sense of the notion that the Logos became such a piece of skin?  Well, yes, every lover knows that his beloved is the sum and substance of being.  Come to think of it, I suppose the thought actually is rather like something K. would say, kind of.  It's more Sufi.  The Ontological Boy is the Logos made just that piece of divine madness.  And the relation between that and God, or the rest of God, is that of Beauty and the Beast.  And that is just too too hard to look at straight on.




6237  Boys and love work like this to lead us on to Nirvana.  In the palm of Jesus.  Anyone who has been in love knows that it is nothing more than numbing repetition.  A monk's mantra.  Over and over and over.  Soon the world is gone.  And then the nothing. 


I have been over the field of ontological analysis day after day, night after night, year after year, life after life.  It is always and forever at an end.  There's nothing there.  Things fall apart.  The beauty is startling.  Then oblivion.


I woke up late.  The stars were strewn.  I walked and talked to myself incessantly.  I know the words.  The ideas repeat into a blur.  Meaningless sounds.  Knocked senseless.


He glanced his glance and danced his dance and fancy that.  Again and again.  Mantra tantra man trap.  Pinched.  Inched out of here.


To be in love with the dove and his shove into the oven.  Oxen step step step so gentle, fine gentlemen of the bight.  Bite.  The kite flies high and bye bye.


Ask him about analysis.  He knows nothing.  He is the analysand.  And the sandman.




6238  There are a lot of people today who are totally scandalized by the outrageous, even criminal religious beliefs out and about today.  They want nothing to do with the insanity that is religion.  And they loudly proclaim their disgust.  As well they should; you only have to look back into the nineteenth century, a time not so far away, to see the dark origins of today's somewhat cleaned up denominations.  The Pentecostal movement, the Freemasons, the Mormons and so many others held beliefs that were truly weird and dangerous.  Of course in earlier times it was the same.  Look at Dante and Milton and Newton, all creepy by a mile.  But all of that pales before what is going on today in Quantum Relativity.  It is there that mind twisting otherness is really found as never before.  If people would really look at it and see past the happy prospects presented to us in TV documentaries they would find something that makes any soul tremble.  Soon people will wake up to what has been discovered.  The new alchemy.  And then some other paradigm will be forced on us as a people to hide it all.  Thinking inevitably takes the mind into places where it hesitates past beings to which it finds itself in thrall.  I have written up nothing less.




6239  Here is what you might call my nihilism.  It goes with the unchanging stillness in my Eleaticsim.  If you ask me what individuals exist, I will answer that, ontologically speaking, none do.  There are bare, i.e. property-less, particulars, universals, the various nexus, that, one might say, what would have been individuals in other philosophies analytically dissolved into.  No individuals, only pieces of would-be individuals.  Of course, in the commonsense, much more sensible, everyday world, none of those pieces are anywhere to be seen and only individuals of every imaginable hue and form abound.


Unchanging ontological pieces.  That is the vision of my philosophy.  Is there a place in Being where only they exist and the normal world is gone?  That place is Being itself, another something that is nowhere here.  The Logos from which, through which, in which, before which we deliquesce into eternity.  Don't worry; it ain't here to nail you away anywhere.  But The Ontological Boy has an inkling.  And in the palm of your hand.




6240  Platonic love is rather promiscuous, maybe even polygamous.  One visits many earthly individuals before jumping to the abstractions.  Eventually, it is the One over the many. The social gives way to the purely sexual.  A holy indifference sets in.  Passion gives way to choking paralysis.  God fills the body and soul until suffocation.  The vertigo of the unceasing.  His arm encircles your waist and oblivion.


I am calmly telling you this in a simple telling.  The night is long.  The days elude.  Love languishes.  The same magical, repetitive words reap souls and flirt with the ghouls of fright.  Philosophy and love and the coming erection coalesce and deliquesce and then quiescence. 




6241  I think firmly refusing to accept fixed forms into your philosophy is a very sensible stance to take.  Such things have appealed mostly to mad mystics.  Plato and Parmenides and Heraclitus have given us philosophies of the extreme.  But it is the moderate middle where the joy of life is found.  Or so I have read many times out of mind.  Circumstances have led me elsewhere.  I am what I am; I follow whom I follow, and I recommend the same to no one.


The overwhelming argument in favor of fixed forms is easy to build, but it is always itself overwhelmed by commonsense.  Here is the famous poem On Nature by Parmenides that started the Greeks on their way.   




6242  The great injustice today is that the old oppress the young.  It is an injustice that cannot be corrected.  It has always been so and it always will be.  It is the Form we abide.  To speak of gender and class oppression is an evasion.  The cunning of age is a surprise to one who is young and believed in knowledge and ability and vigor.  He finds that the only tools he has to overcome his opponent are his smooth face and round ass.  He hesitantly makes himself available and waits.  Then with the help of time he too achieves the hoary status of age and he finds himself ready.  Victory is twisted.


Christ came to defeat Adam, the old natural man.  Surely that will be the end of Time.




6243  When a philosopher delineates a distinction between an individual and the property it bears he cuts a wound in existence that must be healed.  Or between a thought and its object.  Or a class and its elements.  A difference has been splayed open that cannot be allowed to fester.  I have named the nexus as the suture that unites.  But others, thinking that I have only added a further complication that makes matters worse requiring a suturing of the suture, have devised other means that are less invasive.   For example there is Adi Shankar Acharya, the great proto-Vedantist. He spoke of the non-difference between the two in each dualistic pair.  Non-dualism.  Well, yes, but … .  And then there are those who choose to give one member of the pair a sort of half-existence. It then, in the last analysis, fades away.  These are the conceptualists. Properties are merely concepts.  Or even less, they are nothing but words and words are just words.  Wraiths and ghosts don't need linkages to any worldly object.  The fleeting imagination will suffice without real existence.


There is one more that I find interesting.  All these problems and considerations will vanish when we learn to use language as it was intended to be used in everyday communication for the carrying on of normal life.  In other words, just stop with the delineation already.  Put your pocket knife away. 




6244  I am fascinated by the exquisite formality of the Zen tea ceremony.  It is excruciatingly precise down to the lingering loving glance and the release of a soft sigh as the head is tilted just so in quiet reflection.  Empty form.  It is in that that we see the emptiness of Being.  There is no personal life present.  Nothing meaningful.  Ceremonious emotion.  Only exactness.  The refined touch.


That is why a Buddhist prayer is an incessant repetition: to wear out the words until they become empty sounds which in turn become the numbness of the non-existent noumena.  The Japanese love the fine delicate beauty of the adolescent in the same way.  They worship that clear nothingness.  Passion gathered at a tight point.  The idol.  Then the disappearance.  The climax of passion is the vanishing of passion in hard empty dispassion.  Passion is finally the most impersonal form.  It too is pure technique.  Looked at in the cold light of the dematerialized mind.




6245  What is the connection between sexual excitement and the stillness of otherworldly ontological things?  Can one see such fiery agitation within those chatoyant gems?  It's a cold fire.  Hot sex on a starry Winter's night.  The difference remains.  Two forms: the Hot and the Cold.  The young and the old.  The timid and the bold.  It's unsightly.  And only a sprightly glance into the abyss will suffice.  It's the ice and fire of a soft landing.  On a hard dick.


None of that made any sense, but it was fun to write and a mere beginner could hermeneutically transfix it.  No one else.  I'm afraid, he said.  So let's be more objective and scientific and concerned with profitable things.  And dinner.


I run after the most unattainable.  Bright eyes.  Sparkling, red lips.  All the usual stuff.  Smooth skin. A narrow waist.  A taste of rain at stabling time.  We are  what we are made.  The gods watch.  The Voyeurs.  No matter, soon the bell  will ring and everyone will change places.  Then Shiva will bring it all to an end.


Such is the empty, uselessness of ontological thought.  A coerced and lustful pleasure.  Eternity is a blast.  In spite of having to pay the bills.  Your bed is made and you are free to unmake it.  You are the winter bed of angelic heat.  And you are beautiful.  Perforce.




6246  Gustav Bergmann and all those logical analists are supposed to be really hard.  And that I, a mere faggot poet philosopher, should mess with their ideas seems unseemly to the serious.  So here I sit dismissed out of hand.  Cup in hand begging for a little attention.  Not really.  I'm doing real philosophy, not that objective, scientific search for truth stuff.  I do however crave a little glance and a friendly shove from one of God's angelic beings above the fray and plastered here round about.  I get my share.  I rove.  Analysis becomes me.  A gay retention.


I alas and alack cannot play the game of needful concern.  A lad has me in thrall. A lap and a back.  A tall rail.  A bad burn.  A sail and astrolabe.  A labial toothy thing.  I turn right.  The rigid consternation. Well considered. 


He cuts so smoothly.  A fine rapier.  A mind rapist.  The mist of uncouth rut.  And so on with more rhetorical devices and lovely intellectual vices.  In the vice of love.  I'm game.


The same. The same. The same. Nietzsche's Eternal Return of pain.  The rain won't end.  Italian boys ooze beauty.  Black hair, dark-eyed mischief.  All before dinner.  Which of course you will have to buy with money you don't have.  And then there're those analists.  Now safely lodged away among the constellations out with the primordial microwaves.  I plunder their tombs while boys camp outside.  Awaiting the risen lord.




6247  Yes, this dialectic is difficult.  I have been over its pathways many times.  For years.  It's mind-boggling.  And the idea that the unifier is external is I think half right.  Grabbing a word from Bergmann, I might say that the job of philosophy or ontology is to assay ordinary objects as to their ontological components.  The ordinary, everyday, commonsense whatever is transformed into nowhere-to-be-seen otherworldly ontological pieces.  That humble beginning and its brilliant shattered end are very, very different.  But which has priority in value?  I think that question is at the heart of the enterprise.  Most philosophers finally live in the "real" world and those ontological precipitates, those heavenly gems, are not what he ultimately wants to be gazing at.  He is at heart a this-world guy.  Philosophy, it turns out, is hardly more than a job.


The "external unifier" the Maverick Philosopher is looking for is the everyday object saved from analysis.  But as with Humpty Dumpty, what he took apart cannot be put back together again.  In his back-office garden of enchanted delights the commonsense world is nowhere.  The pieces, like gems lying about, do not make a world.  And never will.  Which does he value more: philosophy and its analyzed jewels or what he is doing when he is not doing philosophy?  Byzantium or home?  The glistening, shattered realm of ontological pieces and simple domesticity are other.  His wife probably senses that.  Das Ewig-Weibliche zieht ihn zurück.  




6248  I got this comment a few days ago, "The old quip has it: Never mind whether YOU believe in God. Does God believe in YOU? :)"  In 4416, if you want to look.  The guy seems to have been a religious fundamentalist and he was expressing his and God's displeasure, maybe revulsion, at my faggotry.  What is unsettling about that is not his contention – it's actually representative of a modern, prominent, defensible philosophy – but his secretiveness.  He has covered his tracks like a silent assassin.  I often call these things drive-by shootings.  His blogger profile reveals nothing about him.  Why won't he come out of his closet and pleasantly discuss these matters with me?  Anyway, I'll help him out.


It was Shakespeare who first gave us a main character who thinks.  The individual and not an archetype.  From Hamlet we derived, through various channels, the idea of a personal God who wants the best for us and who tenderly loves us and will surely intervene for us if we but ask.  Before that God had been a very formal, distant object of contemplation.  Jesus, in the schools, had been the tortured logic of the incarnation.  He was high theology.  Young scholars were led to a mystery.  But what about the New Testament?  Isn't that a personal God?  No, it isn't; though many now have come to see it as such.  It is a very strange, awkward appearing, rhetorically difficult, contraption.  A trap and a con game.  Beautiful and holy.  After all this is religion, not an afternoon talk-show.  I am a believer.


So, does God perform the mental act of believing?  Is He an individual with changing thought and caring emotions?  Not in my book where He is a ravishingly formal, empty-headed beauty of the starry intellectual night.  I am old school.




6249  Let's say that a Platonic Form is an idealized schematic of the real world.  It could be a variant on the Principia Mathematica such as an ideal language philosophy like Bergmann's holds up for us to gaze at.  Αναθημα.  Now let's say that I imagine such an abstracted form alongside a real world thing.  What is the difference?  To say it is complexity is only to add another abstraction into the mix.  And the very idea of a mix is a schematized thing.  What we need to do is jump out of this rarified thinking and sink into the mire.  How do we describe that bog?  We could start by looking to Sartre.  The flesh of reality is viscous, a sticky, no doubt smelly, slab of half-decayed goo.  Or something more darkly poetic, an unforgiving trap.  Something not worthy of today's virtual Satanic glory. 


What should we say of writing?  It is a schematic of throat and mouth and lips, yes, but it has in these strange curves of letters and black photonic ink its own mass.  And if you take the housing off your computer and touch the dusty innards you will be just as repelled.  So we look past or through a material presence toward a gossamer meaning.  It is not easy for us in the prettily designed techno-world to make contact with anything but the daintily digital, which is our salvific ideal.


I write of the boy, that thing of saliva and dirty underwear.  He glistens unpreened in the fine grit of his unctuous glands.  He smells of the airy dawn and vertigo.  Dream musk and musty sheets.  A sweet thick light-headed perfume.  He schemes in my schematic.  The mouthed theos.


Is there an ideal form for hair and dirt, he asked.




6250  What I have written up is a philosophy of pleasure.  Except that it is Platonic in that it is the breaking intensity that derives from holding back.  It is the Andalusian unreachable object.  It is Andre Gide and Nazar.  It is pure frustration and the eruption of words.  The timing must be perfect.  The release must be simple.  It is obvious madness.


In our casual, anti-ascetic, sane society where the psychologist counsels against the pain of love, I have no chair to sit on.  I stand properly stigmatized.  Ah, the stigmata.  The prick of ardor.   The dulcet rasp.  The itch.  An irritating thought.  I have no argument other than my grin.  The disappearing moor moored to the bog and amour. I end up laughable.  Even unto the angels.  The duende in the dark night of the  soul.  And the lilies.




6251  If simple things are constituents of facts, is the difference between a fact and a thing brute?  Yes.  It is a categorical difference, thus a profound difference.  An enormous, feral difference.  Not to be allayed.  There will be no gentle, embracing monism here tonight.


Should we say that "being a constituent of" is the nexus between?  If you wish, but the ensuing dialectic will be a wild ride and it will soon start spinning around a column of rising cumuli.  Bradley's regress be damned.  We are in the other world.  Things stand in splendid isolation.  And the überfact that a thing is a constituent of a fact is no more than a moment's pause.  Infinity exists.  He dances with all the others.  There's no world there.  Only a butt-bare angelic piece.  A heavenly sexus nexus plexus.  That wild ride thing.  The difference is momentous.  But carry on with your dialectic.


Eventually philosophy crashes.  Then philosophy truly begins.  A nice day at the breach.




6252  The meaning of life for one such as I is the beatific vision of the beloved.  Such has always been the goal for those in the eternal band of lovers.  The world's literature is filled with their sighs.  But to say that is not really to pin point just what it is that they/we exactly want.  What is it about this one beloved, this God, that makes him the final thing?  Again I will look to Sartre.  He famously said that God is man's only passion, but that passion was doomed to failure, because if there were a God then the hunger of desire and its satisfaction would be the same thing.  And since hunger and its satisfaction cannot be one, there is no God, no goal for our passion to reach.  Such is Sartre's atheism.  It all comes down to their being no union between non-being (or non-having) and being (or having).  Taking up on that, I look for such a union – or do I?


Being and non-being are eternally different.  As are hunger and satisfaction.  I think one must come to see that God is both.  God is hungry for God.  Obviously I have a dualist theology.  It seems to me that God is eternally restless and eternally the calm beauty.  God is anxious for God.  God is hungry for God.  God is the desired one.  He is the beginning and the end.  There is no thing, nothing, aside from these two that might cancel them out as a higher third.  Divinity hovers over both.  And the rushing wind, a mysterious unthought.  My skin crawls at the thought.


As for those not of this band, I have no idea what they are after.  




6253  What does it mean to say that something exists?  Does it mean that there is a thing called existence and that something has it?  Or does it mean, not that existence is a thing that something has, but rather to say that something exists is no more than to say that there is or il y a or hay or es gibt a something?  That latter uses phrases that signify nothing; they are entirely non-committal about a metaphysical entity called existence per se; they just point.  It is a delicate way of stepping about metaphysics.  The problem vanishes in the clear light of intellectual sanity - supposedly.


Then there is a sort of half-way position.  That says that existence is a metaphysical entity, not in the sense of being a thing that existing things have, but in the sense of being identical with all the things that are.  Poetically someone might say that their beloved (divine or otherwise) is the morning dawn, a flight of birds, the starry night, the rush of ancient laughter, an advancing  army, the fury of terrible rapture.  Or again, slightly different, that the moon and sun are jewels in his phallic crown and the smell of exotic incense is the fragrance arising from his dusky skin emblazoned by the silken sheen of twilight.  This holy being is somehow identical with all things.  Thus the great theological questions concerning the relation between God and the world.  Yes, existence and thing and identity are the most difficult, most lovely of all questions simpliciter.




6254  There are facts and then there are facts.  Or perhaps I should say, there are facts and then there are "facts".  Those quotes indicate the presence of a philosophical, otherworldly thing, or rather "thing".  It is an everyday, commonsense, ordinary fact that it snowed again this morning (alas).  It is a philosophical, ontological fact that in my metaphysical hand there is a bare particular exemplifying the form of snow.  That latter is a complex having as constituents simple ontological things.  That latter is not what I have in my ordinary, everyday hand.  The fact that this is snow is not the "fact" that a this exemplifies a form.  The difference between a fact and a "fact" is tremendous, enormous, momentous, and probably too sublime to be seen by any but the mind-boggled few.




6255  In our recent history, those among us who have felt the need to justify the rather strange act of writing poetry have resorted to calling attention to the peculiar ability on the part of the poet to "see" a truth or the truth beyond our ordinary, mundane looking about.  Poets see what the rest of us overlook.  And so it is with the philosopher.  There is such a thing as a philosophical vision.  And that, of course, can take many forms.


I notice that a rather pleasant, repetitive composition is being played on my minimalist radio station.  Then after a few minutes I realize that what I was hearing was instead the dryer lowly rumbling downstairs.  That is neither a poetic nor a philosophical "perceiving"; it is ordinary.  I can, however, because I am philosopher extraordinaire, make a "shift of set" and do my ontological shuffle.  Then I "perceive" that present to my mind's awareness is a bare particular exemplifying a universal and … well, the analysis is long and complicated, but whatever it is it certainly ain't no everyday, commonsense way of perceiving.  I manage.


When a philosopher of my ilk analyses a mental act into its ontological pieces, he must eventually make room for that special philosophical way of seeing.  There is perceiving and then there is "perceiving", just as there is the separate act of sensing and "sensing".  Those pointed claws hurt.   The eagle's claws lifting up this Ganymede.




6256  One of the strangest, most beautiful, most mysterious creatures in the philosophy of Bergmann is the circumstance.  It is the  simple difference between one something and another.  This is different from that; maroon is different from mauve; that you are there is different from the fact that I see you there; and, jumping up to the celestial heights of metaphysics, a thing is different from a fact; universal is different from a trope; an item is different from a bare particular; and, most tellingly, a philosophical something is different, way different, from an ordinary thing.  Each of those is a circumstance and a circumstance is different from both a fact and the things that are "in" it.  "In" of course being different from in.  Moreover we can think a circumstance.  And we can wonder if it is a simple, a complex or a simple-complex, that latter being entirely questionable.  A circumstance is a beast of its own stripe and type.  Think about it.  But don't think about your thinking about it unless you want to get really lost.


As we all know, today's continental philosophy is, ad inferiorem regna, galloping away bravely with difference on its breastplate.  Still, the most basic act of looking at a simple Bergmannian circumstance eludes its devotees.  I suppose that's because one can hardly speak at all when paralyzed by its wonder.  Or do you think I am being hysterically histrionic and thus insufferably insincere about something less than negligible?  The vanishing loincloth of elevated thought.




6257  In Indian philosophy there is the idealism of the Vedanta and the realism of Nyaya.  That latter is the one I love.  It is elaborate to the nines.  It is famous for putting –tva (our –ty or –ness) after everything.  Tree, treeness, treenessness, non-absence, non-absentness, non-absentnessness, and on and on into on-and-on-nessness.  It’s magic.  Bergmann is just as elaborate and it drives other philosophers crazy.  That's why no one reads him today, except me and I am a lost Christian Hindu saddhu.  Take for example the difference between an item and a bare particular.


In logic we write x is F.  That little x names the particular that exemplifies the form F.  It is the subject of the predicate.  Now consider just the F by itself.  It too is a particular thing, one among many forms.  Therefore, if you want to be a proper ontologist (which few do) you will have to ground that different kind of particularity.  Thus the item.  We could, I suppose, rather poetically, say that an item is "internal" to the universal while the bare particular is "external".  Go ahead, say it if you want, but remember that that little word "in" is insidious.  But continuing on nyaya-style, we now need itemness and maybe an other particularizer for that particular item and then how about particularizerness since we're at it.  Such is the fun of mystical philosophy.  To forsake it is to land in the boredom of the everyday.  So, let's not.




6258  Leaving the ordinary world (it's important that you remember those few words I just wrote at the beginning of this sentence), leaving the ordinary world I live in everyday and heading out for the enchanted realm of ontological things, I must try to remember the extreme Platonic realism I have learned from the schools.  I'm going to assume, dear reader, you know some of what I wrote about ontology.  Basically, we are faced with particulars exemplifying universals, which together, in a strange, bewildering togetherness, we call a fact.  So now, in a suspended moment of untime, I want to lay out the pieces of mind.  It too will be particular-universal/fact.


A thought is a universal (the thought-content) exemplified by a particular.  It also has a mental species, another universal.  And then there is the fact of their togetherness.  Keep in mind that the fact I am speaking of is an ontological creature and not an ordinary fact from that world we left behind.  Continuing on, that fact of a particular thought is united to the fact its thought content is about.  The nexus is the intentional nexus.  And thus, voilà, another, more inclusive, fact called the Act.  All such act facts are analytically true and are thus necessarily actual.  All facts, potential or actual, are necessarily constituents in acts of knowing.  Actuality and potentiality roam around here and there lighting up worlds, but that is of no concern at the moment.


Did you remember those opening words?  And my previous words about facts being brutally other than their constituents?  Even the various nexus seem to float free in this special place.  And of course the Canon, the Almighty Canon, that dictates the ordering of how it all fits together; though it may not do the actual building.  Neither I nor anyone else, as far as I know, has thoroughly  thought through  that latter, even if they have used the words make and build and construct and constitute as though they were ordinary acts of an agent – which they are not.


That is the magical unworld of an exaggerated Platonic ontology à la Bergmann.  It must be that or there is no enchantment.  I love this mystical place, but there is no way to make it transform itself into the unenchanted ordinary world.  You cannot add water and make it blossom into everyday life.  Only sparkling jewels in the eternal night.  And the ethereal, subliminal fragrance of exquisite love. 




6259  What would Bergmann think of my turning his philosophy into mystical theology?  An erotic enchantment?  A piece of high-minded faggotry?  The short answer is that he wouldn't even take the time to dismiss it out of hand, as he would say.  He wanted, he so wanted, to ground philosophy in commonsense.  But he slowly stumbled into the opposite.  And at the end of his life, because he took his basic philosophical idea of speaking about an ideal language to its extreme, he travelled alone in strange places.  If he then and there looked about and saw me standing close, he would have shuttered.  His students may now try to save him, but I think it more likely they will abandon him.  I write for the dead.  And the angels.




6260  I love to read Alan Ginsberg.  He seems to have two themes: "Sweet boy, gimme yr ass" and the desolation and death strewn along Whitman's Open Road by corporate America.  Boys lying about tenderly in the realm of Gog and Magog.  An immense chaos, bright lights, death and eternity.  And truth.  Here is pure love.  Beauty and the beast.  Written up with proper attention to the poetic line.


It's all artifice of the literary.  Which of course doesn't mean it isn't true and real, but it is maybe too much so.  In the reader's mind the great panorama slowly begins to spin.  The transcendental unity of apperception.  Or whatever.  Synchronicity, such as Raphael might have painted on the Vatican walls.  A dream where abrupt changes are as routine as falling off a log.  The Log.  Up against you.  Sweet smiles all around.  Intense presence.  And lunch afterwards.  I think they did drugs.


Did Ginsberg reach his Methodist Jewish Nirvana?  No doubt.  Are boys tending toward him in paradise?  I guess so.  And the Howl of God.  Alan was quite pretty as a youth, but you would never know it from that later wisdom-look forced onto him.  America has changed.  Now we are virtual.  And the boys are pixilated.  Like colored lights around the Buddha.  But I still love the Open Road.  And the terror.  And God.




6261  Auguste Comte divided the time of man into periods of theology, metaphysics and science.  Nietzsche followed.  And in the early twentieth century the push against metaphysics in favor of science advanced.  In the noonday sun of positive knowledge the darkness of the old thinking evaporated.  Or almost.  In 1954 Bergmann published The Metaphysics of Logical Positivism.  Thus began his long trek away from Vienna, the Circle where he started, to the wind-swept realism of Iowa City and a fresh metaphysical blossoming within the philosophical garden.


Positivism, the religion of Humanity, wanted philosophy to be clear thinking.  And some of its devotees did write with limpid clarity, and still do.  They are a pleasure to read.  Bergmann was not that.  He is difficult.  And finally impossible.  Or almost.  His difficulty is in following his argument, not an obscure vocabulary or heavy syntax.  In a sense, he remained a positivist at heart.  He was a very this-world guy with no interest in religion.  But his path into logic betrayed his heart.


The Queen of Positivism is a muse from the limpid pools of open thought.  It really is a musical matter.  And argument is argentum, the shining white metal of Argos.  Brilliance and clarity.  But don't stare.  Or you will be paralyzed.


This Queen did them in.  Their home life was wrecked.  She will tolerate no rivals.  She is Lolita.  At times lurid and loathsome.  A sweet girl.  A python.  The twentieth century became not what they had intended.




6262  Nietzsche bemoaned the death of God, the death of magnificence, the vanishing of imperial will.  He became histrionic, more Wagnerian than Wagner.  And then the mist of Götterdämmerung dissipated and our philosophies of the ordinary took over.  Nietzsche is a fairy megalomaniac, a prognosticating bard we watch at the end of this long metaphysical freak show.  Finally he is a case.  Now no one writes like him.  No one dare.


Philosophers today want to prove their sanity so they too don't end up a case.  Or worse still, without a job.  Sanity and going to work are the same thing now.  And of course marriage and family concerns. Glory is a million miles away.  Now misery is all around.  And sensible considerations that pass for hardness of soul.




6263  I write with exaggeration and flair and style, thus I do not write the truth, but I do write Truth.  I live the difference.  Another device I use is quotation marks by which I corral and isolate the little bugger so I can stare at my prey.  My prayer.  All of which greatly offends all but the lovesick.


It was perfectly predictable that I would write such a thing.  I repeat.  I have only a few moves to make, only a few billet doux to send your way, a poor list of whispers for your reading ear.  I am redundant.  And any randomness you find is me running down my own leg.  You may do as you please.  Life's a tease.


High sentiment and elevated thought cling to rhetoric.  Which I am not good at.  But I move sweetly.  Capital letter things work their own accord.  Maybe that's called eidetic intuition.  I intuit.  The conduit is open.  All night I sit in coffee shops in the New Jerusalem and eye the sleepy-eyed bus boys.  I have on my ogle goggles.  I google his infinite falling.  Log a rhythms.  Standard deviations.  And an awkward brushing up against screaming noumena. 


Later, in my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went into the neon fruit
supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!
  The world and its truth is anon across the waters of Lethe.




6264  An ostrich philosopher is one who responds to an ontological question by looking away and thus ignoring it.  He probably thinks it's really a pseudo-question that doesn't deserve his consideration.  He may, however, be a positivist who thinks the answer is found in the vanishing of the question, maybe upon the altar of analysis.  Whatever the case, the answer is the unanswer within the unanswerable.


There is one time when I too look away:  in questions about time and the existence of the ordinary, everyday world.  As I see it those are the same thing.  Science is there also.  So when someone asks me how I can construct an ordinary world in time out of my discrete ontological pieces, I tell him I can't and turn away.  I go home and the sand I put my head down into is that brought by the sandman, which he places on my pillow.  Then the only way to arrive back at the world of ordinary objects after I have tarried a while with metaphysical entities is make an existential leap back into unknowing and unanswering. 


Extreme, ostrich nominalism is the philosophy that most adequately describes the commonsense world of science and everyday forgetting.  Platonic remembrance is another matter.  Then there is the Kierkegaardian absurdity of the incarnation. 




6265  There are those today who use the word "experience" in the broadest way possible.  For example, they want to say that my table experiences the books piled on top of it.  There may be some sort of panpsychic thing going on there for them, but, whatever it is, I think it could also be described as one thing having left its mark on another.  Each thing is a recording device for an interaction.  A measuring device.  An imprint or record is left behind.  Now we are in the realm of information theory.  The physical problem arises soon after a number of encounters have been had and records have been laid down.  Behold!  They pile up!  Either a way of erasing some of the old records will have to be found or a chaotic mess will be at hand.  So let's say an eraser is present.  Now the problem, the physical problem, is that the act of erasing consumes energy … a lot.  All of which, after it is consumed, that is to say, eaten, has to be gotten rid of.  Then we have radiant energy. And garbage, quasi-metaphysical shit.  Heat and who knows what else.  A lot of it.  Then the inevitable increase in entropy … old age.  Disorder.  Cold, bland soup.  Suddenly, we are far from that initial feeling of euphoria upon encountering the very poetic idea of universal experience in the realm of the physical … Panenpsychism.  Then again you may like squalor.




6266  It has been said, even by my friends, that the Forms are colorless.  Insipid, unsavory, and generally dull.  Flat.  Borges says they are musty, old museum pieces.  Beauty isn't beautiful.  Immensity isn't immense.  Love isn't loving.  And the Knowledge I purport to be possessed by isn't knowing.  What to do?  It seems that the Forms are not self-predicating.  Which brings me magically to the Ontological Argument.


It is in the essence to God to exist.  His essence is to exist therefore he exists.  That, I surmise and presume, is a sort of self-predication concerning existence its-narcissistic-self.  Green isn't green, circularity isn't circular, three isn't three, but existence exists.  Does existence exist?  A lovely question.  And if it does, is the existence that existence has a separate thing?  Will iteration and the mirror tumble down into a world?  God, the Boy, and ontology are mind-boggling.  Is ontology and ontological thing?


My friends have no sense of humor at all.  By the way, that ontological wraith called a trope is, I have an inkling, self-predicating.  Impossible things can do impossible things.




6267  Here's another version of the Ontological Argument.  Let's say that there is such a thing as existence and that it is what an abstract idea takes on in order to change into a concrete individual real thing.  For example, I have or there is the concept of a new lover waiting for me out in the parking lot.  Alas it's only a concept.  But then magically it takes on concrete existence.  Maybe as a particle appears out of a collapsed quantum wave – maybe not.  Just how for now doesn't matter.  I want your attention to move to another concept, the concept of existence as what accounts for there being concrete individual real things.  Is that concept an example of a thing that must necessarily have existence?  Does that essence necessitate its own existence?  I'm not going to answer that question because I don't think there are such things as concepts and I don't see existence as what ontologically accounts for there being concrete individuals.  It's a cute piece of logic, but it's a chase after the gossamer goose. 




6268  As anyone who has read only a few of my numbered pieces knows I have an uncommon style of writing, though some rhetorician could no doubt pigeonhole it.  Someone has probably named me.  My torque and way may be the result of some congenital defect in my brain; then again it may be some curvature in philosophy itself.  It doesn't matter what its genesis is; it does serve a purpose.  And that is to arrive at a conclusion.


Many, maybe most, philosophers today feel that it is more important to take baby steps toward a human understanding of reality with minute analyses, much like science.  No grand megalomania, just sensible business.  Thus they hack their way from one clearing to another in the Great Forest of Knowledge, a tiresome name.  At length they just move on.  It's tough going and not much ground is covered.  No final vista of Truth is expected beyond the next valley.  Only more and more valleys.  Without hope, their thought will deliquesce down some meandering gully.


Not me.  I want the final hard thing soon.  I state this and then that and turn and extend my sentences gently and up and then suddenly that Thing is there.  One more time.  One sees existence.  Αφορισμενος ειμι.  Αναθημα.  A minimalist art.  My rhetoric, my style is mere.  Negligible in a serious world.  The lock snaps fast.




6269  Even though I have at times described my own ontology as a slum, a circus, a jungle and Baroque squalor, I have written it up in a sort of minimalist compactness.  I aim for powerful elegance and an uplifting thrill, but alas my aim is affected by the shaking hand and twitching eye of my immortal soul.  Love's transcendent ineptitude.  The loose, nonchalance of the academies belies a desperation in my attempt to imitate it.  I manage.


Nominalists, who love to hang out in Quine's desert, have given us long walks in the dry wind of engineered concepts.  My sweltering hothouse of love offers a quick release.  And then the sweet breeze of momentary oblivion.  Meaning and the gadfly's itch.  Moaning and the garbage flies.  Does authority sit in the office of the dean or crawl on you as you visit the bed of Oistros?




6270  I have separated off the ontological realm of irreducible elements from the everyday world of ordinary objects that inwardly transform into sub-objects down and down all the way down until the whole world swallows itself.  Each final ontological thing is fixed as itself.  Time is nowhere.  Extension is just there, an unextended thing.  Color is a universal all colors exemplify, but is itself of no particular color.  The form of color is bare and separate from all the shades and hues and species.  Just  as shape itself and number and boy are  bare generic things.  Neither this nor that nor of any specific kind.  Things exist in eternal, magnificent isolation because of Magnificence and the Alone.  A vision that is in a timeless instant.  In time a faint aura hangs here and there, or  maybe not.


There are certainly those who find such an analysis to be nothing more than high poetry manqué.  Which it is.  But in that glorious failure Truth is seen.  Even if no ordinary truth is there.  Lovers understand, even against their attempt to not understand.  They too are fixed and they sweat.


It is with that deadly fixity that logic holds sway.  We trap the bird of paradise so we might kill it and do a knowledge gathering autopsy.  We coral the boy in the paideia and torture him with grammar until he yields.  We hold all flesh still in reason's gel and rotate our lens for microscopic inspection. Hard intellectualizing is the erotic sadism we all so enjoy.  Ontology is the work of the knife hidden under the cloak of the one about to make the sacrificial cut.  It is religion and we play in the chaos of the gods.


The impersonal comes and chases away the personal that was trying to lay claim to us.  The world finds it has swallowed the rock bottom.




6271  Structure and Form.  Consider a bicycle.  A bicycle has a certain structure.  Not exactly certain, but within a certain range of possibilities.  Not  exactly a certain range, but more or less.  A certain amount of looseness is ever present.  And as long as that looseness doesn't get too loose we're somewhat certain of what we mean by the word "bicycle'.  But only somewhat.


Anyway, that particular over there has the form of bicycle.  And it is a structure.  Bicycle is bicycle.  It is generic, but fixed.  Structure, at least as something physical, is subject to the laws of entropy, which means that through constant interaction with the environment it wears out.  What is the ontological connection between form and structure, or are they the same thing?


They are not the same thing.  Or so I contend.  If they are the same then form is a complex because structure is complex.  Is a form, the form of bicycle, complex?  It is not.  Or so I contend.  Why do I contend that?  I glance up and I see a boy on a bike vanish around the corner.  Only a very slight color and movement and I knew instantly what it was.  I perceived that a boy on a bike just went around the corner.  The form of boy and bike and movement and corner and disappearance all aligned.  In that rather simple and elegant instant I perceived therefore the form of bike.  I knew it.  I knew Bicycle, but not its great ordered, evolving complexity.  Finis.




6272  So what is the connection between form and structure?  I asked that question last time but didn't answer it.  Is there a nexus present that hitches them up?  First a little history.


One could say that in designing a bicycle its maker looked heavenward to the Ideal Platonic Form of Bicycle and waited for that to guide his working hand.  One could say that and sort of understand.  We do understand right well when he makes a mistake and badly designs it.  We know what it should be.  What is that knowing?  Maybe we are looking at some transcendent thing.


Excerpts from The Nude: A Study in Ideal Form (1951) by Kenneth Clark

§ It is widely supposed that the naked human body is in itself an object upon which the eye dwells with pleasure and which we are glad to see depicted. But anyone who has frequented art schools and seen the shapeless, pitiful model that the students are industriously drawing will know this is an illusion. The body is not one of those objects which can be made into art by direct transcription — like a tiger or a snowy landscape. Often in looking at the natural and animal world we joyfully identify ourselves with what we see and from this happy union create a work of art. This is the process students of aesthetics call empathy, and it is at the opposite pole of creative activity to the state of mind that has produced the nude. A mass of naked figures does not move us to empathy, but to disillusion and dismay.

§ Ch. 1: The Naked and the Nude

§ The various parts of the body cannot be perceived as simple units and have no clear relationship to one another. In almost every detail the body is not the shape that art has led us to believe it should be.

§ Ch. 1: The Naked and the Nude

§ No nude, however abstract, should fail to arouse in the spectator some vestige of erotic feeling, even if it be only the faintest shadow — and if it does not do so it is bad art and false morals.

§ Ch. 1: The Naked and the Nude

§ The nude gains its enduring value from the fact that it reconciles several contrary states. It takes the most sensual and immediately interesting object, the human body, and puts it out of reach of time and desire; it takes the most purely rational concept of which mankind is capable, mathematical order, and makes it a delight to the senses; and it takes the vague fears of the unknown and sweetens them by showing that the gods are like men and may be worshiped for their life-giving beauty rather than their death-dealing powers.


We (maybe out of the corner of our mystical third eye) we spy the ideal form of a bicycle and we know it perfectly well, instantly … and that poor specimen propped up behind the garage ain't it.


Maybe the connection really is Platonic Participation.  It is, at least in ontological reverie.




6273  Continuing on, the Ideal Form, the Platonic Form, is well-formed.  It is perfect order.  Therefore, in this highly entropic world it is nowhere to be seen.  That is the difference between There and here.  Fixed Order vs. the fall into disorder.


What is Order?  Well, that is one of the most difficult questions in philosophy.  I will begin by saying that it was the Egyptians that first directed our amazement toward it.  They discovered the straight line.  Not an organic ever-fractal thing, but an unnatural thing.  The smooth, flat surface, the exact division between yes and no.  They discovered and hieratically displayed complete difference.  They discovered Difference.  X is other than Y.  Nothing in nature is so precise.  They were well on their way toward what the Greeks finally set up in undeniable necessity: the perfection of empty logic.


As we all so painfully know, logic is presented to us in unreadable textbooks.  It is laboriously complicated.  But that isn't logic in itself; that is logic expressed in symbols.  And right there we are in the middle of a modern philosophical battle.  Is logic something other than symbols and their manipulation?  Some logicians are Platonists and forcefully say, Yes.  I am among those otherworldly fellows and I wait.  The divisions that such madness sees are great.  We stand around and hover close to the Other.  In Him we desperately seek safety.  The Circum-stance.




6274  A fact is a bare particular exemplifying a form.  Thus a fact "contains" (not really) a just-that-one. It is not the same as a structure, another complex thing, which is a universal because it can be "shared in" by many particulars.  Obviously I'm having trouble making all this fit into an English sentence using the normal meaning to English words.  Maybe I just need more practice or a stronger will to whip those buggers around.  Maybe a tongue lashing.  Let me try again.


A fact is a particular and a form at the same timeless time.  Plus a who-cares-about-Bradley's-regress-anyway nexus.  Yes, a fact is a complex little devil.  But of course it is not.  It is a simple thing separate from what it "contains".  Magically.  Maybe like quantum superpositioning … not really.  I could say it is a one-many and sound somewhat Platonic, but that kind of appeal to authority only muffles the scream of reason.   A fact is sui generis.  It is a separate ontological (Latinate) entity (notice that I sheepishly didn't say a (Germanic) thing, which is usually simple).  We are here in the land of brutish beasts.  Live with it.  You are that.




6275  Angels come in two types: empty-headed beauties and scraggly ancient wisdom.  Information theory teaches us experience leaves its mark.  The marks pile up.  Wrinkles and hack and entropic old age appear.  Disorder is inevitable.  Then death.  God who knows all and has seen all must be highly cut and scarred and pocked by now.  A twisted convolute.  But God is also the ideal beauty, the one whom experience has not touched and left its record.  Vacant flight beyond knowing.  Into Nirvana.  Heartbreak.  The point at infinity where information theory breaks down.  Like a black hole where the continuum and the discrete meet.  Age and perfect youth.  The beast and beauty entangled.


An everyday object is one suffering in the land of entropy.  It gets older by the day because of ravishing pleasure, the thousand slings and arrows from love's quiver afflicting it.  Time.  The timeless Ideal never suffers, never experiences pleasure or pain, is rather the still perfection that is the cause of the world's agitation. For an instant, that mind-shriveling beauty seems to appear here is this place of collapse, but then vanishes and the prize turns ordinary.  We inevitably look somewhere else because it is our only desire.  We are a hopeless lot.  Unless … just maybe salvation will appear at the last second.  Maybe an Easter resurrection does run on before us and we're outta here. 


The point at infinity on the tip of your erect diction, again.  Jive and truth.  Things collude.




6276  There are facts and there are functions.  Consider a black dot moving across your closed eyes.  How to analyze that?  A fact ontologist would say it is a particular exemplifying the forms of little and round and black and movement across.  A function ontologist would say it is a relating of this and that and the other thing creating an impression on your optical nerves which are also relatings of this and that and so on.  For a function ontologist there are no particular and no exemplified forms there, only shadows of relatings.  And a relating is only a difference between this and that when they are placed together in a gathering that is … what?  Maybe transcendent Mind.


The modern world is crawling with function ontologists.  Everything, absolutely everything, is a relation.  But relations are of themselves nothing, only differences.  It's difference all the  way down,  all the way  up, and spread out to infinity.  Finally no thing at all exists.  Is that the emptiness of Buddhist dependent arising?  I find it nerve-wracking.  I long for the solid presence.




6277  Information theorists, the latest darlings in popular science, are, for the most part, function ontologists.  Information is itself a relation of this to that.  Finally a mutual relating.  And that's all there is to our quasi-existence.  A relating of relatings.  No solid thing that is finally not a relating, not a function, exists.  Nihilism.  But maybe a happy, Buddhist nihilism.  A very wordy silence.


The Void, the Great Mother, the eternal womb and tomb, now holds sway.  These writers, indeed most philosophers, are in their deepest intention speaking to Her.  I'm off with the Boy and his hard just-that.


Philosophies without the bare particular cannot have universals.  They go together.  So is the world then a relating,  a function,  of those two?  Bergmann, in his final philosophy, came close to that with his idea of the circumstance.  But then again as an early positivist he never really did believe in the reality of much, if anything.  His conversion to realism may not have stuck.  It's impossible to tell; his last writings are the lovely/unlovely mess of a mind entering madness.


For me bare particulars and universals and the nexus have greater independence than they did for him.  I have the separate realm of timeless things.  Platonic separation.  Not an idea out of today's group-think. 




6278  In an interview with Mike Wallace, Ayn Rand said, "I hold that if man wants to life on earth his highest moral purpose is the achievement of his own happiness and he must not force other people nor accept their right to force him, that each man must live as an end in himself and follow his own rational self-interest."  She is also famous saying, "Existence exists."  What exists here as the most natural thing of all is the happiness man, and I suppose all living things, finds in forcing others to his will.  I don't know what planet that lady comes from or what far spiritual heaven, but she ain't from here.  We naturally want to dominate.  Then again some of us want to be dominated.  I do know that many of her followers are control freaks.  So what in the hell is she talking about?




7279  The architectural principal upon which so many of the ancient temples were built was the quadratic.  The diagonal.  The incommensurable.  Step by step torquewise.  Tipping.  Bending.  Leaning over the vastness.  One arrives where it is impossible to get.  A simple mistake, perhaps.  Misprision.  The incompetent.  Magic so easily done.  The fun of the cross-eyed imp.  How did he get in here?


You limp into prison.  The Temple of God.  The pimple and the rod.  Testy froth.  Go forth!  You came.  No one's to blame.  I'm tame.  It's the same now and anon and I'm on it.  Why did you come this way?  The way is blocked.  It's here or there, not both.  Close your eyes and believe.  I'll relieve you of your sanity.  A handy job.


You slob.  Can't you think straight?  Everything's bent.  And sent on ahead.  To the dead.  A slight  crease.  And some grease.  A goose.  A moose.  Tight plight.  The Light!


Don't bite.  The architectonic principal came over to see what we're up to.  Shift.  Slide into place.  The race in on.  He's gone.  The so gone.  Hexagonal  sex.  Rex.  You're mine, you cool tool.  You drool.  You quadratic paraplegic.  Stumble into place.  No place.  Your face is burst.  I durst not speak.  I pass over in silence, tonguewise.  Sipping in the night.  Nothing fits.  He flits.  I flirt.  And scrape the dirt in your navel.  It makes you squeal with delight.  Don't bite.


Temples capture time and hold it still.  It's all one to me.  Oblivion and then the other side.




6280  The God of the early Old Testament is a warrior god and not paterfamilias.  The first takes as his helpmate a boy.  The second takes a wife.  So has God left the field of battle and gone home?  Or is it that his earthly followers have been urging him to do so for so long and now merely imagine him there? 


What is the truth of this world?  Is it a place of war and ruled over by a god of war?  Or is that a false image, a perversion, sin against the truth of this place?  I think of WWI and the heartbreaking poetry that came out of the trenches.  Should we say that the earthen ground the dying lay within had become their true home?  Or were they lifted up and out of there by a lover-god?


If war is the power of love in this place, who is the lover?  Is it a chthonic beast or uranian?  Who finally gets the beauty lying there so still and mangled?  It is a lustful scene.  God, still in the form of the helpmate boy, carries away the body to nowhere.


Today's middle class so at home in the suburbs wants nothing to do with either one of those monsters.  They just want to lie back and watch movies forever and then sleep softly.




6281  Fact and thing.  The complex and the simple things it is so seemingly composed of.  The truth is that they are incommensurable and the composing never finishes.  No selection or arrangement of simple things from out of the ontological bag, placed and stamped down, can produce a fact.  Always just out of reach the philosopher hopes against hope.  The categorical divide is unbridgeable.  The mind in knowing each performs magic.  Close your eyes and you are instantly on the other side.  Masters of difference, we slide smoothly, too smoothly, into the one place where we ever already are.


Don't get me wrong.  This is not a type holism declaring merely that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts.  For one thing there are no sums anywhere in sight. And all holistic attempts to arrive at the One have merely sucked the vanishing parts up into the Absolute.  Then the incommensurability vanishes.  There is no such vanishing.  The gap bewilderingly glares eternally.  No monism.  Difference and the self-identical thing ever just that.


The godhead is a holy shiver.  I hopelessly fingered his slavery beads.  Contact.  The type typed.  Measured.  My assured assignation.  Tied  down.  Just that.




6282  Internal vs. external relations.  What do I see when I look intently at an object, any object?  There are certain relations between that object and every other object in all of space and all of time.  Moreover, there are semiological, deontological, psychologica, financial and above all causal relations hanging about.  It's a plethora of relatings.  A head-spinning maelstrom of relatings.  But are those relations really "between" it and its other?  Are all relations external to the object?  Or are they internal?  Today, Russell's doctrine of external relations is passé. We are back with internal relations.


What is an object? It is, in its innermost being, according to internal relations theorists, the whole world from the perspective of that humble object.  It "experiences" the world and the world has left its mark.  I look, read the marks, and through the marks, I see the confluence of great rivers of time and place.  It is immense.  There is no end to knowing it.  We tumble and tumble and tumble ever looking through and ever through more meanings, always going both inward and outward at one and the same time within time, examining, measuring and finally dimly seeing all of Being as in a glass darkly.


It's a restless vision.  The sublime overwhelming rush takes a toll.  We see seeing.  And we fall into the Whole.  And then the dank and fungoid hole of  rebirth.


But I am not of that "we".  Am I one of the last believers in external relations?  I look at an object, say an old, green bicycle.  What do I see?  I see a bare particular exemplifying the forms of old and green and bicycle.  The bare particular, the nexus of exemplifying and the three forms present themselves; they exist.  They are just that.  Other relations and relatings no doubt hover around about, but they are irrelevant.  I have reached the end.  And stillness.  The object has disappeared and the simple things are here.




6283  God is the One.  I interpret that to mean that God is the Simplicity of ontologically simple things.  Away from all complexity, That with no parts dazzles the mind.  Ontology is the search for those simple things that ground all complexity.  Our world is the immense ocean of many things and we are drowning.  Our life raft is the One Simple Thing.   It gently floats near.  And then we're somewhere else.




6284  High, middle and low register.  High is elevated speech.  Here is where great orators and Romantic poets walked among the gods.  Middle is the human.  Ordinary people doing and feeling communal things.  Here is the observing and poking of science, the stickiness of family and the ten thousand things of daily dull concern.  Low is elemental.  Bare existence.  The thing itself.


High and low lie in the ever-repeating return of Being and are written up in rhythmical language.  Middle is flat and hypotactic.


In the middle region, we find also monsters, the twisted human.  That contortion can be either the very ugly or the very beautiful.  Both are outside the ordinary, but both are human, or at least half human.  Here also is the mangled, misused high register. We measure in our attempts to find out something.  Nothing is certain.


Beauty itself is of the low register.  The Thing.  And the connectors.  And the bare particulars.  We stare at them and they stare back.  Again and again and again.  The Forms.  Obsession and compulsion over nothing.  Force.  Neither alive nor dead.  These things just are.  Finally we are that.  There's nothing human here.




6285  Always mindful, like the Buddha, of beauty all around, I, when I spied, through a large glass window, a ravishing young man sitting alone writing and thinking the way writers do, approached, unlike the Buddha, and made some off-handed outlandish remark, as I, in such situations, always am prone to do.  It threw him off enough to begin a long conversation with me during which I managed to entertain him quite well, if I might say so.  I learned that he was writing a play.  I  inquired about the topic.  He said it was dark paranoia.


Dark paranoia and the ravishment of youthful beauty.  Well, yes, they do go together.  Let me explain.  It began, not with the Buddha, though he might have been complicit, but with John Calvin.  In the beginning (of something) Man fell.  He fell not only in body, but in mind – or so our Calvinist friends aver.  This pretty little theological fact disastrously means that we forsaken creatures, now in darkness, are no longer able to see or think or feel or maybe even smell truth.  We are a bunch of twisted ganglia.  Ignoring the fact that that theo-philosophy may itself be wrong and moving on, we arrive at Freud, who famously declared that we don't even know our own desires.  For example, let's say you are attracted to someone sexually; you want to get into his pants and tumble down.  But no, you are a good guy, so you misread your intentions as not you wanting him, but him wanting you.  You fear your own desires, but no, you don't have those desires, rather he has those desires and you don't fear yourself, but you fear him.  And thus everything gets turned around backward, which is Jewish Midrash.  And Catholic casuistry, And  Protestant hermeneutics.  And literary criticism.  My God, a great cottage industry arises out of misinterpreting.  Our fallenness has given us a way of setting up whole universities and think tanks.  And devising science that corrects our senses.  And writing plays.  Of course all of modern post-Kantian philosophy fits sweetly in there too.   It's magic.  Thank God for letting us fall or we would have been bored out of our minds in that Garden.


No doubt you don't believe any of that, as well you shouldn't being a creature who now believes nothing except his own mistakenness.  Yes, that's a paradox, but so what?  If the fall didn't fuck with my mind the intensity of that boy's beauty sure did.  The Buddha of course never approved of such dalliance of desire.  Nor did Calvin.  But I am one who thinks the mind is not fallen and can see right well what is presented to it and know exactly what it feels.  The Boy and Beauty exist.  And even playful paranoia in the dark.




6286  This ravishing beauty sat and wrote his plays of dark paranoia.  I know nothing of what he wrote.  He wrote now and then.  He was thinking.  I butted in.  I guess I spoke of something interesting because he kept listening.  I was really just staring at him.  Not staring, but engaged in the high spiritual practice of Nazar ila'l-murd.  Moth and taper.  Surely that last is a symbolism that he can use.  I fly in the dark of night as I talk on and on about something about his burning.


That was of course poetic jism.  Nothing more.  And God.  God fucks with me.  Well, yes, and I return the favor by writing it up and down and all around in the tangles of his curly tresses, otherwise called the world.  Unfurled, I blow. 


From a distance, always from a distance, barriers give way.  I ooze.  Universals and the nexus do their work so bare particulars barely survive.  I live it up in the spirit.  The flesh promises relaxation, but I decline.  Only nazar.  Intense and shattering.  I manage.




6287  The boy, that raving beauty attempting and tempting dark paranoia, is working out modern Calvinist unknowing.  The twisted, fallen mind of man senses as in a glass darkly that there is something out there, but what is it?  He knows that even his own mind is playing tricks on him.  Nothing is as it seems.  He thinks, but his own thinking is the most threatening to his sanity.  To his salvation from impending hell.  What to do?


Obviously we must set up great schools of hermeneutics to try to untwist the twisted.  The first assumption is that no meaning is apparent.  All utterances mean the opposite of what they appear to mean.  A moan is in fact joy and joy is a moan.  Apparent safety is sure doom.  Therefore, to say I love you is to say I hate you.  My comforting hand is here to kill you.  Amen.


Man fell in the Garden and the Garden is now filled with poisonous creepers.  And it looks for all the world like urban America and the loneliness of the little town.  Passion writhes.  We know this all must be interpreted.  What is it really?


Yes, literature.  What are we to think of the truth or untruth of literature?  It is there that God and the gods still roam unhindered by the law.




6288  Those early "prophets" of YHWH in the book of Samuel, those raving, frenzied dancers, those naked, cavorting devotees, those possessed and penetrated madmen, what should we think of them today?  They were not followers of Astarte, like the other "prophets".  Their God was male, not a fertility female.  And one does not behave in such a questionable manner before an abstract, bodiless, communal moral principle, as God has become today.  The only answer to who their God was is that he was a Phallic Lover.  Otherwise the frenzied goat-walk makes no sense.


Oh my, we learn that this God is not a nice God.  He gives commands that whole peoples are to be killed. Moreover, we are told that he has a special desire for the beautiful ones.  His chosen is always a ravishing looker.  All of which brings me back to my interlocutor, the writer of dark paranoia.  He does have good reason to be slightly worried.  The ancient past is close.  He may not consider himself religious, but that's irrelevant.  There is no way he cannot feel the presence of those who desire him.  And in that he knows what was and still darkly prowls.  Life is life and all attempts to turn it into a disembodied scientific system dictating high morality are futile. 


Of course, dear reader, you, a child of the enlightenment, and a believer in the comforting fact that all our thoughts are subjective nothings, will laugh and move on to something else.  Yes, move away.  I will remain here thinking.  And that raving beauty will pass by shadows.  And maybe that phallic God will be eyeing his prey.




6289  As far as I can figure out Noir Realism is a type of art.  A type that is related to Expressionism.  Especially German.  Even when the jagged edges give way to soft ooze it is so.  And it is what Hitler called Entartete Kunst.  Degenerate art.  Also simply called modern art.  The opposite is the well-proportioned, smooth, hero-ideal of the classical swoon. 


An expressionistic being is crushed by feeling and cut apart by life.  That one is not there as a god for our eyes to slowly outline approaching eternal stillness.  It is energy in the historical moment.  It is bright, gaudy color.  It is the jolt.  And it is essential that it be kept cut off from the everyday world in museums or between the pages of a hard-cover book.


My writing is the gaze in stillness at the perfect form.  Thus it is not expressionistic.  I even sigh at that beautiful one dead in war now transported to heaven.  And the madness I write of is because I have seen the unmoving.  Expressionistic art is here and now; I write of a There that is Nowhere and Never.  Those perfect Nordic boys also have me in thrall.  And surely the coming rampage of necessary evil will have to be evaded by blinding Transcendence.


I walk the suburban malls and there they are.  That is the anti-museum I loiter within.  The thing I desire is sitting and walking close by.  Expressionistic beings are all curated within the temple of art.  The opposite of degenerate art is so close to pornography.  I am that.




6290  The boy is cruel.  He is a demon.  He is God.  He is the one who waylaid Moses and almost killed him until circumcision was performed.  He is sweet repose.


I suppose I will have to explain myself.  Out flat.  The diagonal runs across me.  Square root of a minus 2.  I'm outta here.  Into the elsewhere.  Time runs backwards.  "Caught in the middle with you", my dear.  Jesus duende resurrected ghost.  So desirable.  Come.


I am not one of those fucking noir realists, so human.  No anguish here.  No concern for mankind, mankink.  Sweet boy gimme yr ass.  Latex vortex sutra.  Supermarket stacker.


I write up ontological, philological divisions.  And battalions.  And the sprightly corps.  Corpus Christi.  Porpoise flash.  A dash across eternity.  Consanguinity.


I look out my window and I see that he is coming back from class.  Clash and brass.  He is definitely not that other kind.  The difference is plain.  Difference all the way down.  Into the down of dawn.  The faun fawns, the abject wheedle.  I don't care.  It's a form from out of forever.  I have my imagination.  No stagnation.


Abstract expressionism, noir realism, is so respectable because it is not thusly pornographic.  No phallic lover God.  No boy paralyzed into stillness.  No glabrous marble thigh.  Just email.




6291  We know the bare particular right well.  And we like to see it clothed in form.  No distortion, please.  No expressionistic out pushing into jaggedness.  Just nice pleasant smoothness.  And gentle light.  Very fashionable.  Composition, composition, composition.  You have learned the principles of design, haven't you?  And underhanded marketing.


Wagner and the Nazis knew monumentality.  And yesterday's minimalists.  Now we are getting ready to be overwhelmed by swarms of nanoparticles, nothings in particular.  Die Schwärmerei will love it.  It's the thing to do.  And pixels.  Pixie boys.  Joy-toys.  Lush in the lurid night.  A little nauseating, don't you think?  Too too too sweet.


It's too big!  The expressionists wanted to say that, under the glabrous covering, tubules of error-corrected data buzz by.  In this home of the information shuttlers, universal serial busses peel through the twisted darkness.  Oh well, it's art.  We'll stick it away inside clean, hard musea.


The bare particular without its sleek form, its high fashion society duds, is stark and bewilderingly just there.  It may be the only thing we really know.  Come to think of it, even those Eternal Forms are naked lounging There in their far-flung dormitories.  Dromedaries and deadly dreams.  Hard sunbeams.




6292  The more we know about an object, any object, the less sexy it becomes.  It is the one thing that drives us.  Erotically mad.  I suppose I could here go off on a tangent and laboriously explain myself, but that would destroy the come on.  Come on!  Walk your gonadial imagination past the stations.  Of the cross.  Eyed boy.  He's the boss.  This then that then touch ever-so-slightly with your thinking mind.  And move on.  It will come.  Of its own accord in the gypsy accordion of love.  Holy Understanding and underlying and under plunder without trying.  It appears.  Ectoplasm.   Spasm.  Jism in the prison of misprision.  Enough's enough.  It's as simple as a job at a community college.  Teach, touch, torch those young minds trying hard to think.  Not about last night.  Alone with toys.


The merest thing sets you off.  Only that.




6293  "All the world's a stage.  And all the men and women merely players … ."  Each individual, bare and just that one, assumes a form.  And when the play is finished, then what?  Is there a reward for the good or bad the assumed character brought into being?  For having played the part well or poorly?  Is there a wage for having come to work?  Or does the actor perhaps just go back to being himself?


If we are all merely actors, do we have a real life outside this theater?  Just how intimately are we tied to the role, the form, we took on?  Perhaps we have no form other than that Form and we will eternally be tied to It.  Is it an eternal fact that I am the what of my being here and now?  Are facts timeless?  Am I the one so tied?  Or am I  the watcher of another I?  There is a Hindu image of the self  as two birds sitting on a branch, one eating and the other watching that one.  Are we so divided?  Whitman had three, the rough, the ego, and the Me Myself.  Am I a one sitting in the audience, the eternal Audience?  If so, does the idea of reward make any sense?  Perhaps.


I am a bare particular exemplifying a form.  That is the way of all the world.  Can I walk away from that fact, that timeless fact, that particular Fact, and take up with another me, another rough and tumble?   Would I want to?




6294  It has generally been assumed by scholars that what is now highly intellectual and abstract originates in something concrete.  We like to speculate it was an intense and powerful sensual presence.  We easily guess they felt a need to gain control over it.  Such hot things are threatening.  We want our cool freedom.  But in the speculum we coyly catch a glimpse of what was there.


Thus today's overly intellectualized philosophy and theology was at the beginning  … what was it?  A feeling for community or a need for fertility won't do.  Nor a feeling of powerlessness in the face of natural events.  Nor a need for social order nor revenge nor all those other hypotheses so prevalent today.  As I see it the people loved a feeling of Power.  Not political power, but power rushing through the body.  And that is ecstatic sexual.


There are two things that have moved the mind of man intensely.  The Womb and the Phallus.  And of course the hard rhythms of dance and music.  The cults of the womb and the phallus and its ecstasy of violent turning turning turning was no doubt both appealing and repulsive.  It was a shameful, beautiful act.  It still is.


I think we can see that the movement toward abstraction and a condemnation of all that is understandable.  And, the more intellectualized we become, the more we hear the call back to that religious frenzy and fury and bright glory.  But it can hardly be mentioned in the schools' hallways of dark seriousness.  What is denied a hearing violently breaks out in the Elsewhere.




6295  That ravishing beauty, the young writer of dark paranoia, without any doubt knows the sexual.  He will have to deal with it coming at him every hour of the day.  No doubt he knows nausea and he often runs to cool intellectualizing.  And through all that he is neither innocent nor guilty.  He has become a Type


Since I know next to nothing about him, not even his name, I find him an enchantment.  Such comes with paucity of information.  The least thing contains immensity.  He, for me, today carries the weight of the holy.  His fidgeting because of his existence is the frisson.  His existence is almost frozen.  He has become one of the Forms.


Well, yes, I am a writer and a solitary thinker.  I write the Real and the True.  Not what is merely real and true; he is separate from all that.  He sits and thinks and writes and looks around for his pretty friends.  And I watch from a distance beyond eyesight.  It all comes to nothing.




6296  The great God of the Old Testament, indeed of all the religions of Canaan, is El. He is ferocious.  God of the sword.  A warrior God.  Not a fumbling paterfamilias.  Not an agrarian fertility god.  A whirlwind.


He is not a god of synthesis, but of analysis.  In his killing fury, nothing of the world remains, only the final pieces of being.  Life is gone.  Brilliance blinds.  Overpowering Beauty.


With the last stroke, the Beloved appears and absorbs the fury.  Then calm.




6297  Today emptiness  reigns.  And I'm not into it at all.  Supposedly the nothingness nothings the world into existence.  And then, in a then that never was, the world that appears is in its non-appearing non-isness still in its empty and free heart a slipping away nothing ever just something else.   Or whatever.  It's not my cup of bliss.


I recently criticized someone for writing and talking like an "inspirational lecturer". His words, I told him, were a pick-up truck full of seductive clichés.  Which as a seductive pick up tool might work right well.  The emptiness will suck the willing in readily.  I'm not cool; he's out of luck with me.  But I'll sit and listen; he really is rather darling.


I do like the author and the cosmologist who theorized that the reason there is something instead of nothing is that something is more mediocre and mediocrity overcomes the perfection of nothingness in the long haul.  We ball into the night and call in sick in the morning.  The empty-headed Kritios boy really is a come on to me.


So instead of a pure relativism, I prefer and lick the hard metric.  A constant constant sticking in.  I love the one thing named by the word The.  The Just That. The bare particular in my face.  The thick white binding of sheer stuff.  It's finally enough.  I see his words are sticky and he right there does up himself for me.




6298  Simon Schama is fun to watch; that's for sure.  And he's funny.  But he was a little too shy about mentioning the blatant pederasty in his talk about Caravaggio and Bernini.  Or maybe he thought it has been mentioned too much already.  I thought it was telling that in talking about Bernini's Ecstasy of St. Teresa he dwelt always on the orgasmic waves in her gown and that look on her face – you know what I mean.  But he never mentioned the mind-mugging-tugging prat on that heavenly brat – you know that also.  Well, we each have our concerns, and it is that last, right there for me where heaven and earth touch. 


And that reminds me of today's most common description of the poetry of Rumi.  He speaks, they say, of a love that is sweet and all-embracing, a joy if you will but let yourself enter.  A daring, rapturous journey on a heaving ocean.  It becomes, here again, a female orgasm.  The incorrigible boy is gone, that one of whom Rumi said, " And if he promises, "I will come in another moment," all his promises are but cunning to beguile you.  He possesses a flaming breath, by enchantment and wizardry knotting the water and tying up the air.


One thing I do agree with Simon about is that great art is a blending or melding or uniting or even a rough hooking up of the low and the high.  Of crotch itch and heaven.  It's the homely hearth that is so middling and mediocre.  And as for seeing the essence of Being as a female orgasm; well, we each have our concerns and that ain't mine.




6299  How should we understand the truth of the Bible?  First, a very succinct statement describing me.  I am a Christian and I pray ferociously.  I pray for two reasons: I love to pray (It is my obsession). And it is my escape from the terror of existence. Pleasure and pain drive me on.  Now for the truth of the received Text.


We live is a scientific, journalistic, psychologistic age.  When the Bible is compared to the archeological/historical record, it turns out that what is written is, not only not supported by facts, but the findings clearly reveal almost the very opposite.  The Bible is not, definitely not, historically, scientifically true.  I am unfazed.  I expected as much.  That goes along with the main idea of my philosophy.  I am a Platonist.  Almost no one else is anymore.


You probably haven't read much of my writings, so I will only say that I make a sharp distinction between the everyday, scientific world and the Ontological.  Philosophy hands us a great treasure house of glittering gems.  At least my old-fashioned/new-fashioned logical analysis of what is plainly before my thinking-eye silently offers that for my growing pleasure.  Therefore I would expect the ordinary moving objects of life to be very different from that stillness at the end of violent analysis.  Such is the Spirit roaming free.  The Boy is somewhere else.  That strange, very strange, being at the heart of those ancient Text.  Journalists would be very afraid to mention such a thing, if they but wrote of what they intimately unknowingly know.


Does that help you understand my thoughts on the truth of the Bible?  Probably not.




6300  Historical evidence seems to show that Judaism in all its forms prior to about the fifth century B.C. was polytheistic. God, aka Elohim or YHWH, had a consort and lesser gods as descendents.  Then with Hezekiah the push toward one God set in.  After that there was always the problem of just who God's consort is.  Well, it is Israel, Ephraim.  But who is that?  It is, not the nation or the people of Judah (they had no strong sense of that), but the male devotees individually.  And they apparently had a problem with that.  Because the love of this God was more than a little overwhelming at times.  Should they assume a female role?  Should they remain masculine and have a same-sex relationship?  This God was intimate indeed.  What to do?  The truth of the matter is that a lot of guys have this same problem today.  So they all insist that what God really wants is for them to get married—family and all that you know.  But God never told them to do that; in fact Jesus and Paul said the opposite.  Nonetheless, everyone goes merrily on his way and that's that.


So how did Hezekiah et al. justify their change?  They wrote up new holy books.  It then appeared that the Hebrews were originally monotheistic all along out there in the wilderness.  And it was the act of settling down with the Canaanites that got them into the fertility cult thing and all that family of gods stuff.  So it was merely a matter of going back to the future.  Still, that didn't solve the problem of how to deal with a God a little too close.  The answer, I think, was to imagine a band of "prophets"  on the high-places who  would take care of God's phallic needs while everyone else went about normal life.  It did seem to work, at least for a while, until some of those guys up there were getting a little too fem for their butch warrior God and someone had to  speak up.  God is a same-sex butch lover of males, not pseudo-females.  Thus the law that says it is an abomination for a man to sleep with a man as with a woman.  I take that to mean that a man should sleep with a man as with a man.  As God loves. 


You hesitate in believing that?  I imagine you do.  You should  read the Books and not just get your theological understanding from The Media, holy authority for our time.




6301  There are, generally speaking, two main ways to understand the Bible:  that it is literal, material, historical fact or that it is a system of symbols.  Any close scientific investigation into those facts quickly reveals that the Bible is not true in that manner, which doesn't at all deter the many who have become very adept at ignoring facts in all areas of life.  As for being symbolic, the question is, Symbolic of what?  It usually turns out to be something psychological of social and that in turn rests on the material structures of human life.  As such, the Bible is hardly as good as a New Age oceanic swoon.  Isn't there another way?


For me the Bible isn't symbolic.  Anyway I never was very good at thinking symbolically.  I take things much too literally in everything I read and see.  But I am not a materialist.  So does the Bible, for me, speak directly and literally of anything I have in my philosophy?  You bet.


As I see it, God and human beings both have the form of a body.  A form that exists and is readily present to the seeing mind.  In this materialistic age, when everyone seems to be a nominalist/conceptualist, no form of any kind exists; they are linguistic, mental/neural fleeting phantasmagoria.  But for me form is just Form, a timeless, placeless thing – its existence looms large.  The body Form of God and the same in the Human have captured us.  And there is, of course, no scientific investigation possible concerning that.  It strikes the awareness and it is just startlingly, brutally there.  The Forms of the Bible are real.  As are those of the Iliad and Shakespeare and Rock and Roll.  Deal with it.  And your timeless awareness of them.




6302  Once again concerning that ravishing beauty, that shy writer of dark paranoia, that bewilderment from God, was he real or was he just a sizzling imprint on my entropically-advanced brain?  Almost every philosophy out and about today, including those of dark realism, maybe paranoid, protest that he was only the plasmatic aura of neural conjunctions.  Metallic distortion.  A happy dream. Of mine.  No, even I, according to that ubiquitous pseudo-philosophy of deathly romance, am no more.  It's fun to write, but really now.  I saw him and his beauty was intense.  Hard Existence struck again.


There is no overcoming that sinking view of the Matrix, the Great Mother Swamp.  It has its adherents in thrall.  They cohere.  They're stuck.  It's a philosophy one must hate and they love it.  That is ultimately despair.  Or is it only literature?  Is literature only literature?  Mind rhizomes.  The entangled mother.  Think this! but you mustn't.   The double bind.  The rumbling hind.


Whence and whither?  I will talk to him and stare furtively until he's gone.




6303  I wonder what that boy, that one who wears his beauty like a monk's cowl, who pencils dark paranoia (I'm still baffled by that), must think of finding himself caught up in my theological silent agitation.  "What does my hair, my face, my gesturing have to do with God?" he of need asks.  He doesn't know that it is just that that has consumed mankind's literature and the mystical calculations tumbling through the soul of all the saints in the High Church.  Religion has been of nothing else.  That's why it is under such duress of late.  The Boy is a disrupter.


Well, yes we all know that.  All over the world it is adolescent boys who make it so hard for families and nations to manage.   Their goal is heaven here on earth.  They dream.  While girls plan.  They dream the wisps of being.  An intense negligence.  A stance a glance a pivot and a measured nonchalance.  God appears along the margins where they have been pouting for aeons.  It's the supremely irrational.  And then a job. 


I never had a proper job.  I was paralyzed in rapt contemplation … or just stuck.  Impaled in prickly pondering.  Calamus, flag root and blades of grass.  So I argue religion.  Uncontrollably.  I know what I am about.  No one does it better.






What will he think?



And the other one?



About what?

About me.

What about you.

I am not desirable.

And they are.


They both play the field.

They are loved

They are desirable.

Why is he lying with me?


So close.

Should I?  I suck his neck.

He stays.

I manipulate him.


He turns over in my arms

He's straight up.  Large.

So it makes no difference.

Yes, he likes it.


Under my clothes I am silken white.

I am angelic.

The other looks on.

He is amused.




6305  Ravishing beauty and dark paranoia.  Both are delicate.  And hard.   And smear.  And lie beyond understanding.  Thus we are here among the Transcendentals.  And I must speak hack-handedly.  Or my speaking will be laughable.  The angels stand round amused.


Everyone knows that he himself vanishes from sight when the beautiful one appears.  Or if he has the courage to advance he must clothe himself in measured words.  Or the fire will burn.  But how else to taste the soma oozing from the Stem of Jesse?


We should rightly fear the flames of divine love.  The phallus blows.  The Whirl sucks.  The soles of your feet burn.  The rash.


He's brash.  Beauty will never obey.  He fears himself.  He refuses to understand.  He is on the other side of that.  In the purity of necessary thought.  He is all over you.  How will you ever extricate yourself from his sticky ghost.


He's as delicate as a logarithm.  The incommensurate diagonal.  He cuts across on my bed.  Feet dangle.  I caress his back handily.  And laugh.  The angels want in.




6306  I seldom, if ever, write about morality.  That is because today the word has taken on a decidedly political feel.  Either one is right wing and insists that the moral person is a respecter of the freedom of others.  No butting in by government.  Or one is left wing and insists that the moral person is one who worries about and tends to the needs of the poor.  All of which means that the old nod to the Vir in virtue is gone.  One who possessed Vir was possessed by divine strength in battle.  It was an awesome thing.  The Whirlwind.  Inducer of vertigo.  The Phallus of God on and in the holy warrior.  Turn your glance aside!


Well, all that last stuff is far out of date.  But it may return when we aren't expecting it.




6307  Yeats wrote:

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer

Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world …


But then he would, that lover of the formless oceanic, the female orgasm.  I am about something other.  The center holds.  Ever and forever, my words come back to the phallus, the fulcrum, the one solid pivot.  The tower, not the bower.  The magnet, the faggot's magma.  The Just That.


Of course, such a philosophy is seen by all today as anathema, offered up as burnt sacrifice to the old gods so they will leave.  Oh well, c'est la guerre.


Every strophe turns inward in centripetal counter roll.  The prostate hold is held.  And welded to the other.  The ephod flaps.  The brazen blazes.  There is no release.  I do not believe in freedom.  This is Luther's Bondage of the Will.  The world will relent for lent.  Eventually.


In the mean time, I wait and write and cruise for a glimpse.  Of holy dalliance.




6308  Oh Lord, thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.  In Hebrew there is the verb galah.  It can be and usually is translated as to uncover.  In Genesis, it names the the uncovering of the nakedness of Noah and it likewise names the uncovering of someone's nakedness in some prohibitions in Leviticus.  It is the same word used in the book of Samuel when God appears to that boy and uncovers himself to him.  Today that would be flashing.  Moreover, it occurred many times after that.  That was the source of Samuel's power.  Or so one might suppose.


It is written in the Koran that on the last day God will reveal his thigh.  In neither of those instances are we dealing with a fertility goddess who reveals her dark, crushing chambers.  Nonetheless, both show that religion has been and still is ultimately a sexual revelation.  But of course it is hardly believed.




6309  Dark paranoia is ultimately about something sexual.  And the hard fact that ravishing beauty is likewise unapproachable indicates that it and that sinking other belong together.  A fearful belonging.  Yes, but we are here in the literary.  Neither are a part of the middle world that is the everyday.  If anything, they are a momentary invasion from another place.  Or perhaps not.  What should we say about such uncertainty?  I have said a lot.


Those who succumb to dark fear and love's obsession do so because they are literary souls.  The ordinary mind rightly sees nothing there.  At least in the common world.  There are other worlds, though.  And a literary mind has access to them.  But surely not.  Or as sure as the thoughts come again.  And again.  Enchantment.


To say that dark paranoia and ravishing beauty are of nothing in this world only makes them more terrifying.  The Elsewhere.  God's tender touch.  Oblivion.  For those who know.  And succumb.




6310  In the West, what is of highest value is cleanliness.  And therefore efficiency or clean, smooth action.  Thus those Westerners who want to learn the beauties of Hinduism insist on a vision of transcendent cleanliness.  But upon really visiting Hindu temples, they see something other.  And an analysis of the Vedic language will reveal what that other is.  An otherness not so different from other ancient religions, now wiped out of mind by The Enlightenment that cleaned up thought.


Hindu temples are bloody, messy, infested places.  A god is there.  And the gods are not the janitors of the cosmos.  Indeed Hinduism is the uncleanliness of powerful sex.  Great, mighty generation of belly life.  Dark, bloody, red-black, cramped, entangled, wet, musty roaring, poisonous, thick, wild.  It's like looking into a womb.  And it is at times an overwhelming, hair-raising Vision.  Then there is fire, Agni, the one who eats the corpses on the ghat.  So let's do a little clean etymology.


Shiva, which means agreeable, is not that god's real name.  Rather it's Rudra, which in Latin is rudere (to roar) and Old English reotan (to weep).  It means howling, terrible, bellowing.  It's the storm god.  Vishnu is vis which means, as in Latin, power, but it also means poison (Latin virus meaning slime, poison, bitter taste) and excrement.  To see The Sleeping Vishnu is to see a great, black god with huge thighs and a long, heavy penis as he in his blank thickness lies on coiled serpents.  Likewise Brahma is from Brh which means to grow thick, a phallic thing.  It does not mean the cleaned up swelling of devotion in the heart.  We are talking about sex and nature as violence and we are far from the gentle compassion of today's meditation practices.  Of course, other examples are readily available, but it's too much.  Go there and see and don't listen to the nice (almost British) explainers.


In the West, we of course keep all that out of sight out of mind.  We are pleasantly enlightened.  1984.




6311  We in the West have recently learned to think of Life as precious and joyful.  We relish the idea of reincarnation.  Giving birth is beautiful.  Death is a doorway to the friendly cosmos.  Creative generation can go on and on forever as far as we are concerned.  Life is good.  And that is very far from the religious view of the East, except in books they want to sell us.


The gods of samsara, this place of cyclical birth and death, are no more than terrors in the night.  Mighty, darkly shining, seductive, tearing, willful powers that have us in thrall to the throes of sexual desire.  We must find an escape.  Or so the resplendent horrible beauties of Hinduism would have us believe.  There is of course some truth to that great vision.  A lot of truth.  What to do?  The West wants to believe otherwise.


In the East where they never think about sex they think about sex all the time.  We try to control it with incessant preaching about respect and compassion, but it only works when we're momentarily tired.  Pray for strength.




6312  That ravishing beauty is not a symbol of anything; he is the thing itself.  This is direct realism.  I do not deal with intermediaries.  The middlemen are gone.  I state a fact.  My stating and the fact are two.  I write.  He may or may not read.  He is always there.  But where?  Not here.  He bides his time.  I bite my knuckles.  White.


He walks about.  I don't know where he's headed.  It doesn't matter.  He wears his beauty like armor.  He's a knight.  In the night.  L'amour.  He's tight.  My shirt tears.


It's nothing much.  Like God, it's brute.  Just that.  My old hat.  What's to be done with beauty?  Beauty has been around the eyes of some chosen one forever.  Everyone knows it.  We manage.  The angels prowl.


Howl.  A trowel.  A cowl.  Build it.  Build it to the sky.  And lie about your true intentions.  Everyone knows it's hopeless.  God dawdles.  The throttler is out and about.  You've been rolled.  Your money's gone.  He sits and writes his dark paranoia.  So sweet.


Too sweet.  I compete with others.  Heaven leans.  Seams tear.  Yes, symbols.  But he's not a symbol.  He's the final piece.  The crease.  You could not iron out.




6313  The really important things in your life take place in your imagination.  No, that's not right.  Your imagination takes place among the really important things of life.  You notice that he is furtively staring at you.  He notices that you notice.  Make a note of that.  We will analyze soon.  For now just be aware that your awareness and his have risen into mangled places.  The scene is very old.  And it, of course, will be repeated and repeated and never deleted.  You're stuck in one of the Forms.  Life goes on and never goes anywhere.  The past is dead and it's right ahead.  The eternal return of the same.  Wild things move among the tame.  No one's to blame.  No crime by the gods has been perpetrated.  You've been penetrated.  Or the crime is very old.


In the final analysis, when all the torn apart pieces are thrown across the sky, a wry look.  He took you life.  It's God.  A clod.  Your lover.  You have no other.  He wears your pain like jewels around his perfect neck.  What the heck.  Clear the deck.  His entourage is about to barge in.  Again.  Clamor clamor.  Beauty rules.  I'm taut.  Self-taught.  And wrought of night rot.  That old sot over there was once one of them.  Now look.  It was his only means of escape.  Soon he'll be back.  With someone on his back.  The wrack.  We love our love from above.  I will spin on a dime.  In time.  For you, my dear.




6314  What is the difference between that ravishing beauty I have been writing about lately and the perfect beauty you can find splattered all over the Internet?  The former has existence and existence is always threatening.  God is Existence.  I am an ontologist.  I study existence.  I live with existence.  My lover is existence.  I am close to coming undone by it.  It.  The Internet is as nothing.


Literature is also weak.  All art is weak.  Unless the existing one you are trying to capture is looking at it and you are looking at him looking at it and God is the Looking slithering through all looking.  And the coils tighten.


Finally only existence exists.  Unbreakable necessity.  You lie on it as on a moving bed.  He has his arm around you.  Tight.  Suffocating.  The odor of eternity.  And he has smeared beauty on you and he is eating you and there's nothing you can do.  So sweet.  So very sweet.  The lights of night dim.  It see him.




6315  Consider two beauties.  One is a real boy and one is a picture.  What is the difference?  Last posting I said one exists and one doesn't.  That is of course the usual way we have of talking, but it won't work ontologically.  Simply because pictures are real and they do exist.  I also said that one is threatening and the other isn't.  That isn't true either.  They are both threatening in their own way.  I suppose one could say that one has awareness and the other doesn't.  Well, yes, but sometimes the "real" one goes blank and then he's even more ravishing.  What is the difference?  Maybe there is no difference.  Yes, there is.


In Andalusian poetry there is described here the account of those who fall in love after hearing only a report of some beauty.  And of course we fall hard at times with only a glimpse at … at what?  It is often hardly most than a patch of flesh, a possibility.  It's like being hit with a spiritual hammer.  Still, if we do  fall for a picture, it's really with the one that is pictured.  Bear with me I'm trying hard to disentangle love.


Unless you are really into composition and style (which I often am) a picture is about something other than itself.  It is that other thing that has us in thrall.  I am aware of his existence, directly aware, though he may not be materially present.  Existence and material presence are different.  So I imagine him close and I grow faint.  Then he appears and … well, that will often lessen the sweet pain.  Existence is strange and it isn't what is standing right before your eyes.  Oh my, I'm lost.  My philosophy has crashed.  I'm going to eat some Cheerios.






A:  Are you going to come with me tonight to the play?

(An electric jolt    Soft air)

N: I don't think so.


It's amazing how the body reacts before the consciousness hears.




6317  Minimalist art is monumental.  For hours a piece of music can loop through almost imperceptible variations.  A canvas of two or three rectangles stands imposingly tall and deafeningly mute.  A wall is one solid color along a subtle and very still incline, somehow forbidding.  It's that great size that presses down on the mind.  And paralyzes the artist.  For years I have been unable to handle the length of my book.  An endless repetition of only a few basic ideas.  Simple sentences scrolling down.  I have to somehow make my long work be an entelechy.  The orgy of simple things.  En-ergia.  The Act.  God.




6318  When people from the East eat my prairie food they think it is tasteless, at least when they first encounter it.  When I attempt to eat their food I am in pain because it is so spicy hot.  I think the same thing happens when most people read my writings; they think it is tasteless, even insipid.  Bland, blank, maybe tedious.  They are used to and indeed love dark colors and bold descriptions.  Where I see subtle differences within momentous ontological systems, they see nothing.  Where I feel tortured in the passion of ontological collapse, they feel nothing.  Where I stand overawed by Beauty itself, they move away because only some guy was standing there half-cocked.   I thought He was too hot to handle.


My writings flow smoothly.  Too smoothly.  No abruptness suddenly wakes the reader up.  No tough push.  Only an absurd appearance of the imp of timelessness and a diagonal abstraction. Nothing.  Unless you are into subtle deconstruction.  While changeless variations work endlessly.  Very smooth. 


If you put your mouth on his neck and wait for the taste of eternity to ooze into your mind, you will … you will probably taste nothing.  It's not there for everyone.  For me it burns and I am slowly being consumed.  I eat this offering of burning food joyfully because the Boy made it lovingly for me.  Sweet pain.  Never mind.




6319  I make certain classical  assumptions in this writing.  First, there exists truth and we can know it.  Second, words are adequate for speaking of it.  Third, you, the reader, are able and willing to understand.


I speak of God incessantly.  And of beauty.  Existence divides ultimately into categories.  The human mind is able to  see them and name them.  And desire them.  And then the erotic swoon.


God appears directly to the seeing mind.  And his phallic power.  Lover and beloved together.  Power and beauty.  Intense.




6320  The difference between good writing and great writing is that the former is very, very sane and the latter has a touch of madness about it.  Maybe more than a touch.  Well, yes, we all know that.  We have known that for a long time.  Ever since Plato's Phaedrus, at least.  But madness is madness and we all try to get away from it.  And then, if we have moved a little too far away, to get back a little closer.  To feel its thick embrace.


We are mad for wanting to play with madness.  Madness is mad and fire is fire.  I must add that ice is ice.  Because that horribly jejune thing of fiery ice is real.


A great writing starts off as something good.  It moves along as a  friend.  Then a misstep.  A slight slide.  Control again.  Then a swift turn and sideways.  It's questionable writing.  Careening.  A prosthetic gate.  It's in.  Terror.  And the hard simplicity of struggle.  He ascends up.  Into your head.  Wake up!


Which you do and you know you fear it.  But soon the delight comes again.  And God is savior.  But, within a question, also the madness.


God is the madness.  And our safety away from the madness.  The pull and the push.  That is, as you have always known, called Love.  You have no choice but to use the word and deal with it.  You are with Him.  That careening, overpowering lover.


Being is the ever-repeating attempt to wake up from a bad dream in the arms of this Lover.




6321  The BBC has a fun-to-watch series called The Bible's Hidden Secrets hosted by Exeter University Lecturer Dr. Francesca Stavrakopoulou.  In one episode she asks the question of whether or not Israel, at least before the captivity, was monotheistic.  After examining the archaeological evidence she concludes, I think rightly, that they were not. But she has totally overlooked those raving madmen called the prophets and the sons of the prophets.  I think the distinction between these and the people of her concern is somewhat similar to the difference between celibate monastics and the ordinary householder.  But then there are different kinds of monks.  These prophets and their sons were in the thrall of a very masculine God, not a goddess.  It was that thralldom that gave rise to monotheism.  Those guys were themselves the consort of God, not Asherah.  The relation was ecstatic eroticism.  David dancing naked before the Ark.  Micah hated it just as would any female consort.  Get that bitch outta here!  Between God and his human lovers there can be no domestic gathering.  Only God and those male mad dancers.  The ordinary people generally wanted nothing to do with them.  Nonetheless, madness and raving are seen as somehow holy by  everyone and they must be paid  attention  to.  At a  distance.


The ordinary family guy can have his mother goddess and her tree of life.  The prophets and their inseminated sons know only the one jealous Male.  Monotheism!  I think  Francesca wouldn't be into it.


It's too much.  This theory will never be accepted.




6322  The God of the prophets and the sons of the prophets, their phallic lover, was also a war god.  Saul and especially David, both chosen by this God, whiled away their time by attacking villages and killing the inhabitants.  Force.  Brute and unrelenting.  How am I to think this for today?  Now we have only literature.  Has that God and his writer/warriors invaded there also and laid waste?  There is evidence.


Or was the God of the Bible a literary invention to begin with?  And the prophets?  Was all that the mind of a lovelorn court dreamer?  Someone akin to me?  What is literature?  Surely all the other gods have taken up residence there also.  Should it be banned from the schools?  Alas, it is as good as gone already.


We are still a people of the word and I am that.  Perfect boys and the Boy lie about only in the rhythms of tense turning syntax.  And art is as nothing if not written/spoken of, analyzed within a knotted flame.  Indeed archaeologists only find only scorch marks.  Eternal lines to time.


I will continue to read the Bible because it is the really real, beyond this mere dalliance.  Killers at play.  An erotic drama.  I am run through by ghosts.




6323  Somehow language fuses with the real external to the words.  Last time I wrote about the Bible and the things that those words name.  I said that those things were not of this mere world, but were the really real somewhere else.  God and the gods have attacked those sleepy sentences and now our reading minds.


Wittgenstein wondered how sentences mean.  That problem is not solved by saying that there is no separate other, that it is only words reflecting words.  It is something else laid on.  And has becomes a fused patina.   The Bible truly names and lays out realities, but not earthly realities.  Just as does all literature seared by the heat from that far, other place.  The welding fire and the hot coals that tough the prophet's lips.  He speaks of desire.  God blows in a hot wind over the surface of the eye down love's body.




6324  Ravishing beauty and dark paranoia.  I saw him through a glass darkly and I walked the intervening space in order to arrive at him.  Words erupted.  I went on and on.  Ideas left my lips and encircled his head.  The old saints are all dead and now ensconced in heaven.  I remain.  And beauty still obscures the sky.


A lot got said.  The world was abandoned.  I shoved a book at him; I regaled him with the ancient language.  I handed him letters that encased the harsh sounds from which our smooth English arose.  I led him to the nexus.  Only I knew God was not far away.


God is beauty.  Beauty is truth.  Truth is sentenced to hanging.  Sound hangs in the throat.  The throat goes down and down all along the alimentary canal.  Then analysis begins.   Into the dark night.  A glass.   A nice smooth glass.  The fragrance of angels.  God comes.  Oblivion.


The hunger.  The charism.  The glory of the  Eucharist eaten.  The nausea.  The sindona left behind.  Now the  running.  He is even now trying to escape.  Ravishing.




6325  I think those who don't believe in the transcendent Forms are those who have never had a job as an ordinary worker in the temple.  A terrible amount of physical and mental energy goes into moving that here, setting this up over there, in order to make it just right so the god and glory will appear.  Things can go wrong very easily.  The ideal is exact.  The world is a mess and resplendent order is difficult.  The garden must be tended with great care.  Even an English garden that magically looks so natural – the natural is anything but.


Look at the face and body of the workers in the temple.  Hard and pushing through.  So much to do in so little time.  Such clamor.  The orgy of work.


The great Forms cannot be separated from the exertion of Work.  Nor can the worker be separated from the Form.  Without the Form to guide him the worker is lost as to what to do and does nothing.  The worker knows what he is working to see something.  Then it's finally there and the hardness of his body and mind shines all about in that.


But if you have never been a worker, you will see nothing and for you the heavenly Forms will simply not exist.  Such are today's lounging intellectuals.




6226  I use the philosophy of Gustav Bergmann to hang my theology on.  Traditionally, whenever anyone makes such an attempt, he uses an ontology of separate (free-of-the-world) Forms (inside or outside of the Mind of God), not forms or universals tied to particulars as closely and utterly dependently as do Bergmann's.  So how do I manage? 


The ultimate paradigm for B. is F(x).   There is no F by itself.  Or is there?  The truth is that I also have separate forms, and so, I am about to argue, does Bergmann.  B. analyzes or assays an ordinary, worldly something into a number of ontological pieces (I use that word because it is neutral).    Among them are bare particulars, nexus, universals, quantifiers, circumstances, facts and on and on into revealing a great menagerie of ultimate wonders.  All of those "together" "constitute" that ordinary something.  The problem, of course, is that they don't.  Not only does Bradley's regress stop it from happening, the feel of this circus we have landed in is too damn far from the everyday to have it suddenly appear.  We are in a or the separate land of enchantment.  We have eaten from the fruit and we cannot return.  Grimmly speaking, Humpty Dumpty cannot by put back together again.


So now what are we to think of ontology?  Is the circus that came to town real?  Or only mind fumes?  Bergmann, I think, would opt for the everyday world over the circus.  He was mightily and impressively true to his method of arguing from an Ideal Language; nonetheless from the beginning he was no mystic.  The positivist would have won, but he went mad too soon.


The eternal circus, the bizarre bazaar, is real.  Such is where God hangs out.  I have seen it and felt it in the lonely wind out on this prairie.




6327  Existence does not ultimately divide into mind and matter or mental and physical things.  Mind, thoughts, are pieces of furniture in the world, but there are many, many other types of pieces all over the place.  There are physical things, but there are also numbers and sets and events and feelings and grand conspiracies and on and on.  The interior decorator of this place had a lot to choose from.  Then there are those strange things of timeless being outside the outside of the lush hotel.  Those are the things you find after you blow up an ordinary thing just as you explode an atom to see what splatters on your cloud chamber mind.  Revolution!  We float high in the intellectual stratosphere.  What kind of God is this?




6328  The God of the Old Testament before the Babylonian Captivity is very different from the one after.  The one before is lusty and erotic and dangerous.  The one after is nowhere in sight, a high moral principle, fine cerebral considerations of the infinite.  What a difference a captivity makes!


I have written up the before, though I know the after is what people today much prefer.  There are a lot of theories as to just why God changed or was changed by his devotees.  I think the men of Israel simply had had enough of his jealous tantrums.  His phallic closeness was just more than they could deal with.  Ecstatic whirling love orgies on hilltops came to seem out of touch with the new urban lifestyle.  Anyway, people could get hurt real quick with all his warrior stuff.  Thin intellectualizing was the remedy.  A bodiless logic.


God tended to respond by calling his former devotees ladies on a high stool, whores, but then he would somewhat repent and promise to take them back if … they didn't want to go back.  Not unless he changed.  He probably didn't want to so they changed him.


Then there is Jesus, the Beloved of God.  What is he?  Whatever he was, he was forced to change also.  The Jesus of today's meek and mild is not what is clearly presented in the Bible, if  one but knows how to read.  Divine danger is still out and about.




6329  As you know and as it should be obvious to everyone I walk out on the margins.  Sometimes I think this lonely Iowa prairie is North Africa where Derrida and Andre Gide hung out, but with a geometrical layout.  And of course the periphery is also magically the vanishing center (and the grand institutions of Paris will never call me back home).  Therefore, with that in mind, consider this analysis of Fregean propositions.  As Wittgenstein said, the world is all that is the case.  The world is the totality of facts, not of things.  How do we know those facts and what is that knowing?  Let's say I have or am the thought that dust is getting in my eyes.  Perhaps I speak that sentence silently to myself.  If I do then that sentence expresses a proposition.  Now then, in my being aware of that fact about my eyes, am I directly aware of the dust and my eyes and their various monadic and dyadic properties or am I aware of the proposition?  Or is that proposition my thought and that thought is directly with the non-propositional fact?  Am I directly aware of the world's facts or do I have to "look at" and then go through the intermediary of propositions?  If it's like that, then those propositions are neither thought (mind) nor the world.  Fregean propositions are a third.  If Frege believed in the reality of the world, then he knew that reality indirectly.  The opposite of that is sometimes called direct realism, or more cutely naïve realism – and that is where I stand, if you're at all interested.


So let's say you stand with Frege as an indirect realist, and you want to prove the existence of God.  I suppose you could say that God is the meaning of things and leave it at that.  Indirect realists do seem to be directly aware of meaning (Sinn) if not its referent.  Then God is the meaning of the idea of God or He is the Idea.  Usually, however, a philosopher wants to move from meaning and an idea to an existent to which that meaning applies.  A "way out" might be the idea that the very meaning or the idea that is God entails God's existence as what bears that meaning?  It's rather convoluted and the question is left hanging.  Alas, a Fregean idealist will at last have the same problem all idealists have: how to connect with non-mind.  Therefore, we leap into choice.  God is or God isn't, it's your call.


What is the value of such a position?  As far as I can see it sort of guarantees human freedom, freewill, personal decision.  And thus a religious moment.  For a naïve guy such as I, there is no such moment.  God immediately presses on my mind, my body, my existence and there can be no hesitation in the face of the obvious.  With Luther I see only the Bondage of the Will.  I am not a catholic/Arminian freewiller.  Which means I have missed out on the fun of existential angst.  This wasteland is full of dervishes and I am one.




6330  Ravishing Beauty is a transcendent, philosophical Idea. I am an old-style philosopher, so I leap skyward.  And I write.  I am on the other side.


What I just said will make no sense to him.  I am quite clearly insane.  Hasn't the Via Moderna, nominalism, replaced that now abandoned Via Antigua that I am travelling on?  For almost all it has, but I am other.  I have written a lot.  And I have hidden a map in plain sight by neatly arranging it on nice blogs plastered all over the well-lit walls of the world-wide web.


(We live in a subject-predicate world.  I think everyone would agree.  The philosophical question is about whether or not the predicate is a thing that is different from the subject.  How different?  Most today would say that the predicate is only the appearance of the subject and give it low "ontological statue" if any at all.  While the predicate word takes your mind to something other than the subject that something is not something other than the subject.   It isn't a strict monism; it is, rather, shall we say, a non-dualism.  Whatever it is, those who don't want to give full existence and thingness to the predicate, have a hell of a time trying to say just what it is – a non-existent, non-thing but something, sort of.)


I met a ravishing beauty.  A pleasant, young American with a predicate.  Just what is the relation between him and that thought-destroying Form hanging around so close to him – for those who can see.  They are two.  For me the predicate and the subject are definitely not one; the predicate is a thing and it exists.  They are two.  The predicate has been around from eternity.  I look on from afar.  I am in the madness of transcendental seeing.  He is totally smooth in my tormented sentences.  He has suffered the analytic fate of becoming a bare particular.  This is the ancient magic of Grammar.




6331  I met a young man of intense, ravishing beauty, thought paralysis, and he was writing a play of dark paranoia.  Therefore, I am ineluctably prompted by the spirit to write about that beauty and that darkness and writing.  He won't like it but the truth is that he will have completely disappeared when he's inside my words just as do all creatures from the world out there.  And eternity will appear in his place.  No one will know.  Still, he will worry; this is after all paranoia.


The proper beginning to all thinking about paranoia is religion and the frightful God and gods that pervade it.  I jump to there.  Thought works against itself.  The dialect starts up.  Irony hangs in the air, and that is of course erotic love.  We are speaking of madness.  God, erotics, irony and no way home.


All that exists only in writing.  Casual conversation cannot contain it.  Nor an afternoon's lecture by a nice professor nor the dialogue in dark melodrama.  Only hard writing from which the writer has been stripped.  Yes, grammatology.  The sentence has broken up the world and no one meaning can be gathered from it again.  Para-knowing.  Paragliding into musk.  Ravishing mind-rape.  He definitely won't like what I write.




6332  Last time I mentioned grammatology and the difference between writing and conversation.  I am, however, on the other side of deconstruction.  Ambiguity can result from the presence of contrary or even contradictory meanings associated with a word or phrase.  Or from the simple curtness of the oracular expression.  Almost all writings of deconstruction are unbearably long and convoluted.  I write short, to-the-point paragraphs.  Both destroy thought.  One is too long and the other is too short.  Goldilocks would not approve of either.  But the short version has a horripilation in it that the long one never knew.




6333  What is ravishing beauty and how does it differ from other kinds of beauty.  The word to ravish is the same as rape and ravage and rapid.  It is a quick, violent, destructive force.  It is beauty that is on the edge of the sublime.  Thought falls into vertigo.  We are not here at a picnic on a pleasant afternoon.


Raving madness.  It is intense.  In tension.  The root of which means stretching  toward or onto. One's attention is on its object.  One stretches and moves across.  The string of a sitar.  High strung.  Taut.  It portends a breaking.  Detained in contention.  I set up my tent in the vastness of the tender night of the ravens.


I have paid attention and I have been seized and now the thin tenure of abandonment.  Alone on the grass, I eat my delicacies and watch the clouds slowly, very slowly, become untenable.  I'll be home before morning.




6334  America has one great pleasure: paranoia.  It is said that paranoia is its own reward.  And because we have managed to see danger everywhere we work mightily to protect the innocent.  We ensconce them is protective cocoons.  And give them entertainment systems where they can watch the world on a screen.  We hold them so close we suffocate them.  And kill them.  Oh, the erotic pleasure.  It just sends a shiver all through the body.  We are close to holiness.  And we are only growing in rapt concern.




6335  Jean Genet ran to evil in order to get away from God.  But who was that God of Genet?  He was the god that the burghers worshipped.  He was The Great Burgher.  I too run from that bourgeois ideal.  But I run toward God, not away from; I am an extreme theist, a stuck devotee.  Should I say that Genet's evil is my good?  Many would say it is.  I don’t know enough about Genet to say.  I do feel that there is something about the Whirligig (tourniquet) that Sartre found in his writings that is also in mine – maybe, of course.


Sartre thought a Whirligig was the inversion that all Inverts performed.  Well, Sartre was a sexual idiot, but I think something worthwhile can be culled from his idea.  I have often heard people accuse me of "turning things around, upside-down and inside out".  I always thought it was just dialectic.  Socratic tumbling.  But others, apparently, have a different idea of what that august idea really means and what I am doing ain't it.




6336  Plato is the writer of desire.  That is to say, of Eros.  Neither beautiful nor ugly, Eros, Desire, aims his shaft right at beauty.  Face to face with beauty he reveals himself.  He disrobes and …  such a story is secret; it is the secret of religion.


Philosophy is the writing up of Eros.  And if he goes by the name of philia or agape, he is the same.  It is the hunger, the charisma, the horror, the yearning.  It is the Thigh, the Phallus, the Power of God.  It is the frisson within beauty.  The Stillness.




6337  Well, yes, I am rather proud of myself.  I think I taught you how to write.  That last email you sent to me hit me so very hard; I was reeling for two days.  It was perfectly written.  So very exact.  Even while the hammer was hitting me I could see that it was so very well thrust.  There's nothing more to say?


Please permit me to impose on you my analysis of what happened.  You said you didn't like what I had to say about you, but I think the truth is that you didn't like what I have to say about me.  Those two things may however go together.  I exposed myself as desire.  Desire is never the desired.  They are opposites.  Desire has no beauty and when it presents itself it is nothing but hunger.  Beauty is in danger, and in a few quick, violent words speaks to have it gone.  Excellent writing.  Bitter truth. 




6338  Perhaps because of his young age and he was still close to matter (Mater, the matrix) he confused my speaking of his beauty as speaking of him and not Him and His Beauty.  He hasn't yet learned to jump to the universal.  Or he hasn't had a goad thrust at him that would take away the ground of his earthly being and force him to fly.


Well, yes, the dialectic is difficult.  How to disentangle the one from the other?  Obviously he and his beauty are somehow one with Him and His beauty.  The particular and the universal are entangled.  Still, if I say they are one and he is That then he is trapped and freedom is gone.  Moreover, it is not quite true.  This boy is not the Boy.  On the other hand … .


The dialectic is difficult.  So what?  We have known that forever.  He squirms and I  have watched  him squirm within that  forever.  The ordinary boy is also the Ordinary Boy, not the Boy.  Or what?   I'm as lost and as bewildered as always.   The always of eternity, and not.  Jump!


He must understand that this romance between me and Beauty has ravished me for a very long time.  I could no more not mention him and Him on my blog than I could cease to write.  I am written.  The Graphos digs in.


Well, the young are so very easily offended; I should have known.




6339  The essence of Platonism is the separation of the Forms from the world.  For every other type of realism (usually called moderate realism) the universal is somehow in or tied up with, dependent on, the particular—that would be Aristotle and Thomas.  So your question concerns the relation between that separation and the Internet.  I am of course using the word "relation" in a loose, everyday sense, not in the sense of there actually being a relation, which would go against the very idea of separation.


So what does that separation look like?  If you ever encounter a Form it would seem to not belong here.  It would not be caught up in all the inter-connectivity that makes a world.  It would be uncannily other.  But since it is one of the very Things that ground the existence of this known world, it would have a strange familiarity to it.  You know it, but you don't.  So uncanny it is.


Let's say you see a Form standing in a doorway.  Surely it would capture your attention.  It would be a human being, sort of.  Maybe a robot.  Mindless perfection.  So very attractive.  Alluring.  Dead.  Looking at you, but not seeing you.  Not a human being.  Creepy.  You want it.  Stay away.  Oh, Eilif, you can carry on with that line of thought.


Is the uncanny in or on the Internet?  All those mindless pictures of perfect boys are … well, they're not quite the uncanny.  The uncanny is terror.  And it is desire.  And it is the homely, in both senses of the word.  And it is the Mysterium Fascinans and the Mysterium Tremendum.  Separate.  Cut off.  It is the Temenos where the killing sacrifice is performed.  It must be kept out.  That is the Satyr Socrates.  Infinite, absolute (cut off) negativity, as Kierkegaard says.


So is that on the Internet?  Beats me.




6340  Last time I said that the Platonic Forms were uncanny things.  I deduced that from their being separate.  The separate, the other, the strange.  Walter Pater said that 'it is the addition of strangeness to beauty that constitutes the romantic in art."  For "normal" society, the androgyne (the main character in Romanticism) is that strange thing, the thing outside society.  The uncanny.  That could also be the ravishingly beautiful boy.  The Boy.  And it be Eros, Plato's dialectical third beside beauty and ugliness.  The uncanny is the unfamiliar familiar.  And the familiar unfamiliar.  Neither a universal nor a particular, it is the Nexus between.  The world is filled with middle things that don't belong to either side.  Beyond Good and Evil.  The God of  Fury and Delight.  They truly are separate, it seems to me, and we too blithely try to assimilate them and make them loved members of the family.  But they remain also unfamiliar.  Or they lose their magic.  And romanticism is gone.  But maybe you're tired and you want that.




6341  In the nineteenth century, with no small in-fluence from George MacDonald, the God of Rage and Fury, the God of Calvin and Augustine, was overthrown.  No more was man subject to forces beyond his control.  He suffered because of bad choices.  Freewill was the agent of damnation and salvation.  God could now only hope and wait.


Today the churches preach only tough love.  God, who is total love, only chastises, sometimes harshly, and is not a raving madness.  No more is God a jealous God.  No more must we suffer the irrational whirlwind of a jilted lover.  No more impossible demands.  Now the church is a caring, sane family full of mother love..


The insane Male is gone.  Love is care.  Sex is relaxation from a good day's work.  And children obey.  Well, No.


Jealous fury still drives the world.  We remain in a dangerous place.




6342  In the nineteenth century, after man's seemingly successful rebellion against his wrathful, irrational God, Alice roaming through Wonderland became the lovely innocent child, our treasure, now in need of protection against the reactionaries.  Where did Dodgson stand?  We now know.


Man's freedom from God has become his worst nightmare.  The Fury and the Jealousy are still here, but now they pervade all of society.  No longer are they in the Temple.  No longer do only the chosen few live within them.  Man has become as mad as God.  To take away from God is to give to man.  Not only does he receive sovereign freedom, but divine violence.  Such incompetence.  We need the Temenos to reappear, and the raving, separated sons of the prophets.  Where is the boy Sha'al who can stand in the presence of the Galah




6343  Who killed Christ?  Was it the evil in a sinful world?  Or was it a jealous God who spent his fury on Him instead of the people?  Today the first view prevails and because Jesus came through unharmed we can follow Him and be saved.  God is blameless.  The old theology is dead along with that Raving Madman.


I think that raving Lover is still around.  As jealous as ever.  Waiting.  What am I to do?  I cling to Christ who survived God.  A Christ who is just as violent as his significant other.


The dialectic is magic.  I think and collapse.  I know heartbreak.  I know hardness.  And unknowing.  I contemplate rape.


Ugliness knows the terror of being looked at by beauty.  Beauty soon leaves and he is free.  Beauty knows the terror of being looked at by ugliness.  Ugliness will not leave and there is no freedom.  Is love evil?  God is love.  God stalks.  And prowls.  Choice meat.  Eros is a great god.  To blaspheme is dangerous.  I would never do that.  I am afraid of what love might do.  I wish I knew how to submit.




6344  Beauty and the terror of direct perception.  Terrorizing beauty with direct speaking.  I saw the beauty that was happening to him and I mentioned it.  I directly put him in mind of the real.  Perhaps I should have not looked directly at him and It and I should have spoken in a round-about way. He quickly put up a block between him and me.  No more seeing, no more speaking.  A philosophy of direct realism has been my undoing.


Hermeneutics and the Bible came into it.  If we read straight on, no symbolic interpretation, and we look with seeing eyes, God is plainly visible as a demanding Lover.  We have all known his kind.  No let up.  Lust.  Nausea.  Argument continuing through the night.  How nice it is to turn it all into poetic symbolism and be done with it.  Pull a veil over the whole sordid affair.  Hand it over to an off-in-the-corner university department.  Walk away.


My over-sexed body won't let me.  My ravished face speaks too loudly.  Straight on.  I see and am seen.  God presses.  Semen blows in the whirlwind.  I have become one of the bene-hanaviyim.  A dervish.  A boy careening on the prairie.  Spinning rectangles. 




6345  Melancholy.  Well, no.  Totally, no.  Categorically, no.  The two great entities that move my mind are Desire and Terror.  What do you think; was it a testosterone thing?  No doubt.  And the fact that I was gay aggravated it.  To the nth degree.  I wouldn't have changed a thing.


Straight men have eyes but cannot see; therefore, I am/was more comfortable around them.  Women seem to have eyes that look only on the inner being.  I'm sure there are/were just confused when looking at me.  Gay guys have eyes and they look.  They look hard.  So do I.  I  was not a pretty thing to behold.  They move/moved on.  Everything is as it should be.


At times in my younger days I would go to a gay bar and sit along the wall and watch.  It was a delight.  But then there were those times when suddenly the lights were raised and terror shot through me.  I was seen.  I smiled my smiles and quick made my way out into the dark streets.  And home.  At other times when I was quietly conversing in a crowd and gently cruising, a gay guy would appear.  I knew he too was looking and pretending not to.  I quickly left.  Gay people can see.


Then there were those times when I had no escape, nor wanted one.  And I had to figure out a diversion.  I learned language.  And wit.  Grammar.  What I really wanted was smooth skin.  Smooth.  And the skin of language is syntax.  Smooth flowing syntax.  Velvet vowel modulation.  The grace  of gradation.  A pert cadet's cadence.  Enchantment.


I distracted them all with empty form.  Now then, Eilif, read one of my so-called writings.  After you're done imagine someone asking you just what I said.  Give the topic in synoptic form; paraphrase, abbreviate it.  You absolutely won't be able to.  You won't even remember what it was you read.  But it was smooth – I think, I hope.  Maybe even a delight – if you read slow enough to ride the rhythmical movements.  And you paid attention to That.  Not to me or the terror/desire of my "inner being".  The tender sentiments were ripped out long ago.  Thought I do sometimes feel somewhat sad for straight people who  have  never developed the hardness of even the most ordinary faggot.


Meter, gradation, cadence.  Gentle modulation.  Timing is everything.  I think I have been a real looker on the stage of the Grammatici.  Ether angels can see. 


Philosophy is punctuation.




6346  The problem with paper is that after you read what is written, it stays right there in your hand.  It feels no compunction about hanging around.  As I pointed out in a couple emails ago, my words are as nothing after they are read.  They're like the Manna that the Habiru found in the desert.  By morning it was uneatable, not something to  be treasured.  Computer art is ephemeral; though of course it repeats and repeats and repeats saying the nothing of some sort of heaven, just as do my writings.  When transcendence appears, if it does appear, it is gone the next instant.  Paper is so damn permanent.  


I was just lying on my bed thinking about all that.  I could either explain my still unformed ideas in an email and have them be somewhat cogent or I could have you read them in a posting where they will have that strangeness that my postings always have and are thus closer to the truth of the matter.  Partial cogency vs. truth.  The truth concerning this is of course strange.  And that strangeness is close to being retarded.  Or should I say logically challenged?  Then again.  What did he say exactly?  Yes, Andy Warhol.  Robert Hughes, the Australian art critic who dids recently, said he was the stupidest man he ever knew.  Look at The Kritios Boy,  he is totally empty headed.  Beauty and empty-headedness do go together.  And of course the Internet is about the most empty-headed thing around.  Oh my, it's complex.  I'll think some more.


Paper, just as paper, is stupid.  It is mass pulp.  That makes it somewhat mystical.  And the reeds of papyrus are maybe the reeds of the pan pipes.  The Platonic trick is to think the pure paper separate from the form it is cut into and the shapes imprinted onto it.  It is that (Planonic) separation that is where the the mystical (and intellectually stupid) Mood grabs us.  OK, I got that far.  I'll be back later.




6347  It is very important that we not confuse Platonic Realism with Conceptualism.  Concepts, general ideas, mental Ideals, are intellectually perspicuous.  They are "in" the mind and partake of its light.  Platonic Forms are not in the mind, not clear and full of understanding.  They are the opposite.  They are out there.  Strange.  Strangely beautiful.  Un-understandable.  Brute.  Encountered on the way.  Suddenly on the back stairway of life.    They cause horripilation.  Deinos.  How does that relate to the Web?


The essence of Platonism is the separation of the Forms from the world.  For every other type of realism (usually called moderate realism) the universal is somehow in or tied up with, dependent on, the particular—that would be Aristotle and Thomas.  So your question concerns the relation between that separation and the Internet.  I am of course using the word "relation" in a loose, everyday sense, not in the sense of there actually being a relation, which would go against the very idea of separation.


So what does that separation look like?  If you ever encounter a Form it would seem to not belong here.  It would not be caught up in all the inter-connectivity that makes a world.  It would be uncannily other.  But since it is one of the very Things that ground the existence of this known world, it would have a strange familiarity to it.  You know it, but you don't.  So uncanny it is.


Let's say you see a Form standing in a doorway.  Surely it would capture your attention.  It would be a human being, sort of.  Maybe a robot.  Mindless perfection.  So very attractive.  Alluring.  Dead.  Looking at you, but not seeing you.  Not a human being.  Creepy.  You want it.  Stay away.  Oh, Eilif, you can carry on with that line of thought.


Is the uncanny in or on the Internet?  All those mindless pictures of perfect boys are … well, they're not quite the uncanny.  The uncanny is terror.  And it is desire.  And it is the homely, in both senses of the word.  And it is the Mysterium Fascinans and the Mysterium Tremendum.  Separate.  Cut off.  It is the Temenos where the killing sacrifice is performed.  It must be kept out.  That is the Satyr Socrates.  Infinite, absolute (cut off) negativity, as Kierkegaard says.


So is that on the Internet?  Beats me.




6348  Young Americans read my blog and they think I am talking about them.  Well, of course they do; that's all they know.  Scientific materialism, journalism, nominalism have taken over.  So am I talking about them?   Yes, but not at all as they think.  I described a young man of ravishing beauty.  In an everyday sense he was good looking.  But Ravishing Beauty is a transcendent, philosophical Idea that his good looks only hint at.  I am an old-style philosopher, so I take the hint and leap skyward.  And I write.  I am on the other side.


What I just said will make no sense to them or him.  I am quite clearly insane.  Hasn't the Via Moderna, nominalism, replaced that now abandoned Via Antigua that I was travelling on?  For almost all it has, but I am other.  Unfortunately, if anyone wants to find out what I have in mind, he will have to learn how to read, a tedious affair.  I have written a lot.  And I have hidden it in plain sight by neatly arranging it on nice blogs plastered all over the well-lit walls of the world-wide web.


So who was I really writing about?  He said he was a writer of dark paranoia.   A writer, when  writing, is travelling that other road—or he isn't a real writer.




6349  We live in a subject-predicate world.  I think everyone would agree.  The philosophical question is about whether or not the predicate is a thing that is different from the subject.  How different?  Most today would say that the predicate is only the appearance of the subject and give it low "ontological statue" if any at all.  While the predicate word takes your mind to something other than the subject that something is not something other than the subject.   It isn't a strict monism; it is, rather, shall we say, a non-dualism.  Whatever it is, those who don't want to give full existence and thingness to the predicate, have a hell of a time trying to say just what it is – a non-existent, non-thing but something, sort of.


I met a ravishing beauty.  A pleasant, young American with a predicate.  Just what is the relation between him and that thought-destroying Form hanging around so close to him – for those who can  see.  There are two alternatives.  For me the predicate and the subject are definitely not one; the predicate is a thing and it exists.  The predicate has been around from eternity.  This subject came on the scene only in the last few days.  A short time but enough time in which to be captured.  Nonetheless, what I am talking about is something away from ordinary vision and everyday life, which is where he and his friends live.  I look on from afar.  I am in the madness of transcendental seeing.  He shouldn't be worried, though, because I have only my keyboard and he is totally smooth in my tormented sentences.  In fact, he has suffered the analytical fate of becoming a bare particular.  If he wants to find out what that means he will have to learn how to read.


What I have described here is writing.  Is he at times outside time a writer or not?  This is the ancient magic of Grammar.




6350  Often, indeed quite often, you wonder about the existence or non-existence of something.  You never, however, wonder about existence itself.  Is existence a thing that existing things have?  I would guess that your answer is, No.  In the same manner you would say that simplicity is not a thing that simple things have.  And likewise for sameness and difference; they are not things that things that are the same and different "possess".   Therefore, when you speak of God you are not speaking of existence as a thing.  Rather you are speaking of a something that "is there".  Es gibt…   Il y a … Hay …


Let's suppose that existence is a thing and existing things have it or are pervaded by it or whatever nexus or quasi-nexus you want.  For example, the universal we call Green.  Green exists.  Then the ontological "fact", or circumstance or whatever you want to call it, is brute.  And you definitely have a thing against brutishness.   The work "brute" is related to the word gravity (Greek and sometimes Latin mischievously chance g to b).  Something brute is heavy.  Your philosophy, which is in love with the clarity and lightness of the Light of logic, would never admit such a thing.  Therefore, for you (I surmise) existence is not an existent.  If it were that would prevent another love of yours; freedom.  Brutish heaviness stops the movement of freewill.  And God is, for you, certainly not a Brute.  I, however, rather like the heaviness of existence and I am not a freewiller.  Therefore, I think existence is a thing. It presses on me.  Thanks for reading.




6351  In the ancient world, and the not so ancient, there were initiation ceremonies, perhaps of a boy into manhood, but also of a neophyte into a sacred order.  And they usually involved a sexual act.  Today the male participant would be arrested, but today is not yesterday.  Samuel, when God came as a night visitor and disrobed, when Elijah and Elisha resuscitated a boy by lying on him, all that is plainly laid out in the Bible.  Plato's stories of the boy being taken and afterwards gifts given redound in scholars' minds.  Descriptions of just such dark adventures abound all over the world.  But in this world where God is mostly dead, such things never happen.  Or do they?  I'm not about to say they do or don't.  The world has changed; but then again it has stayed much the same.  So what was going on in those secret encounters?


There was some sort of transfer of energy.  Of manly energy.  Sexual potency.  It was a frightening scene.  The boy was changed.  He learned to be a warrior.  What is a warrior?  For one thing he knows how to wield killing force.  He knows how to die.  And in death he is bonded to his fellows.  Deinos.


When this one is away from the terrible fields of killing and he is back home, all that is laid aside, or it should be.  He may simply go crazy.


Initiation ceremonies and the act within them are not conducive to domestic life.  What's to be done?  Do we still need warriors?  Do we still need that kind of manliness?  Or has his time passed?  If you look in the eyes of boys today about the time of puberty, they seem lost.  In school, they are falling behind.  And no one is paying attention.




6352  The warrior mentality is infused during initiation into the secret.  Well, that's a rather highfalutin, scientific way of puttin' it.  Let's stand back and have a look at it.  At it.  At.  Not through.  Not through to its meaning.  So we can forget it (as though we ever knew it).  At vs. through.


I met a ravishing young man.  We talked and our minds soared far out along the history of ideas.  Everything was going fine.  Until I turned and looked at him.  At him.  At.  The talk died.  Instead of going through his words and body movements toward that other thing, I looked.  I looked right at him.  He balked.  Eventually he ran.  To look at is to kill.  He wanted to live.  I acted like a warrior with a secret weapon.  He was in my sights.  The arrow of my gaze threatened.  I almost had him.  But he escaped.  So now I write.  And I look at myself and wonder if another something isn't looking at me in that self-looking.




6353  There are two ways to look at (not through) someone.  One is to notice his singularity, his unique personality, his personal history.  The other is to see him as a bare particular exemplifying certain universals.  The first supposedly brings the person to life.  The second to death.  Maybe it does.  No one likes to be stereotyped, pigeon-holed, put in a labeled box.  Or maybe we do, because we then finally are something definite, not a floating wave of possibilities.  We are here close to Sartre's idea of bad faith.  Maybe.


When I look, I see universals and bare particulars, not singular individuals.  I am supposed to see the latter, but I have trespassed into another realm.  I am a  killer.  And I can lead you all the way to the dialectic of the dialectic.  It's nothing, my dear, so don't worry about it.  That boy is a type.  Just my type.  There're no two ways about it.




6354  I had a vision of Christ in celestial mist, a naked boy in pink and blue, as pretty as a Hallmark card.  My chest bone was cracking with love.  The beloved of El.  Our God, the delicate Thigh, caught breath.  The inseminated Son.  A mirror.  Frozen in a Twinkie. He dances with stillness.  And existence.


Try as you might you cannot save him.  His innocence is caught in divine rape beyond the law.  Oh well, now he is even more so.  Perfectly smooth.  He oozes beauty down his leg.  And goodness.  And truth.   And proof.  Perfect submission to power.  And the Hand.  In the twinkling of an eye, you are that.  You hang on the cross.  Dead.  Who knows?


You need a shower.  You, my reader, have been reading religion and dialectic too long.  The boy left and he isn't coming back.  He saw the frisson in your words.  It made his back ache.  He sat and jacked off.  And you are not his dream.  God is.  Ho ho.  What turns around comes aground.  And that's that.




6355  Hello My Friend, that's a very interesting piece you sent me about The Face in Pornography. Some quotes: "What does this de-facing of the face mean in sexuality? When the performative mechanism of the ethical is invoked it is often, most often, the human-ness of a person that is located within the Face. Levinas, the French-Jewish philosopher, analyses this extensively and he un-covers the centrality of the face in ethics. So what are we to make of the face in sexuality?" "… the objectification of the sexual victim."  "We are finding the beauty of the sublime in the abject dirt."  "What is the actual definition of rape?"


Yes, I would agree that the face is the personal, the singularity of the individual, the human and the ethical.  I think you are definitely not a Platonist, at least you are not one as I am one.  Therefore, what I say will, I think, go exactly counter to your position.  Of course, I do not mean to cast aspersions on your view.  Hell, I don't even know what an aspersion is and if you can't buy any at Walmart or Dollar General, then I'm sure I don't have any anyway.  A nominalist, which for the moment, justly or unjustly, I will make you, is one who loves the individual and thinks abstract types are inhuman.  An extreme Platonist is one who loves the abstract Type and thinks individuals simply muck things up.  (I use the word "abstract" to mean simply not a particular individual, and I  don't mean "having been pulled away from".)  Therefore … a new paragraph.


For me the most sexual "thing" (I use the word deliberately) is the individual who has lost his individuality and become a Type or universal Form.  This boy becomes the pure form of the Boy.  I objectify him.  He is no longer a thinking singular person.  He is the eternal Form.  It's all very unethical.  And doing that to someone is a form of rape.  He is a victim.  No doubt about it.  I think I am not alone in doing that.  For better or worse, it happens. 


Is that a form of de-facing?  Well, yes.  It's probably worse than actually sticking a person's face in the dirt, because that one is still there in a way that a Platonically de-faced one isn't.  Platonism is hated for good reason by those who have tender feelings for the individual person.  I am a Platonist in matters of sex.  But what about my "victim".  At the moment of taking it doesn't matter.  He probably had no inkling.  (I also don't really know what an inkling is.)


Now for abjectness.  I think it is an alchemical notion.  In order to turn lead into gold, one must first reduce it to its most basic elemental substance (materia prima) – the purely abject unobject.  The Saints first had to be abject before they could be glorified.  If you want to know all about it, read Jean Genet, a writer I adore. 


Anyway, it all fits together somehow – I guess.  For me it is all literary.  As for those out there involved in the real thing, I can't even imagine.


This thing of valuing the integrity of the individual is really very Anglo-Franco-German.  When I'm in the East, where students still engage in poetry contests!, exaggeration, elevating some person or some object to the gods in the most flowery language is considered right and good.  Here it is an insult to the person to be left behind like that.  The high compliments I give to boys there are loved; here it is offensive, as I have recently found out.  Here the gods are dead.


I really don't think we should be pushing our views on this all over the world.




6356  A writer thinks he has an idea.  He thinks to write it up so he begins to write it down.  Words come and he is their scribe.  No more than a secretary.   All his thinking and doing are controlled now by something other.


Words into sentences into paragraphs have meaning, but more than that they have sonorous form.  He and his reader ride the quantum wave.  The discrete Vedic akara, the indestructible syllable (αφθαρτος), the pieces of sound vibration combine along the walking path.  Step by step the writer rides the rise and fall of πνευμα.  His Breath breathing inside.  Ideas become a vortex.  Vertigo and absorption.  The rhythms rule.  Articulation coils in the flame-like gems.




6357  Somehow the writer manages to get his idea written down.  Just how the controlling rhythm fits his thoughts so well is mysterious.  Were his thoughts, his wearisome labor, no more than vibrations?  It is too easy to say, yes.  It makes no sense.  I suppose it is the same as mathematics matching so well the happenings of the physical world.  Logic compounding into itself blossoms forth a spiritual wonder.  Existence existing existing existing in itself.


Lovers repeat each other.  A doubling up.  The self of the self being watched by itself.  Narcissus.  God in love with Himself.  He is his own beloved.  A Trinity before which we should avert our eyes.  Self-insemination   Ouroboros.  The Phallus blows.  Disorder, disrobing, disappearing.  The artful sentence is the boy's drawstring waiting to be pulled.  Shudder, vibration, sounds from the oscillum swinging in the garden.  My mouth closes mute.  The chela is mukah. 




6358  Let's suppose that the Jews, even before they were Jews, read monotheism back into their history.  They dreamed it up; they imagined it, for whatever reason, political or otherwise.  And thereafter and today we worship that One God and we all believe the history of that One God and his tormented lovers.  Can a  dream become retroactively true? 


Let's say it cannot become historically, materially true, in spite of what Quantum parallel universe theory so captivatingly tries to teach us old Newtonians.  Now then let your head float into the metaphysical beyond in the Land of the Forms.  Surely there that form does exist because we right readily see it in our worship.  Is it all imagination?  No, it is not all imagination or mere imagination.  In fact the imagination is not at all what the idealists make it out to me.  Things of our dreams exist.  And not just as shadows from our sub-conscious; there is no sub-conscious.   There are things we are currently not paying attention to, but which we do come to see.  The Forms are they.  They are real and they are strange.  Live with it.  The old monotheistic God and his boy-toy prophets impinge properly.




6359  Let's say you have done too many drugs and you are now a paranoid schizophrenic.  You see things.  And hear things.  And feel things.  And strange people want to do strange things to you.  Maybe even your family.  It's an all-round scary situation.  Sometimes medication helps.  But there are bad side effects.  So now having remembered that you are an ontologist by the will of God you set out to assay the matter.  Or let's just say you have nightmares.  Hellish things you want to wake up from.


Yes, ontology.  So you are aware of a disheveled man, a particular x with property D and M and a horrible feeling, a particular y that has property H and F.  That is to say, you are aware of two ontologically complex objects, a man and a feeling.  There is nothing nightmarish or mad about a disheveled man, therefore it is the horror that you must look at.  The problem is that it isn't just horror by itself, but the unity of a disheveled man and the horror.    And, even more worrisome, the unity of horror and you.  It creeps and slithers and oozes all over and through you (maybe in the form of a man).  Some sort of nexus is giving you difficulty.  One or many nexus have joined elemental things and joined all that joining to your awareness.  Good luck.  My suggestion is that you put your mind on God and contemplate forcefully.  It works for me.  I know nightmares.


(I'm here going to guess what I would do if I had intractable waking visions.  When I had migraine headaches and the pain would not go away, I went to the center of my existence where they didn't exist.  Then I was at a place where the pain surrounded me and I could feel it, but at the same time I was away from it.  A lovely place as long as I could maintain and didn't fall away.)


So here's my ontological analysis of bad things.  They exist as exemplified universals, just as all other good and neutral things do.  And nexus abound.  Ontology doesn't help in making your escape.  The only thing I know of that does is God.  And if someone tells me that God doesn't exist I just roll my eyes and wonder how he managed to led such a safe life. 




6360  The difference between a good dancer and a great dancer is that a good dancer makes it look so easy, while a great dancer is taken over by the impossible.  So, was Jesus a good dancer or a great one?  If the former, then he was teacher of enlightened morality, one who upheld the divine order, and preached the discipline of love.  Such a Jesus is a supreme rationalist.  If the latter, then he performed miracles.


I have written up the miracle worker.  In the twinkling of an eye everything is transformed.  I glance about and then the shattering.  It all comes undone.  The pieces are strewn across the night sky of Awareness and I am that.  Incorruptible fragments of what was time.  Flame-like gems on the cheek of this familiar/unfamiliar god.  I shutter.  And the Arm.




6361  Our world has logical form.  Or I could say that our world follows the forms of logic.  All the ontological pieces must be put together in just the right way and no other.  That is what is called (onto-) logical necessity.  What is the ground of that "just the right way", of proper logical form?  Our world and indeed any possible world beyond our poor imagination has that same structure.  It is built in.  That, of course, is not to say that everywhere within the godhead that same structure "holds sway".  Outside of "this world and all possible worlds" other structures may rule or maybe no such force is there at all.  Nonetheless, for us here, in all our thinking, logical form and its laws, as written up in two dollar logic books, impinges mightily.  That is Ananke.  For us there is no getting around that most august thing.  Live with it.


The ground of logical form as we are aware of it is a form, an existing thing.  Forms come and go; that one is stuck rather hard in this place.  And it isn't a projection of mind; it is out there.




6362  Could we dig around in this very world and find a place where logical form doesn't rule?  I have no idea – maybe.  I suspect, though, it would appear as madness.  Or love.  Or philosophy.  Or God.  Or all those at once.  A more likely idea, it strikes me, is that that non-logical place is a place outside this place, not deep within it.  Transcendence, not profound immanence.  Still, who knows?


Let's say it is transcendence, if transcendence there be.  I want to say that because I don't much like things hidden "within".  Everything is out in the open!  Even the Openness of the open.  Or whatever.  Logical form makes a world, but unworlds also exist.  Great Window Displays of loose, very loose, ontological gems.  A night out on the Great White Way.  Nothing, nothing at all.  Heartbreak.  Robot boys.  Exquisite ravishment.  Sublime destruction.  Nothing.  Contemplative heat from the heads of lonely old men.  And the boys still hiding within them.  Soon the vessels will shatter and … avert your pretty eyes, my dear.  He's coming.




6363  Aestheticism is a vision of beauty as a cover for the grotesque.  Of loveliness as a cover for agony.  Of the thrill as a coverlet for boredom.  It is the dandy, an aging man trying on youthful style.  A gold bejeweled ring on a bony finger.  A corset over a sagging stomach.  Underpants for the incontinent.  It is the shudder of approaching death momentarily delayed by the memory of a boy's complexion.  A very narrow smooth line hides all the entangled tendrils of mucus and fat.  The scalp peels under brilliantly dyed fake hair.  And the gentle smile in the wheeze.  Remembrance of things past.  So exquisite encased in the casket of tears.  Then it is no more.


Right now that sleek plastic design you lay your hands on keeps your eyes from seeing their entrapment in metallic ganglia and soft ionic hair glistening with instantly decaying commands from the programmers afar.  Motley effervescence.  Beyond any simple idea.  Wolves in the night.  Not to worry, we are all being archived as fleshless code.  And we will be fine – as long as a semi-colon doesn't drop out and we become error message no. 6037.


The city council decided to beautify the poisonous, polluted river by planting vast beds of tulips along its bank.  At the same time I thought I might by some form-fitting jeans.




6364  If Aestheticism is a vision of beauty as a cover for the grotesque, then should we say that the grotesque is more real than the "mere" appearance that is beauty?  No.  Is the chthonic and the Dionysian more real that the Apollonian and the Sky?  No.  Is a complex material structure more real than its schematic in the engineer's mind?  Is an object fully realized and precisely determined down to its minutest part more real than the Idea so full of possibilities?  No.  In Truth the exposed Form away from all such specificity is more strikingly powerful on our innocent minds.  Simple elegance wins out every time.  The massively over-determined is far along the way toward entropic death.  The bare thing is what is so appealing.  Of course.  In the dark.




6365  One more element of Aestheticism comes through a statement in the Conclusion by Walter Pater, "To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life."  One soon burns out.


That could I suppose be taken as Nirvana, the blowing out of the candle, but it more often is simple ennui.  Or it is ravishment by beauty as happened to Michel in Gide's The Immoralist.  The boys and the desert images of North Africa did him in.  Everything was so very ephemeral.  So soon the present beauty faded.  And every morning a new flowering as though from nothing.  Then back to nothing.  The intensity was too much.  A narcotic.  Beauty is its disappearance.  Its freedom is entrapment.  One languishes.  And then what?


The desert is also where the great religious mystics were snared by God.  There was no escape.  He tied them up in flames of love.  And they became as burnt cinders.  Then dust blowing in the wind.  Everyday a new beauty.  Every day more fine residue.  The dew of divine ejaculation.


Is that gold in the refiner's fire?  There is, of course, no other answer possible.  But then one needn't even listen to the question.  And you probably shouldn't, so those others can leave.




6366  The difference between an angel and human beings is that humans are in time and have memory.  Records of every event are stored in the mind, in the body, in the world.  The records pile up in great unsightly tumors.  And they call for amendments and corrigenda.  An angel, however, is new every day and the freshness never leaves him.  No need to plan and make accommodation.  The day ends for him and he is totally finished along with it.  Then in the morning he is again at the first moment of life.


Philosophers will ask how we can say that it is the same one come again.  Just as they do ask the same about us here on earth.  Only we have records etched all across our faces. I could ask you who has the better fate, but angels have no fate; they just are and then they just aren't.  But are they one in all that coming and going?  Do they also ask such philosophical questions?  I am baffled by their beauty and our love of their scary vanishing.  Do they love?


Thus the Bible in its angelic form is a living being, fresh and new every day.  It is not a record of lost human time.




6367  That youth of ravishing beauty and dark paranoia has become for me an occasion for doing theology.  He wanted, and I think even now wants, to be the creator of worlds.  That, of course, puts him in the position of being God in relation to that world.  Then I come along and make a world in which he is one of the character actors.  This God is now, in my story, no longer the unseen beyond, but a visible presence.  He is in human form and seated at a table.  That is like God in visible human form and moving among those dancing sons of the prophets.  And here is the theological question: has God and that young author become an idol in his own creation?  Would saying that He and he are be occasion for divine outrage?  Apparently so.  That youth broke off communication.  But I am undeterred.


So is God an unseen, unthinkable, ineffable X even beyond existence?  Or is he a ravishingly beautiful youth present to his lovers?  Is he a curly-headed Boy, even that boy, on this Night of Power?  Those for whom such ravishment is too much will balk and run to the invisible, infinite absence.  But his presence is overwhelming to me.  And exquisitely precise.




6368  Scientism is under attack!  Science isn't thought to be bad, but when you attach the –ism it becomes a thing of evil intent.  Science studies the geometrical structures of the world.  The –ism part says that only those structures are real and all other properties are reflections of those structures in the mind or in experience or in our gross body's general befuddlement.  Wherever and whatever those unreal, merely secondary, qualities are, they are grounded in the reality of pure Space-Time geometry.  I must say that geometry is not only impressive, but it's intellectually fun.  Nonetheless, we must question this shoving of the secondary qualities into a place away from real existence.


Is color really unreal, even non-existent?  Is color not "out there" where we see it?  And sound.  And smell.  And fear.  And beauty.  And … on and on.  Are all those things only "in the mind"?  If so then idealism has won the philosophical battle.  Once again I point to T. P. Nunn  http://theplatonicprairie.com/T.P.NUNN.pdf


Pure a priori Mathematics, even the synthetic a priori of geometry, is totally perspicuous.  It is as clear crystal.  One looks right through it into our invisible God.  If that is scientism, then it is an antiseptic for thinking.  It is mystical theology.  It is the Muse in the glistening spring of the eternal mental waters.  All obscurity, all opacity, all heaviness is gone.  An intertwining in the strands of divine emptiness.  (Of course, they can express it with much more purity than that.)


Away from such deep purity we have mere decoration.  Our modern streamlined architecture with its minimalistic cleanness hates ornament.  Only geometry!  Only scientific papers written without art, without style, a plain, flat presentation of well-ordered fact.  All academic writing must have the perspicacity of mathematics.  Any sentence that calls attention to itself as beautiful is banished.  Only the mystical forgetting of writing is permitted.  Only pure emptiness.  Only the mathematical muse.  The eternal spring of clarity.


Why is scientism under attack?  Why is modern abstract (conceptual) art under attack?  I suggest that it isn't really.  T. P. Nunn is not having his day.


I think a good example of non-scientistic, non-mathematical, self-referential, obscurely narcissistic writing is mine.  Perhaps a writing with evil intent, surely a writing intent on seduction.  Aestheticism!(?)  That is the opposite of scientism.  Not Culture and courses in the humanities.




6369  There is the plain style of writing and then there is the classical style.  The former writes up that common wisdom we all have of the everyday, the ordinary, the sensible and obvious.  When it becomes insistent it is the harsh style.  We might call it the democratic style.  Opposite that is the aristocratic style.  That latter is the plain style after it has been subjected to nuanced thinking.  Thus it is subtle.  And feels more refined.  Which means it can never be harsh and insistent.


Plain philosophy is nominalism, a philosophy that insists on the everyday.  Classical philosophy is Platonic realism, anything but the everyday and the ordinary.  Nonetheless, there is a sense in both that one must be receptive to what is immediately before the gaze outward.  One is luscious and broad; the other is delicate and precise.  One chooses whom one is in love with accordingly. 




6370  I remember that he was ravishingly beautiful, but I can only see now in my mind a few black curls and a black triangle made by his T-shirt at the top of a light blue shirt that lay around his gentle shoulders.  The truth is that if I happened onto him in the street I probably wouldn't recognize him.  But I remember he was ravishingly beautiful.


He told me not to write of him any more in my blog.  He played his hand wrong.  If he had really wanted me to stop he would have let me get to know him thoroughly and that would have broken the spell.  Now, because only a hint remains he looms large.  And I have no choice but to write.  Strangely, I had mentioned to him just that phenomenon.  Of how a glimpse of a narrow patch of skin, of a hurried flash as someone went around the corner, of a nod, how that was too intense and the mind would be captured.  That is now him.  And I write.  And of course the paranoia he said he was writing into a play.




6371  I write of God incessantly.  I write of a direct experience of God.  What is that?  What is a direct experience of God?  One feels the spirit of God move.  A shudder, a tingle, a shock.  You may not want to call that God, but, if you know what I mean, then you must call it something.  I call it God.  It is no more than that.  But it is enough to stir a world into being.  And to undo it completely.


Have I written up God?  That would be impossible.  But the spirit may move in my words.  At times.  Then again at other times not.  τ πνεμα που θέλει πνε κα τν φωνν ατο κούεις, λλ’ οκ οδας πόθεν ρχεται κα πο πάγει· οτως στν πς γεγεννημένος κ το πνεματος.  (the spirit breathes where it wants, and you do not know where it comes from and where it arises, such is all that  be-comes from the spirit)




6372  I have lately been reading a lot about the early Hebrew religion, my religion.  That early God, El, was so very different from the liberaled out nice God of today.  Today I was reading about child sacrifice.  It was obviously done in the name of YHWH, though it was later said that God never ordered it or approved of it.  Still, that and mass killing and ecstatic phallic dances and The Fury all were a part of that religion, my religion.  How are we to think of that today?


In the Iliad, Achilles is a killer.  The Killer par excellence.  The erotic hero.  I imagine that all religion then was meant to turn young men into killers – and the killed.  I am now thinking of WWI.  All those beautiful young men dead in the trenches.  So much excruciatingly lovely poetry was written then about that.  The heart breaks.  Sacrifice.  That is our God.  We are talking unbearable love here.  And the devastatingly beautiful dead.  My turning prose is my phallic dance.  My abstractions are the sacrificial dismemberment.  The child in school learning grammar is his death.  I guess not much has changed.




6373  In religious thinking today the Goddess is replacing God.  Or at least she is said to be.  There is, though, some confusion about just what the nature of that goddess is.  In talking about this I will mostly follow Camille Paglia.  In the minds of her current devotees, she has, on the one hand, become a gentle, caring motherly sort, tolerant of all her children, a welcoming nest.  On the other hand, she is delicate light, the rosy dawn, simple playfulness.  She is a golden-haired glamorous beauty with creamy skin and luscious lips, rather like a model out of a glossy magazine or a fantasy drawing.  Yet another image, and this is closer to the ancient view, is that she is the dark, hidden, watery depths.  She is mystery, And farther out still, she is slightly, and more than slightly, mad.   Those last images are more ancient and the beautiful, glossy, fantasy image is really the watery depths in boyish drag.  It's all very confusing.


The difference shows up rather clearly, I think, in the difference between the English words feminine and female.  The former is pretty and smooth and full of light.  The latter is the dark, watery, bloody machinery of the womb.  Light vs. dark,  shifting waters.  There are certain gay boys who are very good at being feminine, but, because of their thin, hard physique, simply cannot pull off the undulating female.  They can certainly do playfulness, but not heavy-breasted, rolling-hipped, deep nesting.  These boys are in fact boys, not soft water sacs.


So, this new goddess that is advancing, is she the fairy goddess of the dawn or the heavy, dark goddess of the murky depths?  I think most males still find that second one to be just too threatening.  The hidden underworld is not their devotion.  What most of her male devotees today really like is her boyishness.  Real lovers of the female woman do not turn her into a glamorous, skinny rock star idol.  They are not of the Age of Aquarius.




6374  Our God, Elohim, seems in his ancient Hebrew manifestation to be way too violent for our taste.  Or is he?  I contend that we have far outdone our ancestors in violence and death.  Cold blooded killing.  And in that I am not talking about war and street crime, all of which is hot-blooded, but the simple study of grammar.  Rip that kid out of his mother's arms and put him in that monastic setting called elementary school!  Discipline him for years.  Hang him on the schematics of computer logic.  Dismember him and his world into rule-based stochastic, syntactical permutations.  Turn him into an angelic algorithm.  Immortalize him in the quantum fire.  Make him be the ionic dawn.  So very pretty.  So very hard.


It's all great fun.  Virtual sex.  Sizzling pixels.  Smooth eye candy.  Dandy, randy, dazzling computer generated perfection.  The Age of Aquarius is at hand.  In your hand.  Under your bed crawling in last night's left-over food of the gods.  Manna. But not to worry.  More, ever more, appearings out of nothing.  God is ingressing from His hungry Eternity.  The Charism.




6375  I write philosophy, the philosopher and his boy, even the Boy.  It is Philosophy itself that is present and impinges on the mind.  The old philosopher stands firm and is undone.  The boy and the Boy swirl in confusion.  The rod makes it all stand still.  Form exacts.  A new thing never before seen.  Now it is Seen.  A prodigy.


Away from the conversationalists, into prayer.  A prayer to the ancient cultic Orgy.  The God of blinding remembrance.  The one before whom his followers spin in holy, deadly virtue.  The boys of precision and circumcision.  The cut into doubled vision.  Order is maintained.


The question comes as to whether this is good or an evil thing.  Or not.  I am writing high fashion, a dandified laying out of the systems analyst's toilet.  No one is listening.  Silence.  The boulevard is empty.  Les Flaneurs are aflame at home.  The rain is gasoline.  In the vasoline.  And prostate pain.  Only words.  The boy is slightly amused.  The music flays on.  The old guy will buy a tie and socialize.


Well, yes, God is the inevitable Lover.  The logic is tight.  The boy's bite makes Him  rabid.  My words are up against the real.




6376  Let me explain in a little more detail just what I mean by a thought.  I doubt you are going to find many who agree with me, more probably none.  Take the thought "I hope he comes to see me this evening".  That's English, but of course the very same thought could be expressed in countless other languages.  I think it is obvious that that same thought has been thought by innumerable minds all over the earth for a very, very long time.  In fact it has probably been thought in countless worlds all over the universe - and maybe beyond.  So is that thought one and the same entity appearing as tied to zillions of particulars?  Yes, the thought exists; it is from eternity.  Let me emphasize that the thought is one thing.  It is exemplified by many, many particulars.  Some of which are scattered across worlds.  Thus the thought in itself is a universal.  A timeless, placeless thing.  I at times am an  exemplification of just that thing.  I think there is great room for dreams and the imagination in all that.  Maybe twisted, hard dreams.  I  think one has to really screw up his imagination to imagine it.  And then the imagination will probably fail.  Oh well, it's just a thought I had about thoughts.




6377  Just as a thought (which is a simple thing, i.e. it has no parts) is ex-pressed in a complex, i.e. a part-replete, spoken/written sentence even in so many babbling languages (a sort of a one-many mapping), so a simple Form is ex-pressed (or expresses itself) in a complex structure.  For example the Form of Chariot is that fancy structure over there and there and there and there.  We must not confuse an extended (in space or time) structure with the timeless, placeless Form.  I'm sure you don't, Honey, because you probably think a Form is a concept (which it isn't) and no one ever tried to get in and ride a concept.  I will not even mention the difficult question of whether or not a structure is a universal – that is called paralipsis and occultatio.  I love italic letters.  Maybe Whitehead was right when he said that Forms ingress into bare happenings.  Let your imagination run wild!  It will make up for the fact that you are probably a sedate, boring scholar.  Oh my, so many questions now arise.  That's the fun of philosophy.




6378  So how does the philosophy of simple Forms expressing themselves into complex, extended structures fit with science?  It fits just fine, but it does not go down so well with witless, scientistic know-it-alls at all.  —— Here is where I'm supposed to present a cogent, respectful academic defense of my idea.  It ain't gonna happen.  One has the philosophy that fits one's groin.  I'm aiming for the purely sexual.  Gay Gary.  Do I hear a sigh for the madness of love?  Real Platonic love.  Not that sweet, close friendship stuff that it's being passed off as.  (Is it right to turn a two-word verb into the passive form?)  Ah yes, the passive form.  One ultimately finds what one ultimately wants.




6379  Today so many philosophers are in love with the simulacrum.  The pure simulacrum.  A copy of a copy of a copy, finally a copy of nothing at all.  These guys are in love with the emptiness of it all.  The nothing coming out of the nothing.  Is something hidden there?  Well, no.  Only the hiding itself.  The empty hidenness hiding an empty nest.   It that the great goddess there beckoning her lovers?  I say, go for it; but I'm outta here.  Uncertainty, loving what you hate, failure, impotence, bowing before the castrator — it definitely not my thrill.


So what about drag queens?  Are they fake, simulacrastic women?  It depends on the one dragging.  Everything can be taken two ways.  The question is whether or not everything can be taken two ways at once.  You know what they say—fem on the streets, butch between the streets.  I know that's not really relevant, but I wanted to write it anyway.  Drag queens are great fun.




6380  I have here written up a philosophy of isolated Forms.  That isolation means that they are not Saussurean.  I do not say that a Form is what it is only in so far as it stands in relation to what it is not.  The Form exists … period.


The universal does not need the particular.  The particular does not need the universal.  The tie that connects universal to particular, making a fact, needs neither universal nor particular … and, most certainly, none of  those is a mere "abstraction" away from fact.  Nor are fact and facticity dependent on so-called constituents.  This is the radical isolation of existents.  Such isolates are Things.


Aside from all these ontological things there are ordinary objects and acts of everyday life.  Those ordinary things are themselves absolutely different from philosophical things and to try to reduce ontological things to ordinary things is a complete failure.  Philosophy is not commonsense science.


Still, in spite of that complete separation of the Forms from the everyday some people are possessed by things from that other world of philosophy.  They try to express what they feel, but they can't.  They are mad.  Erotically deranged.  The children of God.  I suspect that those some people are really all.  Human beings are strange.


That Strangeness is the appearing of the Other within the ordinary.  How can that be?  The ontologically impossible.  Horripilation and an incarnation.  Twisted thinking.  Eros by himself.




6381  Consider the verb to ripple.  That infinite names a Form, a Platonic Form as I use the word.  It is a thing.  It is an existent.  It is tied to water when there is a lake.  Or when water is standing in a bucker.  Water ripples – sometimes.  Such a Form is an eternal thing—of course.  Therefore it doesn't depend for its existence on anything else.  Nor does the nexus that unites it to a this or that that is also tied to the Form of Water.  The Nexus is an eternal thing.  And the fact that this water is rippling is, ontologically, also an eternal thing.  So where is time?  Ontologically speaking, change and time don't exist.  Therefore, ontology is not of the everyday, which naturally changes in time and disintegrates and disappears.  The ontological vision is other.


Nonetheless, at times when we are quietly contemplating a lake (but maybe not a bucket) we are struck by something eternal.  We then seem to "see" into the Other.  It a magical vision that soon departs.  Poets try, sometimes half successfully, to capture it, but then the poem itself ceases to ripple and it's gone.


Should we say that water is sometimes possessed by Rippling?  Possession is a lovely idea.  Sometimes.  And it too is a Thing.




6382  Let's say you are an artist, a creative type.  Or let's say you are cleaning out the garage.  Or that you are trying to make your way through a novel.  You start the task of moving from beginning to a successful end.  But you really have no idea just what path you will follow or what obstacles you will find on the way.  It will be work.  Exertion.  Effort.  Tension.  You will be tired when it's over.


I think a good example of work is sex.  That seems to be work par excellence.  It reaches a definite end.  Or at least it aims to.  And it is constantly stopping and starting and changing course.  It is rather jerky.  Then it is suddenly finished.  I think it is that jerkiness, that jumping from one thing to another, that stop and go, that is the form of work.  When that is done well, then success.  But of course, it must stay within bounds.  And it is that bounded constant/inconstant variation that is the rhythm one wants.  Then the finished product, which you can usually clean up rather quickly.  Work is an eternal Form.  It is a Thing. And we are at times taken by it.  And when we reach the point of no return, it is the rapid precipitate and then gone.  Your perfect joy of no consequence.




6383  Should we say that the world of ordinary things is the dry cake left behind after the spirit wind of existence passes?  Or ashes after the fire.  Or a precipitate much as atomic particles appear in the cooling of the Big Bang.  It's a rather popular idea today in philosophy to see our everyday world as fallen and dead.  And it's a rather pretty idea.  And maybe true.  But so what?


How do we jump up into the Ur-entities?  What should we do with this everyday boredom?  After we die, then what?  Another left-behind fire pit?  Desire becomes a wet leg and nothing more.  Perhaps meditation.  Perhaps extreme fear.  Or love—which is the same thing.  Or what?  I write.  No, I am taught to say the writing (or the infinite form – to write) writes through me and I and the finished product vanish.  Maybe so.  So what?


After the world, the fiery deluge.  Not Deleuze.  He was just a coagulation.  The Boy finally swept him off his feet.  With the broom Genet. 




6384  Just as Red and Green are both Colors, so Exemplification and Intentionality are both Nexus.  Color and Nexus are higher universals and thus things aside from their specific types.  A person can be obsessed with Color.  Or Nexus.  Or any one of the Myriad of universal Forms.  Then everything he does, every object around him, will be a clinging expression of That.  Color colors nothing.  Nexus connects nothing.  The Forms, the eternal Things, just are.  In isolation.  In splendid self-existence.  Even Existence itself.  The mind is ravished.




6385  In my philosophy a thing is what it is and it is not dependent on its other in order to find its (transcendent?) being in some sort of marriage.  I am  here going against the opposite philosophy of interdependence.  As I see it my philosophy is not dependent on that philosophy in order to be, though I surmise that that philosophy may have to feel itself dependent on mine—but it probably doesn't.  Logic only goes so far then stops.  Or what? 


Is true existence the union of opposites?  No.  Existence is just existence.  A thing, an ontological Form, exists just fine in itself without its other.  So what about love?  A lover always says he finds his very being in the one he loves.  Is he mistaken?


No, he is not.  It is there too.  Let's say you are made out of desire and you find another beautiful one also made out of desire, then, because desire is desire, you find what you are in that one also.  And just as he exists with existence in him, so do you with the same existence.  What is in you is in him.  You have found your very being in him—also.  Granted, that's not the complementarity those others were after, but that's for them to figure out.  I've found the thought I wanted.




6386  A materialist is one who believes that all our dreams and visions have a material ground, which is to say that they are neural snaps with an ever-evolving biological purpose.  I of course, not being a materialist, think dreams and visions exist without this biological un-ground, which, as I see it, is only momentarily along for the ride.  So, given that, what do I think of the stories of the Bible?  As far as I can tell, archeology can take us back to only about the ninth century BC.  Before that there is no material record for those stories.  I think a clue as to what it all means is to be found in people called the Sons of the Prophets, bene-hanaviyim.  In the book of Samuel, they appear to have been a charismatic band of whirling dervishes.  Ecstatic rapture.  A spiritual orgy.  I also suspect that their God was a phallic war god.  This all takes place on "the high places", before agriculture and city life arrived and the need for a fertility goddess.  Anyway, it seems to me that in those early stories leading up through the reign of David, we are being presented with a vision from out of spinning ecstasy.  This is a religion vision, not a historical record.  A rapturous vision of a rather violent people of the wastelands.  Now then, you can believe in visions as non-material reality or you can say they are the workings of a disordered nervous system.  It's your choice.  I believe the objects seen in visions – and the seeing - exist with their own  existence.  The problem with my view is that many of those visions are horrible.  We must seek safety.




6387  Let's suppose I am right about the great, early Old Testament stories being grounded in the ecstatic visions of the "sons of the prophets".  Such visions are usually rather sparse in determinate content, if there is any at all.  Therefore, as I see it, later story tellers would have to fill in.  And even later redactors would take the stories and use them for political purposes.  Nonetheless, they remain groundless in the material world. 




6388  There are those who want to point to certain "clean" porno sites as examples of today's estimation of the ideal body.  I want to relate what I see there to my own understanding of the Platonic Idea, the eternal Form, in this case, The Boy.  Let me compare what is usually there to the Kritios Boy.  Also let me use the Kritios Boy as an attempt to make the Platonic Form visible.  There is quite a difference between that iconic thing and those porno dudes.  First a Platonic Form must be totally without any human specificity, or as close as plastic art can come.  It must be without any trace of personal character.  No individuality, no unique markings at all.  It cannot have history or be embedded in a worldly context.  It must not show any sign of life at a particular time and place.  It must be totally generic with all the blandness that that word indicates.  All of which means he/it must be empty-headed, a moron.  It must approach the dullness of pure matter.  Those guys on those sites seem to me like real people with individual personalities, someone you could have  lunch  with after posing for pictures.  Granted in their pictures they look photoshopped and cropped and propped up, but they look real  enough.  I suppose we could describe them with the hackneyed English word idealized, but they are not the Platonic Idea.  A real Platonic Idea or Form would be much scarier, even lifeless and totally without personal character, rather like all Greek art. 


An artistic attempt at visualizing a Platonic From would end up being a Religious Icon or idol, a rather creepy thing, again rather Greek.  I do think that there are times in the world when we think we catch a glimpse of such a deathly image and it does have something erotic about it.  Perhaps a guy on stage or Andy Warhol's Marilyn Monroe with gold/yellow hair, which has the look of a Greek Orthodox icon.  It is totally strange and speaks of death.  All those images of Marilyn delete the look of a real, living person.  She becomes a generic unworldly something.  His electric chair images also.  Even Andy himself with his show of being a moron somewhat has that uncanny feel and now that he's dead, he's even more like a religious icon.  All of which is very different from those real-life, white college boys on today's porn sites. 




6389  Imagine two males.  One full of desire; one desired.  Desire is hunger.  The one wants to maw the other.  Love is mawkish and maudlin.  It is nauseating.  That is χαρις.  The charisma of lust.  From the gullet down to the anus.  It is a solitary act.


Aristotle says that all men reach for knowing.  That reaching, that erect projection toward the object.  That act.  That lustful wanting.  Here is the unsightliness of one committing the philosophical crimem.  The sifting, the crisis.  The silent stare.


The one who desires has desire written across his face.  Hormones churn, pustules pop, the foul odor.  The desired looks askance.  Where is God?


God is desire and the desired.  An impossible unity.  A hideous luster.  It never  stops.


Those who think desire disappears into the smooth, beautiful nothingness of death are hoping that in God the dancers are reconciled.  But in God there is only more.  The jolt and the jerk  of  life is that.   Or what?




6390  Today so many philosophies and so much literature is a dwelling on death.  Therefore, we are still in a time of the death of desire.  Desire is God.  I suppose man has been trying to kill desire for a long, long time.  The desired thing inevitably turns out to be a fraud.  But how can we accept the death of desire, death itself, we who are made out of desire?


Eros is the one who does not possess—except that the One is almost at the point of his arrow.  And the desired one must evince a touch of that horrible not-having himself.  The beautiful one finds his own beauty to be other.  He learns to desire himself.  And then beauty leaves and he smells death not far off.


To finally be and not to want is the end.  To be an existing thing.  To forget reaching.  To have it so close as to be it and then oblivion.  Well, as you can see we are a tangled dialectic.  Death is a worry; in the end it is nothing.  The nothingness itself.  But there is no itself there.  Death remains forever elusive.  There is no death.  Only desire.  Forever.  But can desire become Desire?  Can we become one with God?  It's a fearful thought.


Is God Desire for Desire?  He hovers over the Boy, the inseminated, God from God.  Himself.  The Boy looks at Himself in infinity and creates a world of fun-house mirrors.  The Mirror.  He preens.  Desire.  For Himself.  Narcissus.  An entanglement leading us to inevitable chaos.  We are that.  Philosophy and literature spy on themselves in the deep pool of thought.




6391  Philosophy is phenomenological.  That is to say, it examines and describes the layout of what presents itself before the mind's eye. At certain places, though, in our looking we see something that makes no sense.  Something is there that is unthinkable.  Phenomenology fails.  It is there that we see God.  Or so philosophy has said for millennia.


For example, the see an object change.  It first displays one property and then another.  In order to avoid contradiction we say that at one moment of time it is such and such and at another it is so and so.  The problem is that we see no such things as moments of time that objects are at.  We see only relations of before and after. We do not want to say, sans moments, that the object is both before and after itself.  We "feel" that something endures, maybe even lives, throughout change, but we see nothing.  Phenomenology fails.  Or we see a room full of furniture that we know well.  Then we imagine that room, not only with no one in it, but with no one imagining it later.  Yes, that is a blatant contradiction.   The room seems ghostly.  And then there are the paradoxes and irrationalities of mathematics, with which we are, not only now very familiar, but are quite uncannily able to manipulate.  And then there is the distinction between a thing and its existence, which, again, is a distinction we know precisely, but which is not there yielding to our phenomenological examination.  And finally for now, there is the complex—all the world's objects are complexes—that is nothing aside from all the pieces that compose it.  The complex is not a thing; it is quite literally no thing, nothing.  But we think it right well in its phenomenological absence.  In all these cases we think the unthinkable and I have written the ineffable and the existence of the non-existent is evident without evidence.  Something really screwy is going on—and that is God.  God is the failure of philosophy, though many will angrily feel that they can fix it up and He will be gone.




6392  Performativity and citationality/iterability are among the latest attempts to overcome the arbitrary, dispiriting rule of the Platonic Forms.  Modern philosophy wants to free the human mind/soul from God and the Essences.  But then again that isn't really modern; it has been going on, it seems, forever.  God/Being and the Forms have been controlling us oppressively for a long, long time.  The only ones who don't mind are those who actually like the subjugation of Love's tyranny, but we can forget them out there forsaken on the lonely desert of sighs.


Instead of mirroring an Essence, individuals now perform again and again and again all those thousands of little gestures that make them into beings that belong to a certain privileged group.  Take for instance the Scholar.  How do we know he really is a scholar?  What makes him so?  Look at him and listen to him.  Even smell him and touch him.  He performs like a scholar.  He dresses, smiles, sits, intones his words, eats, walks, hesitates, reads the proper books, journals, magazines, snidely remarks, crudely dismisses, hopefully sighs, fingers his old cup of coffee and casually wipes up all those misadventures with his plate—every movement is precisely choreographed.  Somehow we know exactly what those gestures are and should be.  And we are all critics of how well he plays his part.  The world's a stage and we are all but actors on it.  But of course most of us are bad actors and we are mere extras.  Performing over and over again is a dreary, brutal business that most of us are not so good at.  How, Oh how, will we now ever free ourselves of all those masses of critics?  One tyranny has been traded for another.


So, here I am a Platonist with an oppressive God of Erotic Love.  I'm trapped, but I rather like it.  I bend to the Form of the Boy and Love and Form itself.  What do I think of those other performers going on stage every hour of the day and night?  To tell the truth, I prefer to hang out with the extras who never made it.  And I find the critics downright laughable.  I laugh.  Yes, the boys left standing outside in the alley are my prey.  They have the freedom of the streets.  Caught now in life's terror.  Performativity/iteration/citation be damned.  Love's torture is for me.  The night is long and scintillating.  And the Tiger's glistening eyes.




6393  Last time I mentioned the boys of the street, the ones who fail at being good actors on the stage of Imperial life.  I said that that is where I find the Forms, the Eternal Essences, the Platonic Dream.  Such a paradise!  An enclosed garden.  The Lovers' Banquet.  Where is it?  Is it really in the American City?  It is in the imagination of every lost boy out on the streets of that land of dreams.  It is pure literature, the ancient place away.  And of course it is the perfect grace of transcendent hopelessness.  It is hunger, the charisma.  It is nowhere.


The nominalism of brutal performativity and the attempt at citation by those who can't remember their lines is the so-called real world, that demanding material Mater.  Platonism is a poet/philosopher's dream.  But what are we to think of dreams?  Are they of real, or rather, Real Things?  The nominalist, the one who has felt so oppressed by love, wants them to be sheer fantasy, nothings in the spirit wind of it never was.  The faux-poets and philosophers-manqué   help him out.  To think that they are Real is, not pretty madness, but criminal insanity.  So I go on my way, a believer.  An agent of terror.  When I'm gone others will arrive.


The wheel turns.  On the stage of Heaven, nominalists are the failures outside the backdoor.  Is there anyone who will love them?  I suspect there are many.  But the love will be unthreatening, just as they want.  Compassion. 




6394  Today's anti-Platonic pushers of performativity and iteration began in the court of Richard Wagner with a rather effeminate, mincing young scholar named Friedrich Nietzsche, just my type.  He loved mightily what he thought was a grand display of Dionysian revelry.  He was an Opera freak.  Just like so many young subdued flamers.  And like so many other queer-tending ephebes he fell in love with the Master himself.  But the master and his conniving wife Cosima used them, or rather subjugated them, made them gophers for their monied concerns, especially our proto-zarathustra.  It was ten years before he escaped.


Why was Nietzsche so in love with the theater of the Ring?  With its high immorality?  Why are so many just like him—maybe me?  Why have those who worship mere appearance now taken center stage?  Or have they?  Have the Sophists, those with the appearance of wisdom, won out over those with true wisdom?  I too love appearance.  In fact, I say appearance is the real.  Have I in saying that undone the whole intellectual, spiritual scaffolding? Must the difference between appearance and reality be maintained in order to feel the daring attempt and temptation?  Indeed, Nietzsche himself said that in the last movement of the philosophical cycle, at high noon of thought, with the disappearance of real would come the vanishing of appearance.  Those who now preach performativity want to assert its unreality in order to be free of it.  I say the performance is real.  I have not played my part well in their theater of academic know-it-all-ness.  And what about the god Dionysius?




6395  The god Dionysius and philosophical intoxication.  Rich extravagance.  The reverie of the shy boys.  Titillation over a simple contrast.  Paradox as mind-blowing.  The subtle, elegant swoon.  Death to the world.  Negligible.  Our God of the fine gaze.  The Big Bang and the unthinkable diagonal in play.  The Black Hole as a moment's lapse.  Collapse in naïve love.  The knave is plastic.


The most world-destroying is the easily overlooked.  A rich tapestry on the smooth complexion around his well-rounded thigh.  He walks home slowly in the dark.  The stars are oblivious to his memory of those sparkles in that other boy's eyes.  And the moon is nothing compared to his.  Oh moon-faced boy you, I'm afraid, are trapped in sometimes bad literature.  We have read you seemingly forever.  Are you real?  Or only among the Real?  A poisonous thought and our salvation.  The bowstring is tight.  And the drawstring of your nightshirt is loose.  Dionysius awaits around every corner of your little town.  In the electrical transformer on a shadowy up-reaching pole.  You are the soul of our eternity.  My thoughts reel.  God and his prophets dance.  The preacher's son is waiting for you.  In his new tight pants.




6396  1 Kings 4:32 When Elisha reached the house, there was the boy lying dead on his couch. 33 He went in, shut the door on the two of them and prayed to the Lord. 34 Then he got on the bed and lay on the boy, mouth to mouth, eyes to eyes, hands to hands. As he stretched himself out on him, the boy’s body grew warm. 35 Elisha turned away and walked back and forth in the room and then got on the bed and stretched out on him once more. The boy sneezed seven times and opened his eyes. 


What is translated as "sneezed" above is hilariously wrong.  The boy ejaculates.  Elijah by means of the phallic power of God brought the boy back to life.  Today he would be arrested.  It is the same act and the same power that brought Jesus back to life in the tomb.  The Same God lay on top of him.  It's all rather creepy.  At least for the modern mind.  I suspect it was for the ancient mind as well, but they were, it seems, more willing to let it be.  The holy, if tolerated, will make you hair stand on end.  God sex and returning from the dead.  Even our darkest of tales will insist at the end of the story that it really didn't happen, but it was only a bad dream.  I think not.




6397  There are natural things growing from out of a common source.  And there are supernatural things that just are.  Nature is pedigree, provenance, lineage, race and nation.  In nature an object, an event, is a gathering of many disparate forces.  The object has its being in the many other things colluding.  One can search out and delineate the line of descent.  The improbable happens.  Supernature is different.


Above nature there is no such derivation. No river of life flows.  No bloodline and extraction.  There are no stories to tell of a folk.  Each thing is unique.  It exists only from itself.  No gathering and growing.   No community.  Only existence.


There are those who deny that the supernatural exists.  They insist that everything must be amenable to explanation through cause and effect.  They will show you the mathematics of deduction that leads out from a simple, but unknown, source.  Everything grows.   The river of derivation flows.  All theorems evolve from the most worthy axioms.  No need for the Thing-by-itself.


In the natural world there is an ordering.  It is the ordinary, not the extraordinary.  The supernatural is a hyper ex-aggeration, a pretty acting out and a childishly insolent acting up.  But no such abrupt impossible marvels are required, only the as yet unknown.  Nature loves to hide in the labyrinth.


But the angels are unmoved.  They see no coming to be.  No pathway from out of a source.  No dark maze.  The theorems cannot be derived.  You can't get there from here.  Only the sudden shift.  Things are just as they appear to be.  Nothing more.




6398  I am far from being an expert of any kind on literature, but it seems to me that the supernatural I described in my last post is not at all the same as described in fantastic literature.  There the supernatural is a yet undiscovered force within the natural.  Things happen that are impossible given our present understanding.  Therefore, some other laws must be at work.  That is the easiest end to the story.  Another ending is to think that we have all the laws we need, but a highly improbable, yet theoretically possible, state of affairs set the story going.  Science needs both laws and initial states.  In any case it all remains within the natural.  No transcendent, timeless beings are required.


Heraclitus said that Nature loves to hide.  There are all manner of secret labyrinths within it.  Dark rhizomes.  Chthonic mash.  Nonetheless, it all works according to, sometimes arcane, law.  Things progress slowly, inexorable with or without purpose.  Process philosophies today abound.  Even chaos theory is a strange attractor.  The mysterious calls.


In the supernatural as I have described it, there is no progress or process, only eternal stillness.  There is no mystery, no hidenness, no dark quasi-intellectual maze.  Only the open, the seen, the perfectly known.  But most people find it boring and insipid.  It is plain, very plain, and without exaltation.  No gossip is possible, nor drama.  Only the blank, empty stare.  The final thing—That.  Is present.




6399  Le Comte de Lautreamont.  Isidore, the dear boy.  I love his writing.  It is of course impossible to say just what he's really trying to write.  Beautiful boys who suffer the world and God are scattered all throughout his Cantos.  He loves them beyond words.  In the words.  In his mouthing the words.  In his mouth.  Under their skin.  Jouissance.  Sans rougir.


The world is a vapid, horrible place.  Dying flesh is boring.  Crushed bodies are a nuisance.  Sweet beauty is fleeting (well, of course).  White bobby socks need to be washed.  Bobby made his mark.  Stark naked happenstance.  So he takes up writing and dreaming and becoming a tease to God, his creator.  A cockette.  He knows he's nothing more than one more exemplification of a very abstract, eternal form.  He's been that throughout infinity.  The same insolence.  The same come-and-get-me.  The same dulcet bad-ass please, Mister.  His lover God's hard delight.  Incorrigible.  Nasty pucker mouth.  Kisses like wine.  Like the wind.  Literary pain.  A stain on mankind's good name.


Why have the critics so kindly misunderstood and misvalued this Miss Taken-for-the-Night?  Misogynist.  Misanthrope.  Miscreant.  He doesn't fit into their accusing categories.  Nor have any of the other adolescent Uranian smart alecks. Divine eromenoi.   Masters of the tongue.  Frère Ducasse.




6400  Oscillation.  Isidore, dear unfortunate boy, Le Comte de Lautreamont, dances like a light beam.  On the one hand, he is so very upset by life and creation and therefore God.  And on the other, he laughs like Zarathustra in the joy of writing.  Content and form.  Form is his salvation from the strewn horrors of discontent.  L'auteur monstrueux.


It's not so hard to figure out his psychological state, but so what?  And it's also not so hard to figure the psychological state of those who think they are doing literary criticism on those impossible pages.  They try to turn this boy into a knowledgeable scholar.  He's more than that.  Much more.  He writes a truth they cannot look at.  It's much  too painful.  Like Jacob he is wrestling with God (and who knows  what else?).  This one so very much in love with boys like himself.  Well, who wouldn't be?


To read Frère Ducasse is to wave in the wind, back and forth, between laughing and crying.  Between style and his unseemly theme.  Between form and this malcontent. 




6401  Let me say right off the bat that I don't like Gothic anything.  Horror stories of any kind leave me filled with tedium.  Satanism is far too operatic for me.  I can only roll my eyes at H. P. Lovecraft and his big-word dictionary.  There is nothing at all in any of that that in the least bit leaves me with my hoped-for tingle of delightful fright.  I have indeed read critics going on and on about the nightmarishness of some author's darkly inspired words and I wonder just why it is that I don't see it and feel it at all. I guess my literary antennae are just not tuned in to the dark murmurs.  I am intimate with real nightmares, so of course I do love Lautreamont.  Isidore was a real writer of the real.  An extreme writer.  At the limit where the Gothic breaks down.  He's a blast to the head.


Monsieur Ducasse wrote and thought parody.  He pushed it.  If you take any idea too far it falls apart.  He took it even farther.  The Gothic and so much more were left in the ashes of his burning, fun-loving pen.  As for me, I travel the para-odos of immoderate philosophy.  No Gothic anything appears.  It is too fragile.  The opera closes.




6402  In the Bible there are two instances of the slaughter of the innocents.  One is in the Valley of Hinnom (Gahenna), where fiery child sacrifices took place until the time of Jeremiah and King Josiah and the other is when Herod had all children under two killed at the time of the birth of Jesus, O heavenly  sign of  rebirth.  Many religious people today are quick to try and separate the true People of God from those early rituals, but whatever the case child killing was to some degree a part of the early followers of Elohim.  The story of Abraham and Isaac dimly speaks of it.  And I suspect the early Sons of the Prophets in the time of Samuel used the noise of tambourines and drums to cover up the screams.  The Hebrew people of God were in fact themselves Canaanites, the supposed perpetrators of this act of horror, and the God El was common to them all.


That is also the God I now worship and I don't deny that he had a part in all of it.  The reason I don't is that the same thing is going on today and the same deity rules.  Witness the slaughter of youth in WWI.  Old men, the high priests of government, send boys off to war that blood might flow.  Every time it happens a new age is born.  Should we say that they and God are evil?  Yes, of course there is great evil in all of that,  but the goodness of God shines with a Glory that dims our vision and we are mesmerized by the Power of Being.


Considering all that, what are we to think of the curses and accusations Lautreamont threw at God?  What are we to think of his wanting to wallow in evil?  Has it all become just too much to think about?  We have left the pleasant afternoon with literature and entered hard existence, very hard.  Words mean exactly what they seem they mean.  Les flaneurs walking the high streets of elevated art flee.




6403  So said, do we still do child sacrifice today?  Yes, of course and we all love to hear about the torture and death of the beautiful and the young.  We say, "Oh, dear" and move on to the next exquisite shudder.  We pretend high moral revulsion but it's really the flames of pleasure revolving.  I remember the wonderful feelings of love I felt as a boy when day after day we read about men trying to rescue a boy who had fallen into a collapsing well.  I still swoon before those troublesome angels.  More than that, now I love to write it up.  Serpentine syntax is my delight.  The ancient God is still demanding our love.  The God of the Prophets eating his boys on the holy pyre.


Lautreamont learned writing from the non-linear Gertrude Stein.  Or are you unable to think that with your scholarly objectivity?  Isidore the pleasantly confused.  The boy dead in the Siege of Paris.  One more untimely death at the hands of the Germans.  Those Nordic boys have it all over us.  We wallow in their disseminating glances.  He prances.  France would like to have its hands all over Hans.  Sans merci.




6404  So now the sacrifice is accomplished: what should we do with the remains of the victim?  Well, obviously we will have to eat him.  That’s the way it's always been done.  Except now we are denied access to the sanctified flesh.  (We still can get a cold quickie, if it's Jesus.)  How shall we manage?  Well, there's always the imagination—that's popular now.  Or find a stand-in—maybe the boy down the street.  Jesus said, "Insofar as you do it to the least of these, you do it to me."  Eat it!  Or is that just too ridiculous?   And what about laughter?  Is there no room for a tickle in serious sacrifice?  What must the angels think!


Lautreamont thought the angels and the archangels were cute.  He loved their heavenly hair.  But he surmised that their Lord was a terror to be avoided.  That makes no sense.  That demanding Lord was The Most Cute.  The Ancient of Days, the August Creator of All, the All-Mighty, is push-you-back-against-the-wall Cute.  Consider the Big Bang.  And cosmic inflation.  And that radiant Crown.  Fly among the stars.  Read more books.  Hope.


I think what we should do is some non-linear thinking in order to circumvent that lack of access to the Anathema.  We should eat the boy before he becomes Victim in the fiery holocaust.  A proleptic providing.  Providential prevision.  In the elsewhere where time runs backwards.  Down your sweet fair cheek.  I manage; I eat.  Je mange; je mange.




6405  Is it theologically correct to say that God is cute?  That adjective comes from acute.  The root of which is √ak, which means sharp.  From that root we also get: edge, ear, acumen hammer, heaven, eager, acrimony, vinegar, acme, acne, acrobat, oxygen, paroxysm and exacerbate.  It's an intense, quick, piercing pain, as opposed to a chronic dull ache.  Should we say that the beauty of God is that?  It seems obvious to me that any experience of God longer than an instant would be deadly.  Therefore, yes, it is theologically correct to say that God is cute.  Very.  Oh, Honey!  Whoa.




6406  If you listen to scholars speculate about why ancient peoples performed human sacrifice, or any sacrifice for that matter, you will hear all kinds of theories about their trying to appease some god or ward off disaster or makes the crops grow.  They may even hint that there was an element of sadism in it.  Never once, however, do they mention that moment of religious ecstasy when God appears in Glory.  There's something about killing, especially the killing of a child, that generates transcendent, wild Joy.  It's too much for the politically-minded and the serious.  It's mad.  It's unthinkable.


When we today read of the Bacchic orgies, we usually remain lock-jawed at the prospect.  But no more so that when we contemplate outfitting a suicide bomber.  Life, real life out there outside our bubble, seems impossible.  Not here where every yard looks like a golf course.  And our children ravage their brains with drugs because they're bored.


 God exists and He is Desire.  The flesh is a dry grass in a prairie fire.  The high moralists who want to protect man and prove that no such thing exists falter before reality.  No one is listening.  The phallus rules.  Our God is pure goodness and happiness from the other side.


So what should we do in the face of than grinning Face?  It's being done without us.  I have my rented room and my coffee cup and I think thoughts coming from places I do not know.  As when Abraham received his murderous orders from that well-known cock-tease, his élan.




6407  Evil is banal.  All objects of desire are an illusion.  Those who lived through the high operatic myth of Nazism knew it was pedestrian.  Those who have been seduced by La Belle Dame are left alone and palely loitering.  Such is the teaching of the Buddha.  And the literature of the fantastic, the gothic, the romantic, promising transcendence, finally offers nothing but the ordinary.  The bleak and the hoary.  The warmed-over.  The God who is Desire vanishes without a trace.


Buddhism, with its mind-numbing mantras and dancing lights, its assurances that Nirvana is right around the corner away from your conceptualizing mind, proffers an emptiness that one slowly realizes is empty.  Non-being is just non-being.   Your escape from the something into the nothing leaves you with nothing.  You shot yourself in the head.


Buddhism is desire for the end of desire.  In the killing sacrifice one wants to kill the killing.  Illusion is the only reality.  The banal is smooth infinity.  The pedestrian is his well-formed foot gently walking on top of your head.  The negligible abounds.  Vertigo and bondage.  Or so one may sweetly surmise.


I write the eternal Forms.  Bare and like down on the cheek of night.  A sigh.  Then the hand moves and you are paralyzed.




6408  One thing I like about Lautreamont is that he correctly places the blame on God for all the bad things that happen to the beautiful boys he so loves.  He is not a follower of Rousseau and company who place the blame on evil men devising oppressive institutions (how boring).  God created the world; he is the cause of what goes on in the world.  The innocent are continually being brutalized.  Isidore screams accusations at God.  But Maldoror does things just as bad.  His excuse that he does it out of love is maybe the same excuse God could give.  I think it is.  Both could say, "I don't know why, but I love to see you cry."  Being is violent and wild and a towering jet of unbearable love.  Is there no place of rest?  The flesh is sweetly ripped.  The Surge lovingly breaks this delicate skin.  His fiery Spirit leaves us as ash.  In the rushes.  I silently contemplate.  The maw of heaven engulfs my rosy crown. I am the moonfaced boy.  I am the pink dawn on the cheek of night.  I am the Monstrum Tremendum.  I am the beloved of God—Maldoror.  Cruel pleasure.  That isn't at all what I set out to be.  I am undone.  My writing is bad.  I'm addicted to verbal ejaculation.  And bitter coffee.  Never mind.




6409  Finally Lautreamont is just a maker of sentences.  He permutates received conjunctions.  The elemental forms fall into place under his pen.  Nothing of human significance appears.   A young man playing with himself.  A jerky dance late at night.  Meaningless self-reflection.


He reads fast.  The Smooth.  The Fast.  Reeds waving in unison.  The Wind.  The wild Spirit.  The breath caught up.  Boys and boys and boys.  One Boy.  Destruction.  A ruin.  Blowing across his tongue.  Combustion.  The bitter taste.  Waste.  A slender waist.  Ripped flesh, cracked bones, the usual stuff.


Writing is his escape from the world.




6410  In Christianity we eat God in order to unite with Him.  A broken body, spilled blood, the holy Eucharist.  I suppose that is, not only the origin of so much gory literature, but also of our sexual proclivities.  In the cleavage of his ass the tongue finds wisdom.  Sapientia.  This sap doth sup.  We are a strange lot.


Or so one might surmise.  You understand beyond your understanding.  God is not spoken of in polite company, but you speak to him in tight circumstances at night.  A fright.  The bite.  A bit and bridle.  Sidle up.


La langue.  His tongue.  Syntax rolls around from tooth to glottis.  Undulation.  He licks your ear.  The dear.  No fear.  Silk.  Mechanical pickers arrive in the morning.  Brash, trashed boys ride the green fawn.  Your John.  Food for thought.


Is this a parody of religion and philosophy?  I have taken the truth to its limit.  Nothing has changed.  Everything has changed.  The Divine divines the sweet wine in your tangled vine. 




6411  Sartre is the master philosopher of viscosity.  The flesh is sticky.  Jesus uses the Greek word pros-kollao ( from √glei or √gel to glue together, clay, clot and cloud)  to describe the making of two fleshly beings into one—marriage.  Yes, we are glutinous. Pasty.  Tasty.  Nasty.  Randy.  Dandy.  A handy clamp.  A weasel stick.  Clutch.


Let's call it the Nexus.  That bare particular cleaves to his cleavage.  The Eternal Forms form a ball.  And roll downhill, a four-legged, polycephalus, the Monstrum.  Now the dialectic.  That impossible aporia.  Just for fun.  Whirl.  The jig is up.


Yes, Sartre.  So attractive, so repulsive.  And Genet, his mirror image, master of scat.  It's all pure literature and high transcendence.  So ironic.  So hilarious. 




6412  Here in Iowa City, where everything is so neat and clean, I am shocked and dismayed, yes, made utterly depressed, by the thought that out there in the real world God and the beautiful mythic gods have been worshipped in temples dedicated, it seems, (how can I think it?) to squalor and excrement. My goodness, I even insist that the smooth lovers within my very nice imagination shower first.  Do the eternal Forms of greasy body hair and dirt really exist?  Maybe styled, full-bodied hair, but not old man hair.  Don't we all think of heaven as super clean?  Isn't cleanliness the highest value?  How could there be a God of shit, Baal Peor?  Nasty.  And what about the Karni Mata temple in India?  Do we really have to learn to see filth as also divine?  I suppose so.  So let's try.  We Americans who like our trimmed yards and clean bathrooms will have a hard time of it.  And the Japanese, I guess.  Maybe not all Americans.  I know one or two that won't.




6413  Exodus 20: 5  …I the Lord your God am a jealous god … .  The whole story of the Old Testament is one of an erotic, jealous romance.  David especially.  A lot of killing goes on.  A lot of wild dancing.  A lover's fury.  Those who try to turn it into a history of attempts at political dominance miss the point entirely.  The Old Testament is no more history than is the Iliad.  Nonetheless, whole peoples have tried to base their very existence on it.  And the same jealousy and killing rules.


Today we have a rather bitter fight going on between Christians and Muslims over which God loves more.  In other words, it's business as usual in this religion based entirely on jealous rivalry.  God plays favorites.  First one then the other.  Fury and then gentleness.  Death then life.


Yes, I'm intimate with all of it.




6414  What are we to think of this image of the highest manifestation of God, the 15 year old boy Krishna?  He is like a perfect ceramic doll.  And to think that he was the most sexual.  This doll-boy made love to thousands.  He is everyone's desire.  His flute was irresistible.  The absolute lover.  That is Krishna.  The godhead is profoundly strange.


There is no way to see him as ordinary flesh and blood.  Even ultra-smooth plastic cannot approach that.  Beyond kitsch.  Do you want to see that at the moment of death?  Maybe.  Has he taken up residence in those magazines you read while you're waiting to have your hair done?  It seems so.  Hinduism is glamour and style and overdone bling.


All of which of course makes it highly intriguing as a theological problem.  Is the Real one with the showy?  I think so.  Form and decoration are closer to Truth than all the conceptualizing ever done by over-wrought intellectuals.  And behind the glitz there is the erect phallus.




6415  My argument is with academics as they attempt to inject themselves into the passion of the street.  As such, it is a consideration of the relation between reason and intense feeling.  More than that it is a question of just what that intense feeling is.  Reason might want to say that it is merely inappropriate behavior.  That it is something that is amenable to a well-ordered human will.  I think, though, that it is, when it is intense, something much more.


Reason wants us all to be reasonable.  But passion is a force that mocks human reasonableness.  Then it is the capital letter thing Passion.  It is a Thing.  And at times an individual or a group is possessed,   Reason balks at the very thought.


If Passion exists and possession and if it is unreason, then it is madness.  Let's assume it is madness.  How do we deal with it?  Against the academics, I do not  believe it can be quietly argued out of existence.  And the police and the judiciary are almost impotent in the presence of That.  As I see it, all we can do is wait for the fever to pass and try to contain it within a restricted space, a temenos.


Passion, of course, can work for both good and evil and a world without it would be not worth having. 




6416  Philosophy begins in desolation.  And the fire.  Left alone with the God of Jealousy.  You can't move.  He runs under your skin.  Half thoughts dangle in your brain.  Light, only blinding light remains.  Words crack.  The one you desired came to hate you.  So you turn and now the power is yours.


You don't have much time.  You have the long infinity of time.  The truth is minimal.  Three words will say it.  The most basic.  The barest of the bare.  Just that.


Who's listening.  The angels are still, watching.  Your pain and devastation are  their entertainment for the evening of Being.  They have all been through the same holy initiation.  Soon you will join them.  The God of tight places waits.  And the Fire.  Lover.  A jealous lover.




6417  I write the real.  Only the real.  The stark and the abrupt.  There is no ambiguity in what I say.  The way is plain.  The way is strait.  You're not late.  The night is on.


Eyes look.  The look slithers.  Over your skin.  Your fair, bare skin.  And the applause.  Love is devastating.  You succumb.  Existence slides in.  You are possessed.  The Erg and the Org and the disinterested consciousness.  The Great Entelechy encircles your waist.  Soft sheets at night.  A pillow.  The willow tree.  And a grasping for breath.  They're watching.  The snark and the bark of a dog.  It doesn't matter.  You are alone with Him.  Back before time.  Inside the mirror.


Symmetry breaks.  Otherness and the great bother.  Your life here was so mediocre.  Now you sail through gleaming eyes.  Your hair is just as it should be.  Teeth glisten.  Turned heads listen.  The cheetah jumps in your chest.  They moan and sink in admiration.  They are they are the only ones you have ever known.  The bone has sown its adumbration.  The brazen have lain beside you.  In the slant light.




6418  Here's why I am not a technological man nor do I do technological writing.  We live in a totalitarian regime.  That is to say, we are constantly under total mobilization for war.  The now universal war against pain.  We are extremely sensitive and wary and always on guard.  We have surrounded ourselves with many layers of protection.  That is technology.  That is the purpose of technology.  But I write of Eros, the torturer.  Romantic love is jealousy is intense pain.  I write the one thing most feared.  Today such love is declared insane.  Today we have gentle caring instead.  Eros is banned.


Philosophy begins in abandonment.  In the desolation and the spirit wind.  The fire rages.  Rudra roars.  I speak alone and my tongue burns words into the dry air.  I analyze what happened endlessly.  My hair crinkles.


Who abandoned who?  I tried my best to please and transport our supposed love into the skies.  I ended up speaking nonsense.  Did he want out because of that or did I want out because he couldn't follow me?  I didn't speak nonsense.  I spoke that beyond sense.  I spoke perfectly with a god's speaking.  I knew the knowing.  I saw.  I don't know what went wrong.  I suppose I spoke nonsense.


Jealousy hurts the worst.  The only recourse is to dialectically turn it into a dynamo and shot off to the stars.  Or into a now overused, clean white sock.  The alone with the Alone.  This God grows larger and larger in the back of your mind.  You find yourself with the desert monks.  Prostate on the ground.  Van Gough starry swirls.  Pain.  Delirium and the wrack of sweet love.




6419  Here's why I am a technological man and I do technological writing.  We live in a totalitarian regime.  That is to say, we are constantly under total mobilization for war.  The now universal war against pain.  We make ourselves extremely insensitive and chary cheery, never on guard.  I am the torturer of myself but I feel nothing.  I am other than myself.  I am an object.  I can walk away from the world and my own existence at the prick of a pin.  Romance, the dance of gypsies.  No fear.  I'm not here.  Only space-time neurons.  The taut bowstring.  The sting flings.  We are watched.  My watch says it time go home for lunch.


I have abandoned myself.  Existence is desolation, but who cares.  The fire doesn't burn.  Road rage.  There's talk of the Lingum on my radio.  No one is alone.  The tongue babbles.  A dry scare.  We analyze.  My hair tingles.


Jealousy, what's that?  Around the course I turn my dynamo into the shop.  The guys there wear a white smock.  The tune is always in tune.  Dogs gnaw a larger and larger hole in the back of my brain.  Dessert for skunks.  I copulate with a hound.  A van goes by.  Ice cream curls in the rain.  The deli boy stacks up sweetly.  Love.




6420  Marcion was a rich early Christian who recognized the obvious, but who then tried to back away from what he saw.  I suppose we could call him a Gnostic.  He was not afraid to say that the God of the ancient Hebrews was wrathful and a horror he did not want to be associated with.  He wanted the loving father of the all-forgiving Jesus.  The heresy of Marcionism is very much alive in the church today.  God is being redone.


Martin Luther said that the light of reason and also the light of faith reveal to us a God worse than the devil, and that only later in the light of glory will we be able to see the good that is there.  Good luck.


So is God really that very unpleasant thing we read about in the Bible when we are really reading closely?  Yes.  That is love.  Our God is a jealous God.  Glory for those who can see it.  But it's a literary thing.  And that leaves us with the question of whether or not life follows art as Oscar Wilde said.  I suspect it does.  Watch out.  I have written elsewhere of Jesus as our refuge from the blast.  Sweet lover.  Jealousy and gentleness have always swirled around each other.  The unending dialectic.




6421  Time and Eternity.  I am very much a traditionalist when considering these two very different things.  I follow the Via Antigua.  I am an extreme Platonist.


A temporal thing is momentary.  It flashes into existence and then fades.  Of course that fading can be more or less: a star lingers somewhat longer than a kiss, but not by much.  As for the eternal Form of Star and Kiss, they just simply are, aside from all flashing and fading.


Belief in universals, eternal Forms, separate from temporal appearance, is today unfashionable.  And our religious minds try to make up for that loss by trying to imagine time's long time without entropy, that inevitable increase in disorder and the vanishing that is death.  But time without time's fading is meaningless.


A truly religious mind is one that lifts itself up out of time into the timeless.




6422  Modern commercial Hinduism is so gay.  Dharma pop.  That is to say that its world is theatrical illusion.  The pure play of light.  Street actors and sadhu dandies.  The real as not really there.  It's magic.


Of course, in the course of ordinary life the glitz is gone and people just live.  They are born and they die and the wheel goes round and round.  Love is sweet and sickness and death and separation are sad, but, ah, life is precious.  The glamour of the gods is something else.  It is the appearing of transcendence and finally it is nothing.  Theater.  Illusion.  So gay.  Opening night on Broadway.  Cardboard sets and heavy make-up.  Dim lights and distance and repetitive litanies.  Not the real, but the Real, beyond life and death.  The wheel stops.  So gay.


The gods for us exist in literature.  Even the Christian God is made out of prayer.  There's nothing there other than silent whispers.  And we are finally made out of the same.  It is the candle blown out.  The non-existence at the unbeating heart of Nirvana.  Where desire and having are one.  Artfully done.  Styled and perfectly manicured.  So gay.  Seen best in its vanishing in the heat of the everyday.


Commercial Hinduism is  business.  Business is an  ever unkept  promise.  Business is nirvana and samsara as one.  A higher illusion.  In the beyond that is a sheer mistake.  What was I thinking?  Oh dear, I'm such a silly bitch.  Never mind.


No one plays the dialectic so well as a winking pundit.




6423  Is the world an illusion?  The world is a fantastic tale.  In the Fantastic one never knows for sure.  The world is maybe an illusion, but then again maybe it is real.  Only the question remains.  Such is the alluring belief/unbelief of our time.  It soon turns to decadence and then the gothic.  I have written up something else.


The world is real.  It exists just as you see it.  Even illusions and questions and mistaken beliefs.  It's all there.  Existence presses down on you.  You are desired.  You will be had.


It is hard.  Perhaps it is too much, you think.  How to think it out of existence?  Sweet floating.  Liquid drowning.  In soft love.  In mush.  Intellectual effluvia from a too hot brain.  Or just go with it.  Taken, you try to come to terms with the pain of existence.  It's terminal.


Be sassy.  Contradict your lord, the big dick.  Watch movies.  Dream of nothing.  Practice doing nothing.  Unexist yourself.  Be fantastic.  Finally give up.  The world and its coming at you exist irrevocably.




6424  When I was a boy in church, we were constantly being told that the church is, not a building nor an institution nor even a congregation, but individuals who stand before God.  Likewise, Israel in the Old Testament is not a nation or a collection of tribes but individuals born of the seed of Abraham and who hearken to the Word of the Lord.  Usually the Bible is thinking of men, and women were of secondary consideration, if considered at all.  The problem for these men is that in the New Testament they are called the Bride of Christ, just as previously they were the wife of YHWH.  With most guys that would never sit well, especially when they would go after other gods and God calls them whores, sluts, and size queens.  What to do?  A stratagem was devised.  The God of old who dwelt in the Temple and walked in the Garden would now be disembodied spirit.  And his great phallic power would vanish.  God became an intellectual construct, maybe pure consciousness or a moral conscience.  And that bride stuff was sent to the land of innocuous metaphors and the Church and Israel became abstractions.  The human mind is impressively cunning.




6425  Let's suppose you are a Buddhist and you have come to believe that the reason you always feel so unsatisfied with all the things of this world is because it's all an illusion.  Everything feels so very insubstantial.  At last it seems like nothing at all.  How then do you make this seductive emptiness all go away?  You do it through repetition.  You know how when you  repeat repeat repeat the same word over and over it loses its meaning and it's just numb mouthing?  If you do that with prayer and housework and your coming and going always the same, then it all will slowly vanish into nothing.  Buddhism is endless repetition.  Then it's all gone.


It's much the same with reading my writings.  They are a rhythmical mantra. If you read enough of it, it begins to flow so smoothly and the meaning is totally empty.  Worldless Nirvana orgasm.  Oblivion.  An Awl and an Owl.  Whatever.  There is no All All All, only the Awl and the Owl.




6426  I have written continually since I first started writing that philosophy begins in jealousy, abandonment, pain and desolation.  Fire on the wind-swept prairie of the soul.  At least my philosophy of realism begins there.  It is at that moment of ecstatic horror that the mind backs off.  Distance is carved out between awareness and its object.  An escape is found.


Anyone who knows intense pain, whether emotional or physical such as a migraine, knows that it is possible to find a place where one simply gazes on the thing.  It doesn't go away, but it is over there to be watched as you would an eagle in a gage.  And so ontology with its intractable paradoxical headlock becomes That Thing to be broken free of and stared at.  All those little connectors are just right there.  The universal just is.  Only itself.  Love and the good and truth hang there in the stillness of the starry sky to be glared at.  Things simply exist.  And the mind looking at them.  Alone.  Where everything is separate.




6427  I just watched a documentary on Aljazeera by Tony Harris examining why it is that black kids in Baltimore are doing so  badly in school.  Basically it is because they dislike, even hate, reading and never learn to do it well enough to succeed.  It seems that the English of schoolbooks turns them off.  I understand that exactly.  It really is boring.  It's horrible.  It's not that those kids haven't learned to read; it's that the authors haven't learned to write.  There's a book by Richard A. Lanham entitled Literacy and the Survival of Humanism.  There he bemoans the lost art of rhetoric.  Until written English becomes as artful as Rap, we all should boycott the printed word, just as those wise high-school dropouts do in the inner cities.


What is it about the English of school books (I'm also thinking of today's horror called philosophical writing) that is appealing to some?  What is it about a business suit that fits those same ones?  Such English is brutal power.  No delight. No play.  No dancing syntax. Just as attempt to grab and control.  Hard rigor for those who have no rhythm, nor want it. 




6428  The narrative has taken over our study of literature.  The story line.  This and that happened and then what?  And how does the meaning of the story speak to me and my friends.  And what is its overall meaning?  Are there symbols present and signs for things in our own lives?  Is it relevant to today?  We interpret from then and there to here and now.  The words all in some way refer to something beyond themselves.  We look through the sentences to something extra-sentential.  To something in Time, our time.  But all of that misses the artful timing of sentential flow.


It's the same in religion.  We want to know how the story of the very human life of Jesus speaks to us.  And where the Bible is silent we fill in the gaps with homely conjectures.  We say that Mary must have been heartbroken at the death of her only son.  We sentimentalize everything by imagining more of the story.  We love stories.  Stories that touch the human heart.  This is the way of fundamentalism.  Oh brothers and sisters, open up your heart.  But I rather like the story of how Mary, when the Roman soldiers refused to pound the nails in Jesus' hand, forcefully got down and did it herself because she knew that unless it happened mankind was lost.  Sad stories and sweet feelings do not make good theology.


It is the same in literature class.  The teacher wants to touch the hearts and lives of his student by making these "very human" storied meaningful.  Pietistic sentimentalism abounds.  But it makes for bad literature.  Rather than make art meaningful, pointing to something else, we should make it art.  Sentences have complicated rhythms going on—or they should have.  Look at the sentence, not through it to it meaning.  Notice the timing as it is read.  Notice the sound-body of the moving line.  Like Rap it can be marvelously intricate.  Forget the social relevance.  Let the student move to the beat.




6429  What is Infinity?  Infinity is a number.  What is a number?  A number is a number: it can't be ontologically reduced to anything else.  There are those philosophers, however, who think it can be reduced.  They reduce it to classes or, more precisely, classes of classes (or sets).  Consider the number 37.  They would say that 37 is the set of all sets with 37 things in them.  Russell tried that trick, but quickly learned that it didn't work.  Therefore, 37 is a thing different from any and every class of 37 things.  In the same manner, there are those who want to reduce every predicate, such a Red or eyelash, to the class of all red things or all eyelashes.  Yes, alas, there are those who want to reduce almost everything that isn't a class to classes of individuals.  (And then after the dirty deed is done to say that classes, as such, don't exist, but must be reduced to individuals.)  It's a neat way of trying to make nominalism work.  But nominalism will never work.  Numbers exist just as numbers and they aren't classes.


Therefore, Infinity is a number.   And it somehow attached to classes—though it baffles me just how.  Consider an infinite number of beaming faces.  What you have there, ontologically speaking, is the Form of Beaming Face, a class (with the Form used as a selector), the particulars  and the quantifier, which in this case is the number Infinity.  Other quantifiers are one, some, none, a few, a lot, a  bunch, all, every, each, 1068, a myriad, etc..  And then there are the complex quantifiers, such a  3/4, 6.849, and the like.  Numbers, i.e. quantifiers, cannot be ontologically reduced.  Infinity is just Infinity.


We do know some properties of Infinity, such as that one half of infinity is still infinity.  In fact, it remains just infinity under most operations on  it.  The Power Set, though, does have a different beast, a higher Aleph, quantifying it.  And so on into the mathematics of Transfinite numbers.


Aside from numbers there are functions, which are complexes, not simples.  I must admit that I am somewhat consternated as to what the correct ontological analysis of such complexities is.  I just know they cannot be nominalistically reduced to classes and then to individuals.  Or so I aver, insist, maintain, and constantly declare with all the impudence I can raise up.


Now then, about those flights of heady philosophical contemplation up into the Immensity of the Infinite.  They're like those times when you were very young and you spin round and round and round and dizziness overtakes you.  It's great  fun.   To be able to write that up is a fabulous gift.  I wish I had it.  




6430  Is the material world or any part of it infinite?  I have no idea.  I can't even make much sense of the question.  I know that usually physicists try to get rid of singularities, those places in their equations where the value of a variable scandalously reaches infinity.  Still, who am I to say?  Is the mind infinite?  That question makes even less sense to me.  Does Infinity exist?  Yes!!  Infinity is a number and numbers exist.  And the mathematics of Infinity exists.  And we can contemplate it and delve into its magical workings just fine.  I suppose I should mention that negative numbers and imaginary numbers (i) and no doubt a lot of strange numerical beasts we haven't yet discovered exist.  And even the stranger properties of those numbers.  And the mind reels.


Physicists who use that whole immense structure of mathematics with all it curiosities find that it somehow describes the world sweetly.  Even if physical Space-Time is quanticized and finite (which I suspect it is, but I can't be sure) a mathematics of the infinite with irrational and imaginary components fits.  And it gives the philosopher fits.  Another strange phenomenon is that something so very finite and easily described as the twelve keys of ordinary music matches our most profound emotional moods.  Infinity matches the finite and the finite matches infinity.  It's mind-boggling.


Just as those pictures I put up for your viewing pleasure perfectly match Philosophy in its highest reaches.




6431  An infinite set is one that is identical with one of its proper subsets.  An infinite object is one that is identical with one of its aspects.  An infinite mind is one that is identical with one of its thoughts. The essence of the boy was contained in the way he let his arm move so gracefully around another's waist.  In the way he so simply glanced away.  In the way he could not pronounce my name.  Infinity is more than a synecdoche.  It is identity, not reference.  The boy is his phallic power.  His pout.  His kiss.  His lazy daze.  And philosophy is just an ordinary boy, your Knight of Heady Exasperation.  "Insofar as you do it to the least of these … ."  "This is my body, this is my blood, eat and drink … ."  The most negligible is the greatest.  Or it is if we live in the Infinite.  But perhaps you prefer the finite.  The infinite is identical with the finite.  Thinking breaks.




6432  For some time now philosophies of presence have been out of fashion.  The generative power of Absence has become too alluringly present in the minds of those who would do and undo metaphysics.  It's a head rush.  The empty set encloses itself again and again and iteratively again and all of mathematics appears.  Loss feeds on loss.  Unbelief does not believe itself.  The flaccid and the impotent and the jaded jangle the night.  Silken sheets lay down sweetly the old bodies of time.  The smell of liquor languidly wafts.  Casual conversation settles in.  And of course it is so very de rigueur that we ooze compassion on doomed humanity. Rhizomes are eating us.


An importuning youthful push, that overdrive, is tiresome now.  Presence bores.  And bores into us.  But maybe just one more time.  Before it's back into the womb of the earth.  Oh God, nothing is worse than rest when you are not tired and so I take up with the erect phallic presence.  Come, my sweet Lord, metaphysical lover.




6433  PEOPLE ARE UPSET!!!  And if we play our cards just right we can turn all that angst into good, cold cash.  Or at least an extended line of credit.  We will help them express themselves!  And open up expanded channels for advertisements.  There's gold in them there e-motional hills.


I suppose that's right at the fart heart of dirty Capitalism.  He who is able to manipulate the Great Beast has power and money and The Law.  Internet companies are making a bundle selling our heart-felt feelings.  And they very kindly tell us the deep cure to it all.  The jist of which is of course more outpouring.  Blood-letting leaches.


Then when feelings begin to wane, publishers and broadcasters and bloggers remind us just how mad we are in order to generate more take-to-the-streets rage, wall-to-wall coverage of which they will facilitate with their vast networks of get-'em-up-and-out electric prods generating more money money money money.  And if you get tired and disheartened they will give you very nice porn to perk you up.  It's all so very convenient.




6434  I have noticed for quite some time that many of those few who do express a modicum of liking for my writings do so because they think I belong to the Noire group.  That black, satanic side of Romanticism is of course rather popular now.  But then it has been an underground thing for a long time.  I find it laughable that they would think that.  Maybe it is Bloom's misprision, maybe not.  I think it is because most people today see only two options: either one is a bourgeois fundamentalist or one is Noire.  I am not a fundamentalist and I am not noire.


Take the word "grotesque".  As I use the word, it means of the grotto, which I think is its original meaning.  A grotto is a cave.  Plato's cave.  A Platonist could never see the Forms as grotesque, and I never have.  The Noire is the grotesque, the cave, the dank dark inner catacombs of the sarcophagus Vagina.  The Boy is most definitely not that.  I think those who have that Medusa head on their intellectual shield, today's turn-you-to-stone rhizomic lace networking shamans with heavy syntactical tendrils, fiddlers with the inchoate embryo of life-thought, they advance that wormy genitalia threatening the oppressive male sword.  I'm not of that gang.  I am not noire.




6435  In.  That little word is an incitement.  It is an insurrection.  It can be insidious.  It contains within itself a vast philosophy.  It is in my mouth, in my words, in my mood.  I live, yet not I, but the Crisco Kid that liveth within me.  A live wire.  His prod penetrates deep.  En-ergia.  In-orgia.  He works it.  My philosophy is ionic.  "The Ionians delighted in wanton dances and songs more than the rest of the Greeks ... and wanton gestures were proverbially termed Ionic motions."  A charge.  Ontological things exist.  Existence is in them.  They are quickened.  And thickened.  He has them by the balls.  It's opening night at the Grand Ball.  He's tall.  A simple deal.  As the coverings peel off.  And there revealed.  Is That.


All those so-easily-understood words of logical form lie seeming innocuous within our proper speaking.  It is improper to call attention to them and ask them to take a bow.  Sameness, difference, existence, simplicity, facticity, fact, thing, thing-ness, actual, possible, possibility, absent, present, order, absence, presence, the Well-Formed.  There are so many!  You know that I have mentioned them so often.  They are all "in" our strung out words.  And, of course, it is here that metaphysics turns to theology.  He slides over your tongue and dallies on that redness of your lips.  He is the breath within you.  Yes, ontology is erotic.  The Logos lies sweetly, so easily in you.  It doesn't hurt at all.  But then the paradox.  And things explode.  Before they collapse.  And angels waft.




6436  So last time I did some real ontology, something academics should take up on, but they won't, because they're afraid of real ontology: they want only tough guy, brutal, Imperial butch stuff.  No faggot fairy felicities.  Fancy that!  The ontological question concerns the mind-independent existence of the Transcendentals.  Here we find written:


The predicative context is commonly suggested to be the historical origin of the term ‘transcendens’ in the meaning of ‘transcendental’. (See Jacobi 2003; Valente 2007; Aertsen 2012, 42sqq.) Various 12th century logical texts recognize the distinctive semantical nature of transcategorical terms, which they refer to, among others, as ‘transcendent names’ (nomina transcendentia). Three instances: (i.) Whereas a Vienna Priscian-commentary partially edited by De Rijk (dated ca. 1150) identifies a certain class of names “that are so universal that they run through all categories”, such as ‘being’, ‘thing’, ‘one’, ‘something’, the Ars Meliduna (between 1154/1180) distinguishes transgeneric terms from universals proper. “No name that belongs to every thing, such as ‘thing’, ‘something’, ‘being’, and ‘one’, signifies a universal”. Since universals are bound up to genera, transgeneric terms do not signify a universal. The categories, as the highest genera, determine what a thing is, the transgeneric names signify that it is. (ii.) In the debate on “infinite names” (nomina infinita), which refers to the possibility of ‘making a term infinite’ (infinitatio) by term-negation, a distinction is made in the Introductiones Montane minores (ca. 1130) and the Tractatus Anagnini (ca. 1200), between finite terms and terms that “contain all things”, e.g. ‘thing’ and ‘something’. Since these terms are not finite, they cannot be made infinite: “Terms that contain all things cannot be made infinite, hence this is senseless: ‘a non-something is’, ‘a non-thing is’.” (iii.) In the discussion on the equivocity of names in the Dialectica Monacensis (between 1150–1200), a specific type of equivocation is identified, in which something is signified primarily, everything else secondarily, and this type of equivocation is connected with the nomina transcendentia, i.e. names like ‘thing’, ‘being’, ‘one’, ‘universal’, ‘possible’, ‘contingent’, ‘the same’ and ‘diverse’ as such. (See Jacobi 2003.)


Being something of a Platonic pederast myself, I cotton to the out-there coming-at-me presence of those divine things.  But I suppose you prefer them to be "mere" concepts that will leave you alone when you try to sleep. 


Yes, when each is looked at as an existing presence, they do become queer.  And otherworldly.  So I'm wondering how they all crowd into a thing as small as a wink and a nod.  Your transport out of here.  


What is the nexus?




6437  In my fairy philosophy I like everything to be smooth.  And smell like the dawn.  The question concern just how I am going to accomplish that.  I need sweet articulation.  Which means I need a lot of little connectors and anaphoric pronouns and metrical gradation and … oh my, it's too much.  All that simply so my ideas don't clumsily collide with my word agglomerations.  Dawn, faun, musk.  A mask for my/our Adamic bodies.


Philosophy handles a world that is constructed, rather well I must say, out of monumentally different kinds of things.  If I am going to write it up and avoid the jolt of this and then that, I need gentle rhetoric.  Like a dream, I will put together the totally incongruous.  Or with a little legerdemain I will try.  And you, if you will but believe, you will see it all happen right there in your hand.  The dandy always wins when the angels take pity on him and the nexus holds.




6438  He's a man of substance.  That probably means he owns a lot of property and therefore his wealth gives him power in the community.  He is weighed down with responsibility.  I don't see how he is ever going to jump up and reach the realms of Light. Then again he considers jumping absurd.   He has no time for such frivolous thoughts.  He is a serious man, business-like.  He leaves it to the poor to consider such unworldly things.  Without this man of substance surely this world would cease.  Would that be such a bad thing?


The word "guru" is the same as our word "gravity".  The Guru is weighty.  We used to say, "That's heavy, man" when confronted with difficult, deep, metaphysical thought.  Demanding stuff.  The Guru carries divine responsibilities.  Rather like a university professor.  Or a doctor.  No jumping there.


Kierkegaard spoke of the leap of faith.  He said that if God came again he might look like an ordinary corporate slave, well not exactly that, but something far from Glory.  Only the eyes of faith could see it.  A Leap into the Absurd.  Could our man of substance be God?  Has the camel passed through the eye of a needle going the other way?  Has my backward, twisted thinking landed me in a glorification of the most ordinary?  I assure you it was entirely unintended.  I'll go out and take a ride on the omnibus and look about at graduate students from the business school to see if I can find one who is maybe just that.  I will kneel and worship.  But if I'm wrong he'll probably just think I want to give him a blow job.  And that won't take much of a leap at all, so why not?


If you followed all that then you're just my kind of dialectical thinker.




6439  Philosophy, as ontology, asks those questions that a kid might ask, that you may have asked.  Such as, why am I me and not that person over there?  Is God ever amazed that He is God, that He gets to be God?  Can He feel that He had no beginning?  Is He ever embarrassed about being God and no one else is?  Is that capital letter heavy?  Should I feel embarrassed about being me and taking up a whole chunk of existence-space?  Does everyone see my existence and should I feel guilty about existing?  OK, maybe kids don't ask some of those questions, but I feel they do feel the strangeness of existing and of existing as themselves.  Existence is strange.


I have said that what accounts for just that individual thing being just that one having those properties and not another having exactly the same properties is the bare particular "in" it.  Properties don't individuate, but rather they are shared by any individuals.  So here I have my Acer computer, just this particular one and not another.  There are others just like it, but they are not it.  And here is my black coffee cup.  Again, it is just that individual one and not another, though, of course, there are other black coffee cups.  Now here's a question that seems to me to make no sense.  Could the bare particular in my computer have been the bare particular in my coffee cup, and vice versa?  That is unlike the question of could I have been Prince George and he me?  That last question is thinkable.  The second question concerns thinking minds and that may account for the difference, but I think not.  If I imagine I am Prince George, I am still me being him and I seem to be able to imagine me not being me but him.  Or maybe I can't.  Maybe I am eternally stuck being me and I can't even think otherwise.  No wonder kids finally give up thinking about these intractable questions.  And science never even comes close to them.  Still, here I am unable to stop.  By now I am hopelessly taken with them. 




6440  Time and Eternity.  If we understand Eternity as the timeless and not as the forever of enduring throughout all of time, then mathematics, if it does exist, is eternal.  That one hundred minus one is ninety-nine is an eternal truth.  Or it is forever true of things in time, if it is not an existing entity.  (Calling it an entity and not a thing is interesting, but not now.)  One thing is certain, today most who call themselves philosophers balk at the very idea of timeless entities.  In fact time looms large now.  It has even asserted itself recently in physics as the missing link between quantum theory and relativity.  I am obviously not going to speak about physics, but I am going to dismiss those physicists who dismiss the "Platonic fantasy" of timeless entities.  They are doing it, I think, in order to counteract what they see as the heavy-handedness of a subtle Platonism in science.  It is strange that even though nobody is supposed to believe in Platonism any more, it is assumed that Platonism is the hidden under-belief of almost everyone, and it must be stamped out.  It's like those who still see God everywhere and feel they must work overtime to get rid of that old thing.


As for whether or not physics will be helped by a reintroduction of time into its fundamental ideas is not for me to say.  Maybe it will.  I only want to assert strongly that the whole question of what the true nature of the physical world is, is totally irrelevant to the ontology of mathematics and eternal entities.  If mathematics exists and it is timeless, that will not put a crimp in the possibility of a temporal physical world to also exist. That said, I know there exists a great antipathy toward the timelessness.  It's an ancient feeling.  Maybe even older than time itself.




6441  The God of the Old Testament is a phallic war God.  The Son of God is his armor bearer.  Their love for each other is intimate.  So intimate they are one.  We as followers of this anointed Son share in that intimacy.  This phallic war God will tolerate no other lovers.  He is a jealous God.  Sweet fury.  Gentle insemination.  The rushing spirit.  Stillness. The Wind blows where it will.  The end of an age.




6442  The fight in both religion and philosophy is between the Platonists and the Aristotelians, though I must say that the latter have captured most of the field.  Platonists are the extremists and, as I suppose is appropriate, they are now marginalized.   They are either hyper-spiritual or they are wallowing is sensuality.  They end up with a spiritualized sensual wallowing.  They are the Christian Saints, martyrs in the Fire, the beloved disciple with his head lying in the lap of Jesus.  The Platonic Mary to the Aristotelian Martha.  In the middle ground there are the workers, serious folk building the Kingdom.


Platonists are those soaring aloft in High Art.  They are the Formalists.  And they are those mesmerized by pure matter.  Exquisite ritual in fine textured weavings.  Lurid and sultry flesh in the ambrosia of rare syntax.  An austere rhetoric of opulence.  The Plenum of the elegant blanc.  A thin sumptuous Minimum.  A boy’s chest and drawers fill with dreams.  Nocturnal fits.  The moth flits about his unextinguishable candle. I write upholstered nonsense.


We Platonists were long ago chased outside the city gates.




6443  Let's suppose that I am my body.  Or you.  Or that guy over there.  We are bodies.  I know that is a contentious supposition.  And on close examination it falls apart.  Nonetheless, in the magic of philosophical supposing, let's suppose it.  Now consider that I and you and he are all aware of a certain mesmerizing odor coming off the nape of a beauty that has just sat close.  Yes, that is a rather complex structure.  You and I and he and that one from which a mind obliterating fragrance emanates.  The fragrance itself.  And, of course, the awareness of that by us three.


My concern is to ontologically place that awareness.  Obviously it exists.  I think it is safe to say that we all are, or could be, aware of our awareness.  It is obviously there.  Awarenesses exist.  To deny that is absurd.  But where is it?  It is not in space—any idiot can see that.  It is in time however—again overlooking the difficulty of figuring out the meaning of "being in time".  And it is "between" you, me, and him on the one hand and that odiferous nape on the other.  An awareness is a thing and it is between.  Sorry, but again I have to ask you not to examine that notion of "between" too closely.  Thus I as a body am not that awareness, but that awareness "connects" these bodies we are with something.  I am not an awareness (if I am "only" my body). 


From all that it seems that there is an (only one) awareness of that fragrance emanating—it is  one entity—and that one entity connects us all and whoever else wants in on the game, to a something.  Three bodies caught up in one mind.  Mind exists.  And we as bodies are taken along for a ride in its (his) car.  Or so one might say.  If one is willing to careen about in the bliss of the ontological Wind.




6444  I have, quite often, as you know if you have read my words at length, written up the idea of orgasm, if indeed it is an idea.  I want to compare and contrast a boy's feeling/knowing and that of someone like St. Teresa carved into that exquisite sculpture by Bernini here and here.  Imagine yourself as a boy.  You are moving through space as normal, half there half elsewhere, then a man looks at you with a strange look of wanting to eat you.  A shudder goes up your back.  Frisson.  You imagine hands and thigh and a stare.  Again your soul shimmers in mystical consciousness.  You almost nod off.  But you pull yourself together and make your way to your room.  And again the delicate shaking, the vibration in your mind, the careening ripples lay you back and you sink into secret light.  That man must see.  You are undone under his hand.  And you endure until it becomes gentle agony and you know it is almost over.  Until another day.  Maybe tomorrow.


That is a boy's orgasm, even when it is accompanied by pure white ejaculation.  The imagination in thousands of tiny oscillations.  Delicacy all round.  But the female orgasm is gigantic and voluptuous.  Or so I surmise, but what do I know.  Philosophy with its esprit subtil and the esprit qeometric is, for me, the delicacy of a boy, not the power of the female orgasm.  I know you may have different tastes, and I don't mind, but I'll be off somewhere else more elusive.  




6445  John Locke, a couple of Vedic birds and the Pimsleur method of learning to speak a language in ten days effortlessly.  Locke was never clear about whether words and sentences referred to a meaning-something in the mind or to the object-something "out there".  It a problem that today's phenomenological philosophies of the mental Act have inherited.  And then there are those two birds, both together representing one mind, sitting on a branch: one is eating and the other is watching the one eat.  The mind backs away from itself and watches itself.  Which brings me to Mr. Pimsler and his method.  The advertizing hype surrounding it is absurd, but he does have a point.  That point being that one must immerse oneself in the actual human setting of using the language and not mentally step back and watch oneself and the grammatical forms "out there".  Self-consciousness is the destroyer.  One cannot eat and watch oneself eat.  And in thinking about all this one must immerse himself in "feeling" it and not stand back in disinterested distant hyper-consciousness of it.  The philosophical question of whether the idea is to be lived or watched, whether it is real or in your or my mind, or whether it is a language generated piece of un-understanding, is maybe both/and, maybe either/or, maybe just a mind fuck.  Are you watching me write?  I am watching myself watch you watch me write.  But it may be all in my own head.  Maybe not.  And what about those troublesome pictures?




6446  I see and I watch myself seeing.  I am aware of my awareness.  I am double.  My own mind is inside itself and outside itself looking at itself over there.  Well, you understand perfectly.  That may be the one perfection you really do know deeply well.  But I nod off.  You are adept at destroying yourself, pulling yourself apart, back and forth, back and forth.  Oscillation.  I am trying to come to the point.  Instead, I deliquesce.  In a constricted roaming.  The writing of an oxy-moron.  Orgasmic jism.


I shudder.  Unwanted/wanted sex is close.  He watches.  I watch him watching.  He watches me watching.  I spin.  Vertigo.  Pure philosophy.  God has me by the balls.  I eat him in his crazy Eucharist: his Tongue of Fire slithers down my throat.  I seem to be unable to stand back from God and watch.  The closeness is locked close.  That beyond which there can be no beyond.




6447  Philosophy is our escape from poetry.  As is Jesus.  When I say poetry I mean the Night Mare offered up for our quiet contemplation by Camille Paglia and Robert Graves.  I mean The White Goddess.  Of course, the poets will think that philosophy is of no use to the one who would escape, and they are right if one means by philosophy what today usually goes by that name because what usually goes by that name today is instead a form of poetry.  But there exists true Philosophy and the chthonic muse can be evaded.


I think it is important that we strike the difference between the Fury that is God from the impossible entangling that is the Mare's Nest.  The first is a too-close lover's jealous demand for no other lovers.  The second is the hopeless labyrinth of no way to get at the lover.  The second is the Gordian Knot that only Alexander's Hephaestean sword could release.  Violence plays out everywhere.  The Boy watches and chooses.  The strong presence or the alluring absence.  The poets stand about bemused.  I escape with a trick.




6448  I am here going to write about the difference between worship of the Goddess as the highest power and our War God.  Or rather I am going to attempt it.  It ain't easy and I usually screw it up, no doubt because I'm not really a mythologist.  Nonetheless, I have my intuition.  We know that in the Old Testament God was constantly upset because his chosen ones were tempted by the fertility gods and goddesses.  He called his erstwhile lovers whores because they were unfaithful to Him.  This very male god was jealous of his male devotees taking off for Her.  Well, I know it well.  So who was the bitch?  Yes, the dog was a symbol of her underworld, and even She admitted to being from the chthonic dark places.  The hidden and the indirect.  She lived within the folds of riddles.  Knock on wood.  She moaned in the treetops.  She sighed and belied a need for blood.


I know many scholars just roll their eyes at the mention of Robert Graves, but he's useful for what I am about.  Here is his description of the White Goddess: 


"The Goddess is a lovely, slender woman with a hooked nose, deathly pale face, lips red as rowan-berries, startlingly blue eyes and long fair hair; she will suddenly transform herself into sow, mare, bitch, vixen, she-ass, weasel, serpent, owl, she-wolf, tigress, mermaid or loathsome hag. Her names and titles are innumerable. In ghost stories she often figures as 'The White Lady', and in ancient religions, from the British Isles to the Caucasus, as the 'White Goddess'. I cannot think of any true poet from Homer onwards who has not independently recorded his experience of her. The test of a poet's vision, one might say, is the accuracy of his portrayal of the White Goddess and of the island over which she rules. The reason why the hairs stand on end, the eyes water, the throat is constricted, the skin crawls and a shiver runs down the spine when one writes or reads a true poem is that a true poem is necessarily an invocation of the White Goddess, or Muse, the Mother of All Living, the ancient power of fright and lust—the female spider or the queen-bee whose embrace is death. Housman offered a secondary test of true poetry: whether it matches a phrase of Keats's, 'everything that reminds me of her goes through me like a spear'. This is equally pertinent to the Theme. Keats was writing under the shadow of death about his Muse, Fanny Brawne; and the 'spear that roars for blood' is the traditional weapon of the dark executioner and supplanter.


Sometimes, in reading a poem, the hairs will bristle at an apparently unpeopled and eventless scene described in it, if the elements bespeak her unseen presence clearly enough: for example, when owls hoot, the moon rides like a ship through scudding cloud, trees sway slowly together above a rushing waterfall, and a distant barking of dogs is heard; or when a peal of bells in frosty weather suddenly announces the birth of the New Year."


Graves them connects all that up with the goddesses of the Near  East and the eastern  Mediterranean.  It is certainly not YHWH.  Eventually, His chosen people had to choose which deity they wanted.  Most tried to have both, but the pair were not on speaking terms and usually She won.


I wrote a few postings back that many or most of today's philosophers (and, indeed, religious preachers) are followers of the Goddess, and the male warrior God, with His militant  Eternity, is of no use to the stressed out workers in this technocracy.  She offers them light, gothic entertainment and riddles and then she will lay them down in restful darkness.


Today's scientific materialism, with its cosmic puzzles and its hidden secrets, and forever death, is the Goddess.  Entertainment for the time being.  While God's plainly visible and timeless presence bores the jaded mind.  God has lost his saltiness and become insipid.  Or so it is seen by the lovers of illusion.


So, did I screw it up again?  I think instead that I just didn't say much at all.




6449  In my last posting I identified the White Goddess with scientific materialism.  The hidden, labyrinthine secret. The Riddle of life.  She is the shape-shifter.  Matter, the ever other, becomes all things.   Her logic is X changes into Y.  The opposite kind of logic says X is X and Y is Y and they lie ever fixed in self-identity.


It seems that deep within Matter all the Forms lie sleeping.  Or so says Schelling and his Naturphilosophie.  They only seem to appear before giving way in the ever-giving-way.  The vortex of change.  The Agon rules this All-Nighttime.  Birth pangs and death throes.  Thick anxiety.  Lust.  It glimmers within the viscous film that covers the electrical nerve of the living.  It shifts.


X becomes Y and X is ever X are the two forms that vie for our belief. Which  came first?  Non-self-identical Matter or self-identical Form?  And what about their union.  I say there is no union, but then I would.




6450  Continuing on with the difference between a transformative logic vs. one of rigid self-identity, I of course, with my love of stillness and the classic timelessness of the one thing, eschew and shoo away the shape-shifters.  And my saying that drives those guys crazy.  My writing, with its syntactical coiling and uncoiling, seems so much like the ever different.  It is ever transforming itself into itself.  My ideas change dialectically to become themselves.  X transforms into X.  God becomes the very fleshy Son of God, Imago Dei.  The warrior is his armor-bearing boy.  The Sufi is the beauty who offers him the wine of love.  Self-identity is everywhere as the other.  There is no transformation in this magical ever-transforming into itself.  X is rigidly X.    The Boy takes and is taken and there is only himself being himself in timeless eternity.  Or so one might say in this most perplexing thing called the Night of Power.  We fall headlong into Love's trap.  And die.  And live.  And nothing changes.




6451  Bergmann is intimidating.  To read him is to have the feeling that you really are not smart enough to understand him.  It's like trying to romance an extremely beautiful face.  Except that the face of Gustav was anything but beautiful.  A way must be found to tame the beast.


Something's up.  No doubt Bergmann wanted you to have that feeling.  He was also anything but a sweet guy.  So why did he do that?  I think the answer can be found in Mark 4: 11-12 (RSV) "… so that seeing they may see and not perceive, and hearing they may hear but not understand, lest at any  time they should turn, and  their sins be forgiven."


That is the passage in which Jesus explains why he spoke in parables: so they wouldn't understand.  It's the same with all artists trying to pull you into mystification.  It's why I write the say I do.  It's why those who would be loved seem so baffling.  It is seduction.  It is a power in this world.  And without it we would have nothing at all.  It is the glory of who we are as beings within Being.


I love to read Bergmann and he's very easy to explain.  But without the sublime overwhelmingness of his style he is nothing.  With it, he's right at the heart of true philosophy.




6452  Traditionally, one approaches the world either as a sane, sensible grown-up or as a mad, starry-eyed spirit-child.  At the beginning of the twentieth century so many philosophers were determined to be the former.  They adored science. And commonsense.  They loved logic.  They were clear-eyed this-worldly folk.  Or at least that's how they saw themselves.  They loved to look at themselves.  And stand in the center of the world's stage so others could look at them.  Unfortunately, the others were mainly rabble who misunderstood the magnificence they saw.  It became messy.


The great achievement of the age was Russell's Principia Mathematica.  Yes, it was there in that swelter of symbols that all our digital computing machines slid smoothly right into view.  The most abstract.  We are now that.  We became masters of the universe with our analytical power.  Mad starry-eyed spirit-children in the Garden of Cybernetics.  Which, of course, is exactly what we/they wanted to avoid.


What are all those abstract entities?  Their presence had to be explained in a sane, sensible grown-up manner.  What happened was that we became even more abstract about abstractions.  We tied ourselves in spiritual knots.  Massive Gordian Knots.  And we arrived here where we are now.


Today we are tired and exhausted from too much thinking.  We watched ourselves thinking and we thought ourselves into vertigo.  That Mirror destroyed us.  Narcissus beings.  But it was inevitable.  And we were so in love.




6453  So what are those pure, elemental symbols of our most basic logic?  Looking at them, are we looking at other-worldly beings?  Should we just not look?  Bergmann looked and said they were existents.  Ontological things.  The ground of the world's being.  All the way down (or up) into ineffable logical form itself.  Yes, logic, finally, cannot symbolize itself.  Wittgenstein's passing over in silence and all that.  Except no one wanted to be so muzzled.  And we went mad with philosophical gibberish.  But with good, honest intent.


We remain with the question.  What are logic's abstractions?  Most, seeing only the physical or the mental realms, placed them in the mind as concepts, though many, wanting to be good scientific materialists, have tried to ground them in the physical.  The problem is that they won't fit anywhere.  So are they in God?


God too usually falls into either mind or matter and there you are.  Is there a way to keep God pure?  I have opted to radically separate the ontological impossibly far from the everyday, commonsense world of mind and matter.  One has to magically jump up to reach heaven.  But it ain't hard.  Or rather one must be hard to do it.  And that's easy.




6454  So it's mad, mystical ontology off in the Nowhere of a too pure analysis, or it's good ol' commonsense.  Wanting to maintain remain in the former (because I am so over-sexed) I have chosen (or been chosen by) a way of writing that immediately sets off warnings.  Academic writers in our time, so afraid of losing their job–not to mention being caught by the state police—stick with a I'm-just-an-ordinary-guy-who-can't-dance style of writing.  It's also because they're just ordinary guys who can't dance.  While I dance in the Nowhere.




6455  Plato, in the Phaedrus, tells us that philosophy is a type of erotic madness.  It is desire for beauty.  It is desire.  That's what Eros is.  And the sad part is that the one who desires is never beautiful and beauty itself feels no desire.  Only in God are Beauty and Desire one thing.  Thus our only goal is God.




6456  Ontological representationalists are always looking for evidence. That is to say, those philosophers who believe that all our thoughts refer only to other thoughts, that the mind can know only what's in the mind, they are always looking for something that proves that those thoughts adequately represent, match, unseen/unseeable reality.  Do you believe in God, in parallel universes, that your lover really loves you?  Where's the proof, the evidence?


I am not an ontological representationalist.  I don't believe that I or you or any mind is looking only at its own ideas.  We are all directly up against the real.  It so very impressively presses itself onto, into, all through the existence we are. There is no gap.  We see with Seeing itself.  I'm a direct realist.


But what about error and illusion and all those denizens of the imagination?  Yes, they are there too and we directly see them also.  So how do we tell which is which?  Is his love for you real or a piece of your imagining?  I could say that the only way to discern the truth is to look and see if what you see fits in or coheres with those other things you see.  That will help somewhat, but finally we must accept the fact that ambiguity and oscillation and the Blur define our world and there is no sharply defined anything out there.  Perfection lies elsewhere.  And it is the job of philosophy to separate the one from the other. 


Even now I can hear the representationalists insisting that I give proof of, evidence for, my philosophical ideas about this magical Elsewhere.  Their carping never ends.  I can only say that I see it.  And then before their eyes work out the dialectic of my philosophy to show that it has no inconsistencies in it—or rather that  it has fewer than theirs.  But they will, I'm sure, be too fidgety to sit still while I weave an enchantment before their unbelieving eyes.  And they will break off the conversation.




6457  Internal vs. external relations. And a little bit about cause and effect.  Kathmandu is bigger than Iowa City.  Why?  I mean, what is the ontological ground of that relation?  Is it just in the nature of each of those two cities that one is bigger?  If so, it would be internal to what they are.  Or is it because there is a relation of "bigger than" external to those two cities and their natures?  I have always chosen the latter.  Moreover, I also hold, quite reasonably I believe, that relations are not in space, in addition to not being in a nature.  (Indeed space is not a thing that things are literally in.)  Now for cause and effect.  I have always thought that there was no connector there, other than a statistical happenstance of occurring together.  One thing or event does not "create" or bring into being another thing or event or set of properties.  But in thinking that I was doing philosophy.  Science cannot be bothered with such questions.  Science assumes cause and effect as real and that's that.  Now there’s the rub.  Science and philosophy are at odds.  I will give science cause and effect and expunge all mention of it from my philosophy.


I have often spoken of reality pressing on my mind.  Of another body pushing on mine.  Of the threat of philosophical collapse weighing heavily on my otherwise confident attempt to evade it.  And on and on.  One thing is taken and manipulated by another.  No doubt I write that up because it feels deliciously sexy.  Is that pushing and taking an external relation?  Yes, a timeless, placeless thing.  I am passive and it has hooked me from eternity—the Nexus.  I am through that other.  I press on him.  It's all done in an instant of stillness.  The very thought of which obliterates thought.  Love's oblivion and eternal return.  The Erg.  The Act.  Far from mere science.  Sleeping on door steps with street boys.  Over there.




6458  When I visited my Muslim friends in Kathmandu and Cairo and we discussed the most fundamental differences between our religions, they told me that the Christian worship of Jesus as God was idolatry.  No created thing, they said, can be the uncreated God.  To believe it is, is sin.  No way should we bow down and worship such a fleshly being.  So is Christianity an idolatrous religion in that sense?  Yes, Jesus for Christians has become a forbidden idol.  I now and then readily admit it/he is.  The man Jesus was God.  I am an idolater.  Of course.




The wheel of heaven, with all its pomp and splendour, circles

around God like a mill.

My soul, circumambulate around such a Kaaba; beggar, circle about such a table.

Travel like a ball around in His polo-field, inasmuch as you

have become happy and helpless.

Your knight and rook are circumambulating about the king,

even though you move from place to place on this chessboard.

He set on your finger the royal signet so that you might become a ruler having authority.

Whoever circumambulates about the heart becomes the soul

of the world, heart-ravishing.

The heart-forlorn becomes companion to the moth, he circles about the tip of the candle,

Because his body is earthy and his heart of fire—congener

has an inclination towards congener.

Every star circles about the sky, because purity is the congener of purity.

The mystic’s soul circles about annihilation, even as iron

about a magnet,

Because annihilation is true existence in his sight, his eyes

having been washed clean of squinting and error;

The drunkard made ablution in urine, saying, “O Lord, deliver me out of impurity.”

God answered, “First realize what impurity is; it is not meet

to pray crookedly and topsy-turvy.

For prayer is a key; and when the key is crooked, you will not

attain the favour of opening the lock.”

I fall silent; all of you, leap up! The cypress-like stature of my

idol cries come!

Emperor of Tabriz, my King, Shams-i Dın, I have closed my

lips; do you come, and open!


                                                                        Rumi 32 translated by Arberry


Love is always idolatry.  Christianity is the religion of love.




6459  A taste for nominalism is counter to a taste for realism.  That is to say, Platonic realism.  A realism of separate universals.  Where is the intensity of being?  It is an aesthetic thing.  Do you prefer the warm embrace of a full-bodied, completely determinate individual swimming majestically through time as in a sea of defining relations?  Or do you prefer stripped-down bare elegance, timeless and placeless, a cold classic?  The first is the nominalistic individual, matter and essence and all its accidents, boldly replete in precise self-circumscription.  The Platonic thing is a bare, one thing so pure it cannot be seen except by the very refined spiritual eye.  One moves happily in the great crowd, the other is a sequestered jewel in the supra-luminescence of icy divine splendor.  It is change and advancement vs. the paralysis of unchanging perfection.


The Suppositum of the Schools is an essence individualized by fecund, rich matter and a complete wardrobe of verdant accidents, a being dressed for commerce in the world with all its opulent contextualizing.  No austere hardness there.  While the Platonic realist is left with barely anything.  The bleak, keen wind of the darkening streets and manic erotic madness.  The Cut of excessive spiritual glamour.


The early church was eremitic.  Realism prevailed across the magical, rugged spiritual wasteland.  Jinn and demons and flaming angels kept company with the solitary.  Alone with the Alone.  But then the New World was discovered and business started up.  Wealth and promise.  Progress!  Evolution!  The March of humanity.  Now who seeks out the hermit and his fleas, lover of the beautiful Son of God?  No one.




6460  The age of nominalism was/is the age of perspective.  At a particular place, at a particular time, from a certain point of view, a unique face reveals character and personality in the ordinary individual as it/he/she bodies forth in never-to-be-repeated definition.  The singular is at hand.  Life proceeds.


Modern, abstract art, in spite of its advertisements, is anti-perspective.  The surface is flat.  Depth is gone.  Basic colors glare.  Sharp, very straight lines pierce the air then stop.  Chaos entangles itself in cybernetic stillness.  Life secedes.  Here thought sees the real, its final object.  That face you have known forever in your dreams.




6461  The late medieval notion of a Suppositum is magic.  If you remember that it was invented to do what cannot be done, and you just go with it, then it will lead your mind around and around and around into a delightful vision of divine madness.


It is something like the non-dualism of Vedanta, which does not say that mind and matter, appearance and reality, samsara and nirvana, or any other provocative pair are really one.  Me genoito.  Rather they are just not two.  Non-dualism does not imply monism.  It's like a Zen koan.  Or it is a Zen koan.  You cannot think it.  But it is pure philosophy.  Mind obliterating purity.


Likewise the notion of a Suppositum was meant to explain how an ultra-simple being like God could be three.  Those three persons are identical with the divine nature itself, but that identity does not mean that they are all the same one being.  Still there is only one God, not three.  The identity is super-tight.  The Trinity is non-triple.  Supositum is identical with divinity and they are not two, but each supositum has its own separate existence, which is the very idea of a suppositum.  Still that identity of suppositum and divinity firmly establishes the brute fact that there is only one God and He is absolutely simple.  Three that are one.  An unthinkable Christian koan.  Or a trick.  It drives the ordinary uninspired metaphysician crazy.  I love this suppository mind fuck.  A theological duende.    The cross-eyed imp romps.




6462  Identity.  Suppositum.  And the very idea of ontology.   A suppositum is a kind of ultra-substance.  It is the thing itself in its self-identity as just that.  That would obviously include all its most fleeting, minute properties.  And what I call the bare particular, which is, by the very idea of such a thing, beyond description.  And it is with those two statements that we see something strange going on.  I jumped into ontology and rather expected you to follow.


Consider two ordinary objects—my aching thumb and God.  I think you had no difficulty thinking them up immediately.  And, because you know you are reading philosophy, you know we are going to do ontology, whatever that is.  One thing is for sure, the end result of yours and my analysis is supposed to be identical with the ordinary things we started out with.  Ordinary something = its broken-apart ontological pieces.  Now then, the magic of the Suppositum is that it straddles both camps.  It is both the everyday and something impossibly metaphysical.  God, the very one we so happily pray to, dissolved into a very hard to grasp Three in One as Three.    From simple thinking-on to hyper-intellectualization.  The ordinary object deconstructs.  And/but the ordinary is the unthinkable Other.  Ontology is a magical enchantment into the Nowhere of no thing, Non-being beyond Being.  The Super-Essential One.  A Capital Letter Ur-Thing.  A very quiet scream.  And that's why all my writings go crazy.  I am after all a scary anti-substantialist.  My thumb aches for the Son of God and the Act.  Of Existence.




6463  There comes a time when one is writing philosophy to abandon logic.  But here timing is important and to do so before the right time would be miasmatic.  Our love of the beautiful God dictates that we want to (though we know there really is no way) to derive the teeming multitude of ontological things and quasi-things from the Super-Pure Simplicity of that One—or to mention it without resorting to such a cumbersomeness.  Another instance would be … oh my, almost every instance of philosophical structuring is an erotic logical screw-up.  And, yes, in theology Jesus and his Incarnation come-on is from out of the dark humor of the Kierkegaardian Absurd.  As is His being one with that other One in what is really a militant assault on thought—as is all erotic love.  So we devise ontological sky-hooks.  I personally love to hang from them.  Philosophy is shot-to-the-head magic. 


N. B. There is never a right time for science and the everyday to take that path into such beguilement.  We must reassure those workers in civil society that philosophy and theology are really nothing, nothing at all.




6464  What about life after death?  Will I survive beyond this world?  For me, that word "I" of course refers to two very different things. One is Gary Smith as a historical character.  The other is my conscious self.  That consciousness is really no more connected to him than it is to the Gulf of Mexico.  Gary Smith is something in the world of which I am conscious.  He appears as close.  That body of water appears as far away.  But they are both an object of consciousness, not the conscious self itself.


Will that historical character survive a translation from one world to another?  I have no idea.  There's no reason why he couldn't; then again there's no reason why he should.  In fact the Gulf of Mexico may survive the transition.  But whether he or it does or not is irrelevant to the survival of my consciousness self.


Mind and its object are two, not one, and they exist independently.  All facts are independent of one another and the only connection is causal and causality is a purely statistical happenstance of togetherness, not creative.  The connection between mind and its thoughts is from out of a different bag of intellectual candy altogether.  How does mind as just itself survive change of properties?  (I assume thoughts and mood etc. are exemplified universals— but never mind.)  That is the bug-a-bear ontological question of how anything survives change.  And here we are at the limits of analysis.  It is here that I have jumped into the sun.  Ontological things are unchanging.  They are timeless, placeless, bare super-refinements.  And that ain't the everyday world.  Beyond consciousness in time there is divine stillness, where there never was a world to worry about.


Do you think my answers suck?  I have an urge to go on, but, no.




6465  Its existence is other.  A fact's actuality invades it.  A property is grounded in a thing ontologically separate.  Should we blame this cutting-off on Ibn Sena (Avicenna)?  Or perhaps on the unraveling that leaves theParmenides of Plato a worrisome thing?


Its existence, its ground, its actuality, its possibility, its meaning, its power, its value, its oneness beyond disintegration … and on and on, that beloved-beyond-having that is one's very being, jolts thought and weakness bolts.  This impossible to grasp hold of (impossible-to-grasp-hold-of) separation leaves dialectic lovingly hanging.  In the Sky.  In the pupil of his Eye.  Pray for strength.  To come from afar.


In his philosophy Bergmann ontologically separated a fact from its actuality, which was separate from its likewise separate potentiality.  He refused to separate a simple thing from either its existence or simplicity.  Or difference from differing things. He did separate an ordinary object from its ontological assay, its many groundings.  And with that last he did enter Enchantment. 


A suppositum (my temporary obsession) is just such a separation of essence from existence.  The very being of a created substance is alien to it.  The itself of a thing itself is another.  How to think it?  If you step over the critical boundary of what can be uttered and thought, and you try to think separation itself, the tortured deconstructed heart, the unthing, you falter.  But perhaps the Lover will catch you.  You must have faith.




6466  If you ask a true believer in medieval scholasticism whether or not a suppositum is a bare particular, he will huff and puff and say that it most definitely is not.  But it is.  It's just that he hates the very idea of anything being bare.  He needs to get over it.  He prefers his confusion.  Still, there's something about confusion that promises answers.  That's the romance part.  I suppose philosophy may be only that.  I have in fact said as much, so maybe he has a point.  But No.  A suppositum is a bare particular.  And that "cross-categorical hybrid" that is primary substance plus accidents is rather a fact, which is another something that those nominalists (along with the nominalistic moderate realists) haven't.  Oh well, ontology is a magical mess.  Everything needs to be stripped down bare and then the pieces fit together well.  Or better.  Or almost.  Until they don't and the orgasmic bomb blows it all up.  And up.  And up.  Into, yes, transcendent Romance.  With the bare Particular himself—if you're lucky.


If none of that made any sense or seemed academically anything but kosher, then huff and puff some more until the Vision comes.  He's always close at hand.




6467  As I see it and as I have written it up many, oh so many times, universals, let's say the color Blue and the Look of Love, are timeless and placeless.  Or in techno-savvy phraseology, I do not believe in the Localization Principle.  Ontological things are not located "in" anything.  Not in space, not in time, not in mind, not those neuro-environmental interfaces benighted science writers call cognitive events - experiences.  Not in nothing.  They just are.  It's brute all the way.


Well, yes, contemplating that is magical.  That is the fun of simple ontology.  Vertigo.




6468  What should we think of David?  Did he really exist?  Your answer will depend on your idea of just what religion is.  Is it a set of rules and laws that should govern our lives?  Or is it a passionate love affair between God and his chosen one?  Dispassionate, rational, sensible people will reject the second as fluff.  Lovers will reject the first as dead politics.  Was David a great leader setting up an earthly kingdom, a homeland for the Jews, a place where the Law of God is respected?  Or was he the beloved of God, one with the Sons of the Prophets, whirling in the vortex of charismatic passion?  King David or the Beloved.  His very name means the latter.


If you see David as King, then you will probably want to say that he really existed and events happened much as they are depicted in the Bible.  If you see David as beloved, then you might want to rank him among the great heroes of old, perhaps standing with Achilles.  I see David as beloved, not king.  Therefore, I suspect his story is very, very old.  Samuel, Saul, David are all part of an ancient tale of passion.   And passion is extremely old.  I suspect the stories are from a time before agriculture and settled city life, and they are tales for and about warriors roaming about terrible wastelands.  A place of holy orgies and intoxicating sacrifice.  Then El was a warrior god, not the consort of a fertility goddess.  A gathering of "prophets" on the high places constituted a rave.


So why do we have those stories of King David?  Those stories were written at the time the kings of Judah were trying to establish themselves in a very tight place between Egypt and Assyria.  I think they took those old tales of a beloved hero and tried to make him real.  They made him the founding father of a political entity.  The same thing was being done all over that part of the world.  Thus the phrase "the House of David" did not originally refer to a dynasty, but was the name of a people who had that story at the center of their thinking.  David did not "really" exist; rather he was Super Real in their passionate existence.  Much as the Greek heroes were for other peoples.  Passion isn't merely real; it is Real.  We are in the realm of Capital Letter Beings.  But you may not believe in such nonsense and politics and good order here and now are more to your taste.  I say, to each his own.




6469  Never trust a philosopher to do science.  By science, I also mean theorizing about all manner of human behavior.  Except in one very little, negligible situation.  When a soul wants and needs an escape from the world, philosophy then might be of help.  One cannot contemplate the Eternal Forms and from that come to know about the world.  Such contemplation reveals nothing.  It merely takes you away from it all.  Into burning love.


Science wants to know how things fit together, how this world was constructed. It is the thinking of an engineer.  In philosophy things fall apart, the center gives way, the heart aches.  It is the unthinking of a lover.  Is God the Great Designer Builder or is He the Beautiful One that leaves you wandering the nighttime streets, sleeping on the beloved's doorstep?  That last is so literary.  The former is out of a technical manual.  Never trust a lover to design a livable home embedded in a self-sustaining ecological environment.  Never let an ecologist plan your love affair.  Cybernetic synthesis vs. the bleeding cut.


I write all that knowing full well that today those who call themselves philosophers have totally abandoned that mystical metaphysical religion of the burning heart of Jesus.  And want to do science of the mind.  Not the tight groin and the wrenching gut.




6470  Modern thought, going through Descartes, comes from Andalusia.  Those Moorish Christians got it from the East.  It churned about in theDark Night of the Soul.  Burning passion.  That is mathematics.


A perceptive reader recently said he was "intrigued by some of the ideas that you let fly amidst the occasional nonsensical and purposely vague bloviating".  He meant it in a friendly, slightly biting way.  (He may not know that he speaks as the gadfly Oistros/Eros.)  Nonetheless, I will go with it in a slightly more serious manner.  When I said that a mathematical spirit (or jinn) arose out burning passion, was that sheer nonsense?  No doubt heading out into this continued bloviation.  I suppose.  And that is Philosophy.  The Impish thing I love.  Look here.


In Andalusia we find the Alhambra.  It is geometrically exquisite and it is a pleasure garden.  Maybe Xanadu.  The most refined intellects find a home there.  And of course the place is still ringed about by unsurpassed love poetry, minutely crafted.


But it's all a dream.  That poor part of the world is a desert.  A desert just like the one where our princely religion was born.  Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples: for I am sick of love.


4726 Hieros and oistros both come from √eis a root denoting passion. Likewise holy iron and irate. Heiros is the sacred and oistros is the sting of the gadfly. The priest and the satyr Socrates. Oistros is madness. Hera sent Eustrus to sting Io causing her to wander to the ends of the earth. That is the pattern of our intellectual journey. One does not move in the world of the mind without a satyr gadfly inciting you on. That’s a fact. That is the madness of thought. That is the priesthood of thinkers.




6471  I can feel with my fingers that in my pocket there is a coin.  I wonder if it is a nickel or a quarter.  I reach in, pull it out and I see it is only a nickel.  Before I looked it could have been either.  It was in a state of ambiguity.  What should we say about that, ontologically speaking?  Was the ambiguity only "in my thinking" or was the object, quite literally, both a nickel and a quarter.  That is to say, was the ambiguity real?  And then the testing or act of measuring "made" the duplicitous state collapse into being definitely one or the other.  Is indeterminateness only mental?  Or is matter itself really indeterminate?  Modern physics, with its quantum states of superpositioning, seems to be saying the latter, i.e. matter is—before being measured—ambiguous.


It is the act of measuring that "gives" form.  Or so one might say.  Only in being seen and probed do we and ordinary material things take on definiteness.  Beforehand x is both F and ~F.  Afterward it is one or the other.  And perhaps here I should emphasize that this probing in not just an act performed by a mind.  When light strikes an object and bounces off carrying with it an isomorphic image of the object, so to speak, and no conscious mind is there to receive the light, as it were, that too is a measuring.  Then the quantum state also collapses.  It's all very nebulous.  It reveals the vertigo inherent in today's science.  Matter simply will not be pinned down.  Only in Perfection away from matter will matters be settled so understanding can finally be.


The ideas pressed into black marks in my writing are obviously  in that indeterminate state.  Perhaps if you probe them they will become for you more definite.  You will have to lift them off and away from those markings and you can then fly with them well-formed and perfectly seen/known in the intellectual heaven that reveals itself only to you.  I wish I were there.  I write in  a state of dreamy vagueness.  I am then incarnate.




6472  What is the difference between a perceived object, an imagined object and a bare Form?  Consider the human head.  If you look over there at such a one in the so-called real, material world, you will see a very complicated object indeed.  If you furtively glance at one in your fleeting imagination, it will seem so minimal as to be a mere wisp.  And the almost impossible gaze that captures the pure Form sees (if seeing is the right word) a questionable, i.e. an over-certain, emptiness (but not really a nothing).  We move from complexity to ravishing simplicity.  I utter the words "human head" and you know, you are taken, instantly to a vanishing presence.  Yes, you have a face-to-face encounter with the pure Form before it, in a flash, is filled in with determinate ornaments, however meager, however lush.  Some of us have a taste for elaboration, some for an elegant hint.




6473  Did David really exist?  As a material, historical figure … who knows?  Maybe yes, maybe no, for the religiously minded it makes no difference.  The two central figures or characters or persons of the Old Testament are God and David.  It's a love affair.  An affair that spreads far and wide.  One that we are all caught up in.  Or rather those of us who want to be.  "Caught up" is the key phrase.  We are Ganymede.


Did Ganymede really exist?  Was there an actual material, historical somebody who was that?  Probably not, but who cares?  The Idea is powerful.  As is the Idea of David.  Do Ideas exist?  Most emphatically, Yes!


There are three intellectual positions about Ideas to take.  One is that they don't exist  but they only point to material individuals that do.  Another is that they exist as archetypes in the collective Mind of Man.  This second is really only a variation on the first.  A third position is that they do exist and that both material reality and the psychological, historical mind are images or pieces of those transcendent Things.  I have consistently taken the last position, though just what the connection between such Eternal Beings and the material world is, is up for late night debate.


Alas, those who call themselves religious today are waiting for ordinary reason and archeology and material history to prove the Bible true.  It's not going to happen and then their faith will probably wither.  They never were truly religious. That withal, the Ideas hang There regardless in deadly stillness.




6474  In my outside-the-walls, faggot existence I always choose style over content, form over substance.  Of course, in, on or smeared all over the boy god of my Ontos On philosophy, style is content and form is substance, but that is neither here nor there.  Thus I love the poetry of Rumi, a succession of couplets that really have absolutely nothing to do with each other, but which in their rhythmical, rhetorical flow coalesce into one fine figure of a sassy beloved.


Likewise, I really like the video documentaries of Adam Curtis.  They magically explain contemporary political and financial and psycho-social theorizing to the contemporary confused mind.  With a strange jumping around and breaking off juxtapositioning of images and sound he pulls it off.  Understanding does come.  Or does it?  Maybe it's all foam and froth on only a virtual ejaculation.  People who like serious analysis with the feel of real substance and content hate it.  They want hard proof from carefully collected data.  They want straight objectivity.  They are not faggots (not saying that Curtis is, mind you).  But that solid well-grounded centeredness is a fantasy.  All understanding rides on the wave crests of phenomenal appearance.  There is no rock bottom, unless we consider that of the Boy.  Only there is data mining likely to reveal veins of real gold.  Life is a very real dream.  That hand coming around your waist will never let go.




6475  Last time I said that solid well-grounded centeredness is a fantasy.  All understanding rides on the wave crests of phenomenal appearance.  There is no rock bottom.  Life is a very real dream.  Does that mean that I am an idealist who believes that all existence is in or from out of the mind or The Mind?  Is everything but flotsam and jetsam on the surface of the Absolute?  Not at all.  The things we see are real.  It's just that they have the form of a dream.  What appears before my mind's eye exists of itself.  Existence is force.  We are up against Things.  Too close.  Strange shiftings.  Impossible juxtapositionings.  Monstrous differences. 


Bergmann said, "The differences among some of the several existents are very great indeed.  I, for one, would not hesitate to call them momentous, or enormous.  That, I submit is a major source of the resistance serious ontology has always met.  For these differences are much greater than most are prepared to face."  It all rolls by so easily.  That is the dream.


George Saintsbury in his History of English Prose Rhythms writes, “It has, I have no doubt, occurred to other students of elaborate rhythmical prose that curiously large proportions of the most famous examples of it are concerned with dreams; and I should not suppose that many of them have failed to anticipate the following suggestion of the reason. Dreams themselves are nothing if not rhythmical; their singular fashion of progression (it is matter of commonest remark) floats the dreamer over the most irrational and impossible transitions and junctures (or rather breaches) of incident and subject, without jolt or jar. They thus combine—of their own nature and to the invariable experience of those who are fortunate enough to have much to do with them—the greatest possible variety with the least possible disturbance. Now this combination, as we have been faithfully putting forth, is the very soul—the quintessence, the constituting form and idea—of harmonious prose. Unfortunately it is not every one who has the faculty of producing this combination in words; fortunately there are some who have.”


There are a number of ways to achieve unity in a piece of writing, philosophical or otherwise. For philosophy, one of those ways is a clean, logical progression, another is a steady dialectical peeling back, but, as in that quote above, it can also be had in numerous prose, the rhythm of dreams, captivating metrical variation, telling repetition, the smooth jolt of the irrational. Something is awry. The thing itself is close at hand. The eye works into itself. And the soul is beside itself. The night trick. Fearsome, fearless philosophy.




6476  I have the rather simple thought that a bite is different from a byte.  And then the slightly more intense thought that a class is different from is elements.  All the way up into the intellectual heaven where I am the thought that a nexus is different form a fact.  A bare particular is different from a universal.  A quantifier is different from a connective.  And on and on.  I spy the circumstance of difference.  And that difference is greater than the Aeons.  Yet it is a simple thing and easy to think.  Though if one dwells on that thought and lets the spirit contemplate its moment in Being, then the mind buckles and the riot that is philosophy starts up.  It's all rather stupifying.  Το οντος ον is a god.  A dark-eyed lure.  You yawn and gape at Being ajar.  You pine supine.




6477  Most thoughtful people today would hesitate to believe that analysis is one with mystical experience.  Analysis is a breaking apart and the mystical lies with unity.  In fact, in order to achieve enlightenment many have felt the need to deny the existence of difference and plurality altogether. Consider blue and green.  They are two different colors, but there are those who vehemently insist that those two words have meaning, thus name existents, only in context, only as situated within the greater spectrum of color-meaning, which, they persist, means that one thing has 'existence' only in relation to other things—voilà difference, real difference, vanishes.  Until finally only The Super Great Massive Inter-relating, aka The Absolute, really exists of itself, has Svabhava, and that is unthinkable.  A blast to the head.


Well, No.  Green is different from blue—that circumstance, as I want to call it, is a Thing.  It is itself different from green and from blue and from different from and from is and from the nexus that combines them all.  A whole zoo of the timeless uncreated.  Analysis yields a circumstance as an existent.  And then the circumstance of that circumstance being different from its ontological unpieces.  It's a great pile.  Just like the baroque squalor where the Asian demimonde glare at you.  And it is only in such a magical place that you find the gods.  I know because I have bedded down with a few in timeless wandering.  But maybe you don't call that clean mysticism, only a broken and perverted sophism.  I say they are the same thing.  Miscreants and the outcasts.  The mistaken savior.  The Gods of Analysis.


Analysis is not a human act, but a simple Form near which you can feel the cold heavenly breeze that makes you shutter.  The shattering.  Le frisson.




6478  A correspondent wrote. " … intellectual analysis is not only good, but absolutely essential where appropriate.  Where it has no place it's good for a good laugh, but unfortunately, the apprentice has become almost convinced it is equal to the sorcerer, and is responsible probably for most of the trouble in teh world today"


Where is analysis appropriate and where is it not?  First off, let's say that analysis reaches its end when it encounters an absolutely simple thing.  That is to say, analysis is a breaking into pieces, ontological pieces in this consideration.  The absolutely simple is one thing with no parts.  Of course, I use the word "parts" in a metaphorical way, not mereological.  Do such simple things exist?  Yes.  Most philosophers today disagree, but that's another story.


So let's say we hold Being in our hands and we take it apart, much the same way a child takes apart a clock.  Now all the pieces are scattered before us.  It isn't a neat arrangement, but a bewildering mess.  Analysis is finished.  We could of course start to reassemble all of it in an act of synthesis, the opposite of analysis.  Or we could just stare at it.  Or like a boy we could shove it under our bed.  Is there a mystical experience to be had in all that?  Some of us think so.  Others find only a ruin.  Your Mother an exasperation.


Obviously the clock is no longer going to tick.  We have timeless Things right there.  If Being was a god, then we killed him.  A boy, however, will usually look over his uncreation and see magical loose gems.  In his act of undoing this magus of backward enchantment gleefully undid everything.  He has gone back into the godhead.


Enough of that!  Concerning mind what does analysis reveal?  Aristotle said that the world is many and the mind is one.  Kant spoke of the transcendental unity of apperception.  So now consider a clock, a working clock.  The many pieces all harmoniously move together.  Now consider your awareness of that marvelous machine.  The clock is many, but your awareness of it is one thing.  But perhaps I should simplify my example.


Consider the fact that this (call it a) is a pencil (P).  In logical symbols P(a).  Now consider the thought that this is a pencil.  In symbols [P(a)].  Now consider that the thought Means or refers to or intends the fact.  In symbols [P(a)] M P(a).  Do you see how the fact is many and the thought is one simple thing?  Now then, consider a particular thought.  As I just laid out my ontology, a thought is a simple universal; that is to say, it is, has been, and will be exemplified by many particulars.  Which brings us to a consideration of universals, but I ain't going to go there now, because it's too much for one little posting.  Let me only as a sorcerer utters the charm that thoughts exist.  I mean, they really do.


I don't know about you but as I contemplate that or stare at this, is find it thrilling.  Give it a change it will grow on you.  I think it was both Hegel and Kierkegaard who taught us that philosophical dialectic is funny.  God's Laughter.  I love it.  The social commentator sees trouble.




6479  Analysis.  That Thing cursed by so many.  That breaking apart.  Let's analyze a set.  The elements a and b make a set.  First off, we might feel a slight dither over that little word "make"—but it's nothing.  So, we have a and we have b and we have (a,b).


Earlier I spoke of the circumstance that a and b are different.  I said that that circumstance was also a thing, a thing separate from a and b.  A circumstance is not the same as a set, of course it isn't.  We could, metaphorically, say that a circumstance divides, while a set unites.  We could say that but then we would be implying that there is something that does the dividing and the separating.  And many will step right up and say it is the mind that has the power to do that.  I will, with a wave of my magic hand, dismiss that out of hand.  It's an solution that solves nothing, except by obfuscation.  Even if the mind does that, we are left with the same ontological problem of figuring out just what a set is.  Look at that set and that circumstance, look at them closely, whether in the mind or out, look right at them.  What do you see?


Both are one thing.  And both are two.  It's a sort of one-two thing.  And right away we know that that's a logically troublesome thing.  And right at the center there is difference and togetherness, two interloper-quasi-things that threaten to make our two lovely specimens be even more complex as they lie as victims on our sacrificial dissecting table.  They become one-many.  It's mind-destroying.  No one has successfully managed to ontologically analyze the togetherness of  a  set and the difference of a  circumstance.  We are here at the limits of ontological analysis and we have barely begun!  Still, there is something magic in this vision of such a simple puzzle.  Analysis has led us up to unknowing.


Or have we been bamboozled?  Don't we so easily, so simply know exactly what a set and a difference is as long as we don't look?  Well, yes.  But some of us want to look.  We impish ones.




6480  Here's one reason why I am not a materialist, but only one. They don't believe in the existence of thoughts.  Take this thought – I wonder if I've put enough salt in my omelette.  It seems obvious to me that such things as thoughts exist.  And if you look at one—go ahead have one and look at it—you will see plainly that it is not located anywhere in space (if you opened up your brain you would not find it), but it is located in time, though not stretched out through time—thoughts are instantaneous.  So now you might ask about the sentence or text, namely – "I wonder if I've put enough salt in my omelette".  Yes, the text that you may speak to yourself and which I have written down is located in space and it has temporal extension, but that (English) text is not the thought.  It may be true that for us (weak) humans we must always have the text along with the thoughts, but that's only happenstance because of our human situation.  Thoughts and text fuse but they are two.  Just what that fusion is, is rather mysterious, but that's neither here nor there.  Materialists balk at the very thought that thoughts exist.




6481  We live, for the most part, in a world of particulars exemplifying universals.  Or course others disagree.  They don't like universals and they just laugh at bare particulars.  Little do they know that "inside" the universal I have another almost invisible little impish individuater that makes it just that universal and not another.  So why do I have them?  It's because the "feel" of those un-propertied, bare-ass under-things drives me to work the face of God.  Which I suppose makes no sense to you at all.


Bare individuaters account for the work we must do when we encounter the Form.  Even now as I write up the Form of philosophy in these paragraphs I work it.  The Form itself is the thing achieved.  Then stillness.  The Eternal Return is forced.




6482  I write  about facts all the time.  And I suspect my readers (I wish I actually had some) find such things to be a little confusing.  Are there material objects "behind" the facts, that those facts are about.  Well, No.  Absolutely not.  What would such a material ground be?  Beats me.


A fact, as I use the word, is an ontologically complex structure "made out of" simpler things.  It's more than a little difficult to figure out just what the relation is between a complex and simple things.  Nonetheless, for the moment that is beside the point.  I am talking about what some people think is "behind" or is the ground of such ontological beasts.  No doubt, most people want to hook up philosophy with the everyday world.  I don't, I want to hook it up with a transcendent romance, but that's neither here nor there.  Is the world of philosophical things a reflection or shadow of the ordinary world we live in?  God forbid. Philosophy studies the Real, the really real.  Ordinary life in the everyday world is merely real, hackneyed, nothing to write home about.


No, ontological things are not concepts we devise to order our boring lives.  They are otherworldly things.  I suppose that's why they are more than a little scary to most.  Even to me.  But I, like a fool, enter that land of enchantment.  Fools walk in where angels fear to tread.  Romance is a fool's game.  Etc..  That's me.




6483  There are facts and then there are thoughts of those facts.  Facts have at times been called the content of thought.  The problem is that then thought and its object become confused and the distinction is lost.  Maintaining that separation is a mighty hard job.  Think of Aquinas.


For him thought was abstraction.  The intellect pulled the form away from matter and then that pristine thing hung in the mind.  It was there to be contemplated.  If contemplated was your game.  I think a lover understands well.  He sees his beloved, pulls away the form and then goes off to ponder and caress.  Then he declares in rather nice poetry that he is his beloved.  No one is surprised.  What, after all, is the separation between the mind and a form in it?  The mind has become the form.  Or such is the falling of love.  He fell, in love.  Still, this lover knows that his lover is far away, even if he is in the next house.  And the separation is so absolute as to be hellish.  We understand.  Oneness and separation.  How are we to think it?


The best I can do is have a nexus that unites.  A powerful link.  So powerful the two are in danger of being crushed.  Yes, the boy has a crush on another.  Lovers play with language hoping the other will come so hard.




6484  5039 Thomas Mann in Death in Venice wrote “Passion is like crime: it does not thrive on the established order and the common round; it welcomes every blow dealt the bourgeois structure, every weakening of the social fabric, because therein it feels a sure hope of its own advantage. These things that were going on in the unclean alleys of Venice, under cover of an official hushing-up policy – they gave Aschenbach a dark satisfaction. The city’s evil secret mingled with the one in the depths of his heart – and he would have staked all he possessed to keep it, since in his infatuation he cared for nothing but to keep Tadzio here, and owned to himself not without horror, that he could not exist were the lad to pass from his sight.”


Is religion madness?  Of course.  Are the statements of metaphysics absurd?  Yes of course.  Will the god you worship end up being your death?  That is the hope of every devotee.  Should we teach religion/metaphysics/love in the schools?  Only as reflected in a dark mirror.


But now we see clearly.  Martyrdom begins.  Angels ascend and descend.  They fight for the best seats.  Holy terror!  Pan Daimonium.  The flute is in the flautist's mouth.  The wind blows.  I flaunt my crime.  The down beat.


Cheeky down.  Musty violets.  Lusty violence.  Hush hush.  Mingle tingle secret stalking.  Possessed.  The curriculum runs along.  The lad passes from your sight.  Negative mania.  A sure hope of your own advantage.  And you're outta here.




6485  Is it possible to know the future and the past?  No.  It is possible to know a future and a past, but since there are an infinite number of futures and pasts leading out from any point in time, there is no the future and past.  Come to think of it there are probably more that an infinite number.  Could someone from the future and the past come here and visit us?  Same answer.  Is God, as Providence, in charge of deciding our future and our past?  Same answer.  Could God cancel out all futures and pasts except one?  God can do anything He wants.  Including both cancel them out and not cancel them out.  And on Judgment Day we will look back and see that we did everything in everywhere in everywhen and every judgment will fall on our head(s).We're getting screwed all around.  Cross-eyed and a little dizzy.


There never was a mystic who wasn't an embarrassment to his followers.  But they follow anyway.  Because they're followers.




6486  Sex is work. What is the relation between sex and higher consciousness?  I'm thinking especially of those mystical states that Indian gurus speak about.  They always say that sex must be avoided in order to achieve that blessedness.  Even in Tantra, sex is overcome through sex.  Or sex is transformed and sublimated.  Brahmacharya.  Why is that?


I am here going to write about something I know nothing about.  I hear said that in one of those higher states the person, probably in an instant, knows, or has the feeling he knows, every single minute facet of what is happening around him.  Indeed that area of knowing may be vast. The knowing is of something extremely complex, for sure.  I doubt the person, while in that state, is active doing this and that, going here and there, but is instead very still.  It's as though his mind has embraced the whole.  He is the fixed center point, while the field of knowing around him is teeming.  At least that is how I envision it, but who am I to say?


It seems to me that that stillness and sex are opposites.  No one wants a lover who just lies there—or sits there cross-legged and cross-eyed.  Do something!  I write about sex all the time.  I am over-sexed.  I am not a guru.  In fact, my minimalism is contrary to that contemplated complexity.  I am after one thing.  My arms do not embrace the whole.  I am reaching for just a very simple particular.  Even in writing these few paragraphs I am trying to find the end.  I keep going.  I wait.  I do this and that.  I forcible put down thoughts as they come.  I tingle all over.  Orgasm glares at me up ahead so close.  I work the words.  Just this.  Until it's over.  I should think my reader would be tired after this bout with love.




6487  I write a philosophy of universal Forms.  I write The Boy, not a particular boy of the world.  And that infuriates some.  They say that by forcing a real individual into the strait-jacket pigeon-hole of a Type I have in effect kidnapped him and shoved him into a dark cage.  I should be arrested!  Oh my.  Have I done that?


They say that individuals take precedence over the stifling Forms.  Those Platonic things are musty museum pieces out of the gloomy past, they insist.  Here is Borges on the matter:http://theontologicalboy.blogspot.com/2009/09/i-am-platonist-realist-but-that-truly.html .  Instead of the universal and the remote, I must correct my ways and learn to appreciate the infinite uniqueness of the one standing before me.  I mustn't try to limit him with my ancient Ideas.  He is vast, a great arena of activity, an ever self-transcending, laughingly creative whole person.  He is not a trans-cosmic stillness.  Or so I hear in countless reprimands.


What about such concern and those Indian guru higher states of consciousness?  I think they too will shy away from the universal Forms and try for the Whole being, the great complexity of life.  While I am here focusing in on one thing, one very narrow ancient thing.  The tight space of love and love's final point.  I want to be up against the hard rock, not drowning in the teeming undulating ocean.




6488  We live, for the most part, in a world of particulars exemplifying universals.  Or course others disagree.  They don't like universals and they just laugh at bare particulars.  Little do they know that "inside" the universal I have another almost invisible little impish individuater that makes it just that universal and not another.  So why do I have them?  It's because the "feel" of those un-propertied, bare-ass under-things drives me to work the face of God.  Which I suppose makes no sense to you at all.


Bare individuaters account for the work we must do when we encounter the Form.  Even now as I write up the Form of philosophy in these paragraphs I work it.  The Form itself is the thing achieved.  Then stillness.  The Eternal Return is forced.




6489  The great concern for idealism has been how to get outside the mind and into the world.  No one likes solipsism.  Some try to solve the problem with a dismissive wave of the hand, stating bluntly they are definitely not doing mind-knot philosophy.  Materialists think they have solved the problem by simply denying the mind and making thought and consciousness actually be a thing already in and of the world.  Indeed they make "mind" be not only the brain but the whole nervous system moving round and round in delicate embrace with nature, doing the Cybernetic.  Somehow unity is achieved.  Or it's supposed to be.  It isn't and it's messy.  It in fact makes no sense at all.  And one can't solve a problem by dissolving it in an acid bath of disdain. So it's back to the ontological drawing board.


Some doing meditation think Brahma consciousness is the way to go.  As I understand it, such mind stuff is the under-substance of all things.  It surrounds and seeps into everything.  I can't really disagree with that vision; then again I can't make any philosophical sense out of it at all.  I'm sure those meditaters couldn't care less about my need for philosophy sense.  It really is a very nice vision.


The Thomists thought that if the mind could abstract the Form of something away from its material underpinning, then the mind by holding and becoming that Form within itself would achieve that desired intimate unity of knowing with being.  It really is a magic philosophical idea.  I know a motorcycle by becoming a motorcycle sans matter.  Sweet.  But … .


I, in my philosophy, do have the intentional nexus that aims at finding unity with the existing facts.  It is super-tight.  So tight it hurts, whatever that means.  The problem is that all my ontological things are in a heaven absolutely separate from the everyday world.  I move to the land of ontological enchantment to find my long sought lover.  I do have Him, but I have lost the ordinary him in the material worldly world.  What to do?  I am content.  Sort of.  Until I'm out of here.




6490  If you drive around Iowa City, where I live, you will find the American ideal.  Street after street of very nice homes.  They are all well-kept, the lawns are perfectly trimmed, and the police discreetly patrol to keep out the riffraff.  The ideal is good order.  And as long as an American can hide from the world, surrounded by such perfection, he is content.  We did have a bad scare in Iraq and Afghanistan, where we by mistake got caught up in other people's terrible disorder, but we are now leaving.  And we are not about to go "out into the world" again.  Our neat lawn is a moat filled with immaculate good sense and it will protect us.


Any philosophy that preaches retreat into such a place is worthless.  If your philosophical theorizing and your abundant spiritual practices cannot serve you well while sitting and moving around in this world's very congested bazaar, then give it up.  A retreat into well-funded perfection is a retreat into death.  Alas, Americans want to be isolated and insulated from the world.  I suppose that's why they came here in the first place.




6491  It's very easy to see that the early stories of the Bible are grounded in and attempt to cover up an even earlier ritual sacrifice of the first born.  An act of madness.  Raving frenzy.  Rape and remorse.  Religion is a manic thing.  The God of man is a wild thing.  He still roams and stalks his beloved.


Man is at times possessed.  There are of course those who protest that the spirit possessing man then is not the Holy God of our own religions today.  But it is.  Man is strange and his strangeness is his utter holiness.  We are in a dangerous place.  None of us asked to come here (as far  as I know), but here we are and we  have to deal with it.  No doubt all our trying to calm things down and act rationally and sensibly will come to nothing.  Even now it seems close.  We are very close to divine hunger.  And we love to see it reflected in art.  What to do?




6492  In the time of Samuel, there were the Prophets and the Sons of the Prophets.  Ha-naviyim and the bene-ha-naviyim.  Navi is a root that means raving mad.  These prophets were not the stern righteous old men we imagine today.  They were roving bands of ecstatic spirit-possessed frightful beings.  The people feared them.  Samuel was in fact their leader.  And there were the qadeshim, holy male prostitutes.  Temples to the goddess also had their prostitutes; in fact, Judah visited one on his way home.  It was Tamar in disguise.  She tricked him into having his child.  Usually only anal intercourse was performed so the woman could be virgin like the goddess.  It was to be a holy act of union with the goddess herself, fertility and all that.  Anyway, on "the high places", God's prophets reenacted the frenzied rape/killing by the God-possessed of the sacrificial first born.  Later Jesus and the whole death and resurrection thing followed.  And you too in holy charismatic madness could unite with God and be God in the Act.  Power.  If only we had some qadishim.  We do.  You see why people were afraid.  And why they insisted and insist that religion clean up its act.  Most, of course, only want to see all this through a glass darkly.  And then they refuse to believe it.




6493  In times of great distress, when the prevailing god is angry and fury abounds, then some great sacrifice will have to be performed.  If the distress is great enough it will have to be human sacrifice.  Such has been the history of mankind.  Such a sacrifice is the Crucifixion.  God was furious with man, and the man Jesus, His Other become flesh, offered himself up to be killed in order that the fury might stop.  Christians believe that all who partake of the sacrifice will avoid God's wrath.  Christianity is a religion of human sacrifice and we have tried mightily to reap the benefits of it while avoiding the guilt of being executioner. The truth is that we cannot shove the blame for that man's death onto another such  as the Jews or the Romans or Judas or the Devil.  We are the killers.  And we now will get the fruit of that act.  God will be placated and He will calm down.


That fruit is that now we can lovingly eat the body and drink the blood of that sacrificial victim and feel him coursing through our bodies.  Christianity is strange, but it is an ancient ritual and we are not different from the ancients.

Why does God get so furious?  It is sheer jealousy.  The one He has been in love with takes off and go after other gods and goddesses.  Real lovers should understand perfectly.




6495  The logic of human sacrifice is indeed difficult to understand, especially in Christianity where it is followed by resurrection, not resuscitation, but Insurrection.  Usually in such acts the victim is the first born.  Isaac and Jesus both were that.  And often the killing marks the beginning of something entirely new.  That is the case here, but what exactly was it?  The Jesus who returned was not really human because he could disappear at any second and anyway he was not readily recognizable.  There's something strange about him.  Even creepy  and  uncanny.  That death changed things.


It's too long a story, so I'm going to narrow it down to its place in my philosophy.  As I see it the magical act is the instant when an ordinary object is changed into its ontological pieces.  When the boy changes into the Boy.  When Jesus the man changes into God.


An ordinary boy is taken away from the bosom of his family home and put in a monastery.  Maybe Christian, maybe Buddhist/Hindu, maybe a madrassa.  Or maybe it's a boarding school.  He is ripped away from the earth and put in a place where the Sky God can take him.  His thinking changes.  He is abstracted.  He is Ganymede.  The boy dies and an inhuman, ancient avian being takes his place.


This is the act of being born again, not of the flesh, but of the Spirit.  Not of the female, but of the male.  He learns the Wind, the Phallus, the cold glistening Heavens.  Maybe it isn't so difficult to understand.




6496  The book of Revelation speaks of streets of pure gold as transparent as glass.  How can that be?  Doesn't that take the goldness right out of the gold?  Imagine a rose so pure it smells like moonbeams.  Or flesh of musk so exquisite it is as blank as the high stratosphere.  What we have here, I think, is the radically separate Form known only in ephemeral contemplation.  It is known in less than an instant.  The mere mention of the word and it is gone before it arrives.  The mind is blowing.  In the spirit wind listing from nowhere to nowhere.  The fine locks of the Boy.


I am locked in stillness.  Like the Immoralist Michael, I have an almost unbearable freedom.  Things have broken apart and waft in unfeeling ecstasy.  I know perfect anxiety.  I am close to existence.




6497  My ontologism is not a naturalism.  The difference has to do with the localization principle, which states that to be is to be somewhere.  Consider a property of something.  Perhaps the roundness of a round thing.  Is that property located where that thing is?  Is it instantiated "in" the thing?  A naturalist will say that roundness is there with or in the round thing.  It is "there".  As I see it, naturalism is going to have a very hard time seeing that located property be a universal, unless universals are able to be at many different places at once.  It's more than likely that a property will become a trope, a this-roundness or roundness1 as distinct from that-roundness or roundness2.  The two roundnesses then become numerically different, though similar.  A robust universal is not located.


Naturalism is well on the way to nominalism.  It also quickly falls into conceptualism, the belief that universals are "mere" general concepts.  But then concepts, when exposed to the analytical light of day, evaporate and behold! even similarity vanishes.  Naturalism slips into materialism.  And matter is dark sleep.  Which, if you are a Romantic "half in love with easeful death", is thrilling.




6498  Last time I viciously attacked nominalism.  Not really.  My writing style, which probably reflects something about me, won't let me do that.  Except in the ethereal rigor of my trans-casual manner.  Which makes no sense.  Nonetheless, again the nominalism-realism debate is on!  And everyone waits to blink with bated eyelid. 


A few postings back, in 6487, I quoted Borges, where he, in his own vicious attack on Platonic realism (though he was/is  himself a practitioner of said "horrible imaginings") that "the only medieval debate of some philosophical value is between nominalism and realism".  I agree.  Once you settle on the obvious ontological fact that you desperately need universals to "do" philosophy, the rest is easy.


Now if you couple that with my last few postings on the Christian version of human sacrifice as the act of cutting up an ordinary innocent something into its ontological pieces, then we have what I vaguely saw reflected in my cutting up of a banana in my oatmeal as itself a dream-circumcision-type thing reflecting actual circumcision as symbolizing, or maybe actually being, said human sacrifice.  All of which means that Platonic realism has something dreamy and dangerous about it.


Nominalists want to say that universals are nothing more than flatus vocis.  Words words words.  No doubt they wanted to deflate the whole idea with that supposedly derogatory scholarly ejaculation.  But I think there is a certain poetic truth about it.  The Logos (aka the very Form of the Forms) became flesh.  The spirit is breath, the solar wind.  The breath, your very word formations, are best felt in the back of your throat.  It is there where the epiglottis meets the glottis that the  job of philosophy and all heavenly blowing is done.  That's why the sacrificial victim is eaten and drunk 'till you're drunk so lovingly.  But that's not at all what they had in mind.  Nominalists are always the death of the party.


So yes, understand well the nominalism-realism debate and you will have all of philosophy nestled right there on the Captain's Bridge of your cute little brain.  Which is also probably another image of human sacrifice, since everything else I say is.  There may even be something vicious about it this trans-flippant attack.




6499  Gustafson and Frisk in their book Elementary Plane Geometry write, "When we say that "2+2=4" we mean that "2+2" and "4" are just different names for exactly the same quantity.  Similarly, when we write AB=CD, we mean that line segment AB and lie segment CD are exactly the same set of points."  I love to read books on elementary mathematics because I love to contemplate the first things of ontology.  Numbers and lines and points and connectors building complex structures from them are magic to my philosophical eye.  Here, however, I think Gustafson and Frisk are wrong.  "2+2" names the complex 2+2.  "4" names 4.  And "2+2=4" names 2+2=4.  Likewise, a line is a line and a set of points is a set of points.  All those ontological entities, some simple and some complex, are different entities.  You cannot reduce one to the other by calling one a name for the other or simply by saying that the one is the other.  No doubt there is some connector between all of those many entities that grounds the unity G and F do see, but it's not what they say it is.  But then I, a Platonic realist, would say that, wouldn't I, against their nominalistic attempt.n that line segment AB and lie segment CD are exactly the same set of points."  I love to read books on elementary mathematics because I love to contemplate the first things of ontology.  Numbers and lines and points and connectors building complex structures from them are magic to my philosophical eye.  Here, however, I think Gustafson and Frisk are wrong.  "2+2" names the complex 2+2.  "4" names 4.  And "2+2=4" names 2+2=4.  Likewise, a line is a line and a set of points is a set of points.  All those ontological entities, some simple and some complex, are different entities.  You cannot reduce one to the other by calling one a name for the other or simply by saying that the one is the other.  No doubt there is some connector between all of those many entities that grounds the unity G and F do see, but it's not what they say it is.  But then I, a Platonic realist, would say that, wouldn't I, against their nominalistic attempt.




6500  "Evidence" is a word chucked about in a lawyerly contentious manner today by those hoping to defend their ideas now under attack by fools.  It’s a word that can by force of logic have no exact meaning, or at least one cannot come up with evidence that one meaning is more exact than another, and then it iterates.  So what we do when we reach the obvious is utter the obvious self-evident statement and let it go at that.  If you object then you are a troll.  All that seems obvious to me and I most definitely will not try to offer evidence in my defense.  I'm not into such lawyerly things.


So now the matter of philosophical intuition.  Google it.  It's the mental act of standing face to face with the object of thought.  I look at the real boy sitting over by the pillar.  I imagine a boy sitting there with him.  A real boy, an imagined boy.  Perception and imagination.  The object of both is a boy.  Both have the form of Boy.  The Form of Boy is exemplified by each.  Therefore the Form is not limited to the so-called real.  Whichever way I turn  I am face to face with it.  The Form of Boy exists.  The Forms exist.  And now I hear someone ask if  I have evidence for that.  I scowl.  Lovers and lawyers have always been at each other. That much is obvious.




6501  Entropy.  Things fall apart; the center cannot hold.  That is the defining characteristic of the material world.  Probes come at you and information is relayed.  You are known.  The probe leaves a mark.  After innumerable attacks the marks pile up into a wrinkled scab.  That's life.  Even rocks feel the shame.  The pure form, so smooth, is gone, long gone.  But not to worry another someone or something is just beginning and he, for the moment, looks beautiful.  Let's probe.




6502We are a fickle lot.  As lovers we are evil.  We stay around only so long as beauty stays around.  Then, following its lead, we move on to another.  I suppose we eventually realize that the moving on never ceases and we try for Beauty itself away from this and that.


Of course while we attempt to reach up and grab the unchanging Form we have to listen to those who tell us we are dreaming and in denial of the necessity of our face to face encounter with the forever of ultimate corruption.  They insist only death in the Ugly awaits.  But what they say makes no sense.


Maybe I know why they say that.  Perfection becomes sexual only when a touch of corruption gently appears.  They want me to admit that.  The prospect of corruption is thrilling.  Not the actual thing, but the prospect.  And, yes, only a touch, not a whole handful.  Ok, I admit that.  Nonetheless, I jump up to maintain the moment.


The perfect always contains its opposite.  It's a very delicate balance.  And as soon as we achieve the stillness of having, time, here, moves on and … entropy.  Can we ever win at this game?  Yes.


Finally, there is only order; disorder vanishes.  And we are back where we started.  It's inevitable.  The perfection of total imperfection is still a perfection.  Perfection reigns.  The Boy will always come again.  The Boy is God.  Capricious, hostile, mercurial.  Inevitable.  Think that thought in stillness.




6503  In Time, simplicity gives way to complexity.  The complex is the threat of disorder.  It is the form of entropy.  My only coat, after being pulled at and tugged so many times, has become a very complex surface.  I suppose there is beauty in that.  Even the simple beauty of extreme complexity.  Still, it is an old coat and I will throw it away for a younger prettier one.  I am a fickle lover.  Jehovah Himself in the Bible went from lover to lover and I follow Him in all things.


One of the marks of post-modern writing is its min-strangling complexity. It is decadent.  In its attempt to contain every nuance and destroy stupidity, it has fallen into a hole.  It's a very noisy social gathering of quick-witted brains.  I thought this was supposed to be a party, so why does everyone still have their pants on?  The firm-bodied dumb kid staring at the wall is very sexy.  Ah, simplicity.  I write minimally.  I hope to match that kid's solid existence.  The coat comes off and then the apocalypse.




6504I just read an interview with Guy Davenport in The Paris Review.   It was masterfully fake.  I mean the interview was real enough, but that author and the interviewing journalist presented an analysis of what is going on in that writer's stories that was nothing less than an attempt to completely evade the issue.  That issue being “… there are so many boys in their underwear!”  At one point, Mr. Davenport mentions a review of his own on Joyce Carol Oates, in which he complains that her characters are all in "desperate misery", while he writes about "happy people".  Earlier he described how shocked he was that a reviewer called his writing obscene.  Really, though, the whole interview barely touched on the matter of the boys and instead presented a rather light-hearted discussion of style and personal history.  The boys are too hard to talk about.  Just as critics never really talk about the boys in William Burroughs and Ginsberg.  The truth is that there is something there that is just as disconcerting as anything in the writings of Ms. Oates.  Or in mine.  Deep in the American South, or in the wooded mountains, along the slow Mississippi, and here with me on the empty Prairie, a frightening spirit moves.  There are boys in the air.  Boys in their underwear.  And then there's the Boy I bow down to.  It's an ancient religious thing.  For those who are able to think it and somewhat speak it sotto voce in words left lying about.




6505  Now for a bit more hardcore ontology.  Or medium hard.  I'm going to have a look at what materialists think really exists.  As I see it there are two types of material things.  First there are rocks and chairs and tongues and electrical transformers.  Those are the everyday material, i.e. physical, things we see all around us.  Second, there are those things that all such everyday things are made out of: subatomic particles, elementary forces, space-time dis-continua and I have no idea what else.  I will call the first type of material things perceptual and the second scientific.  Supposedly the perceptual are "really" the scientific.  No doubt the scientific rest on something farther down that is even more "real".  I think the current vocabulary stipulates that we say the perceptual emerges out of the scientific.  Maybe as a triangle emerges out of three conjoined lines, maybe not.  Emerging is rather mysterious to me, but I won't let that detain me.


Leaving the perceptual world we enter the scientific.  In that magical place we find structures.  It's structure, structure, structure all the way, from the smallest quanta stuck to my shoe out into our common mind-boggling  multi-verse.  I will venture to say that, even though all that is structure without end, no one knows exactly that that structure truly is.  Let's call it BS for basic structure.


As I see it, structure is one of those things that can be shared by many numerically different particulars.  A Boeing 787 is a highly structured thing.  Nonetheless, that structure is standardized and there are many such planes.  Likewise, the structure of a particular multi-verse might be much the same as another multi-verse.  A structure is a Form that is shared; it is a type of universal.


So, we live is a part of Being where things are particulars that have Form, in this case they have or share structural form.  Yes, dear friends, we live is a subject-predicate world.  A something "has" structure.  The something and the structure are other.  Now then, here we are in this particular multi-verse and it has structural form BS.  My question is, What is that something that has the form?  I have always said it is the bare particular, but you may balk at the thought.  OK, smarty pants, you come up with a better idea.


It always turns out that materialists don't like, indeed they laugh at, my idea of bare particulars and structural universals.  They say that those are mere concepts that I have gotten from God-knows-where and they aren't real, that I have projected something subjective.  Very well, what is really out there, then?  They invariably answer that it is X, something we don't know.  We emerge out of that and we will fall back into it.  It's a rather poetic answer.  Dark poetry.  And  right there we see what materialism really is: a love of dark poetry.  It's enough to make most of those guys cum in their pants.  I say, to each his own.




6506  Do colors exist?  Or are they just nothings?  Or maybe things emerging in experience?  What is that thing  "experience"?  Is that word just an abbreviation, an abbreviated way of talking about what is really a complex physical structure?  Or perhaps it is neither physical nor mental, those two words being a bifurcated way of talking about a third that is neither.  Oh my, yes, colors exist?  Why the convoluted attempt to deny that obvious fact?  And they are not just "in experience".  His pink jockstrap is still pink even when I'm not staring at it.  Or what?  It's something else that emerging.




6507  I have written innumerable times that I believe materialists in their pseudo-philosophizing are really confessing their - often tortured - love of dark poetry and the bewitching womb/tomb of Becoming.  That, of course, is Romantic Decadence.  The truth is that we are all the children of that sickness, that thing scholars call Romanticism.  I too.  Therefore, just like the others, I struggle against it.  I insist that I will not succumb, that there is a way past the watery darkness in the deep Lake of Fey.  I insist there is.  Camille Paglia and the others laugh.  C'est la vie.  C'est la guerre.


I just had an encounter with some members of the local LGBT group.  They certainly are nice and pleasant.  I have absolutely no complaints.  Nonetheless, I think I can see that they too are trying to overcome the past intimacy between the gay idea and Art.  They so very much want to be seen as normal.  And indeed they are.  I rather foolishly mentioned to them that they need to learn gay history and put some art in their house.  They agreed.  But I think they agreed only because they didn't know that history, that gay art.  If they really do want to enter mainstream normal, everyday life they are going to have to eschew all that.  And me too.


Romanticism is a twisted thing.  It is madness.  It is the sickness of Platonism.  It is bad writing.  It is the simple, blind mistake.  Embarrassment.  You fear it in bad dreams.  You will wake up so tired.  And your mind reels with creativity.


Romanticism is work.  Therefore it is like sex.  It, in fact, is that sexual arousal in deep sleep.  Long attempts to work the Erg.  To get it done.  To make it through to the end.   There is no end.  Only the cadence falling.


Oh, Freud.  Gay Romantic art is a catalogue of all the perversions.  In all that it has escaped the deadly normalcy of the everyday.  Art is a lure.  Then again waking up is salvation from such terror.  Oscillation.  There and back.  There and back.  The escape is always inevitable.




6508  I recently met a friend of a friend, an upside-down Hindu, which I guess is appropriate for him since he  has now moved to the other side of the world.  He has become a hardcore, scientific materialist.  Let me explain what has happened.  Brahma is Pure Consciousness.  He resided in absolute bliss until … until the slightest, the very tiniest, twinge of desire subtly ruffled that serene shield.  Then in an instant the whole panoply of worlds upon worlds appeared.  Yes, that one little, seemingly inconsequential, speck led to all this.  Now turmoil.  How are we ever going to get back to Serenity?  Upside-down that becomes something rather similar.


In the No-time before the Ur-instant of the Big Bang all was perfect order.  Entropy had in no way started up.  Then something happened.  Just what it was, we have no idea.  Perhaps a slight wobble in the dimensionless point (which makes no sense). Or a slight drain from Total Energy.  Was it that  orgasmic after-glow we call the Dawn?  Never mind.  I have no idea.  Bham! and there was the universe.  Or was/is it a slow falling back into the pure order of nothingness?  Brahma has fallen out of bed.  Yes, it's all one.




6509  In his book Bondage of the Will, Martin Luther laid out his argument with Erasmus.  The gist of it all centers around free-will.  Luther said that that was the hinge on which reformation turned.  Does God ask permission before he enters into your heart and takes over?  Must you first surrender before He gives you his love?  Must you willingly bend your knee?  Does He have such great respect for your integrity and your freedom that he will let you damn yourself before He will give you help out of the Pit against your will?  If so then Erasmus was right and wins the argument.  Luther argued against such a free will when it comes to matters of salvation.  He forcefully, argumentatively insisted that God never asks your permission.  Rather He takes you - if He is going to take you at all – in spite of all your kicking and screaming otherwise.  Basically, this is rape.  If God falls in love with you, He will have you.  And you will, no doubt, resist.  Such is divine Life, divine Love, divine Hunger.  Alas, today, Erasmus has taken over, not only the Church, but all of our thinking.  Free-will is insisted on.  Man shall be respected!




6510  Last week I sat and talked with both some Mormon missionaries and some members of the local LGBT group.  Both were very nice and extremely friendly.  They were like family.  And I, like Jesus, preach against family.


I suspect they each felt a very slight twinge of horror after some time with me.  I am not of their living community.  I am finally deathly formal.  The empty blank.  Knowable, recognizable, speakable, existing.  But scraping onto nothing.  No one.


I am fascinated by the resurrected Jesus.  At first they didn't recognize him and after they did there was none of that old human warmth.  He was matter of fact.  Even creepy.  Standoffish.  He could go through walls and disappear in an instant.  He ate without pleasure.  He was beyond life.  Beyond death.


I put pictures of soft porn on my site because they depersonalize.  Only the form is important.  No conviviality, only the crawl of impersonal desire.  I am not family.




6511  Today the family is all-important.  But that word now bewitchingly encircles a great family of vaguely inclusive quasi-structures.  Perhaps we owe that to Wittgenstein, who wrote about family resemblance.  Context is meaning.  Context grants existence.  You are somebody when you belong.


Ultimately there is only family and the simple individuals that were supposed to be the essential foundation are gone.  Your one mind-body is itself a family organism containing innumerably more families.  It is families within families within families up to the sky and down down down to the depths.  Growing.  Flourishing.  Dying.  The universe is alive!  Time rolls on.  Time is the substance of all.  Families love genealogies.


Thus set theory is the mathematics to describe what we are.  But I have tacked against this age.  I do have simple things that exist just themselves without being a part of any structure.  The spirit wind is not time, but the paralysis of infinite repetition.  Oblivion and the Again.




6512  I want to be observed.  And then I want that observer to write up his police report and hand it to the powers that be.  Then I want to secretly read it.  After that I will write up my observations and feelings and analytical analysis of his surreptitious delectations.  Around and around in perfect knowing.  Out in the bright lights of eternal night. 


It seems to be a great sin to look right at someone and see.  I should, I surmise, look past the embarrassing reality toward that other's dreams of the ideal.  Being directly seen wounds.  Even kills.  The spirit shrivels.  The body cringes.  Words fail.  Unless one has become used to the Light and the Eye of God.  Or one is a born show-off like me.  Should we really be reprimanding our children for being that?  Should we really be teaching them to hide in the shadows and be ashamed of what they are?  Shame is devouring us.


I want to be looked at and analyzed.  I want to be torn to shreds and hung up on a post in the public square.  I want to be an anathema.  And devastate.  I need an observer with a sacrificial knife under his cloak.




6513  Idealists, i.e. those philosophers who believe that the world as we know it is generated by the mind, have thought into existence a mental Power or a couple of mental Powers to accomplish just that.  The Power of Uniting (synthesis) and the Power of Separating (analysis).  First the mind takes hold of its object.  Then by separating out pieces of it and uniting this with that and with other pieces of other objects already handled, it orders, categorizes, systematizes and eventually erects a scaffolding for a right nice miracle of engineering.  Voilà a world!  It even does the same to itself when it builds for itself a Self.


Then after all that is finished it performs one last powerful act: that of shoving the whole contraption "out there" into the non-existent void.  That is to say, it separates its work from itself the worker.  And just to tidy things up (and get rid of some lingering guilt) it tries to unite itself with its creation (but not too tightly), which is going to be tricky without falling back into the Blob of Being whence it came.


Sadly, Idealists can never quite cut the umbilical cord between mind and world.  Perhaps they don't really want to.  Everywhere they look they see themselves.  It's a sinful relation.  They never really liked analysis.


I have no such Powers in my philosophy.  As I see it, the mind merely observes.  All the joining and separating are always already accomplished without Mind.  The ordered, systematized, categorized world is out there without me.  I see the world as it is.  The actual and the possible ever float by in the eternal unchanging street parade.  There can be no judgment about what is real and what isn't.




6514  In this philosophy the consort of God is a boy.  And it is a boy, the male Mary, who gives birth to Jesus.  Following that, the devotees of this God here must also undergo a second birth from the male there.  In religion, all things are possible, especially the impossible.  We are reaching the male, mystical Other.  The land of pure logic and dreams.


Pieces of flesh scattered about.  Parchment strips.  Stripes on the wall.  The Cut.  The graphos.  The logos.  The hurufi.




6515  I have said that to qualify as an existent in my ontology a thing must be present before the mind's eye.  That, of course, was not worded with fine exactness, which here would, no doubt, be impossible.  Moreover, it must be fully present.  And that is because only simple things exist.  A partially present simple thing cannot be.  And here my philosophy crashes because I also have facts and other complex (un)things in my philosophy and a simple complexity makes no sense.  But all is well because of the magic of the dialectic, which I could explain to you.  But, of course, it will not be worded with fine exactness, that ladder being impossible to construct.  Without more magic.  So why not?


Therefore, there is no perspectivism here.  This god is as flat as when he was in Byzantium.  Or Picasso.  Or in a hologram.  I see God all at once perfectly.  Just as I see Color perfectly and all at once.  But like Nirvana, you don't see it until you see it.


And the crash.  In my painful REM dreams, I know the instant when I first see that "he is no longer mine".  Then hard, flat parallelograms engrave the present.  And I take up the stylos and await more graphos.


This is all beyond life.  Into the vast Incomprehensible.  Which is comprehended in the Instant.  Every existent is knows perfectly.  Existence jabs in like an ice prick.




6516  At present, he is sitting alone near the east entrance.  He may be thinking about yesterday.  He might have been eating if he had had some money.  No one is approaching him.  I dare not.


Let's suppose those are all true.  Now consider the fact that this is 1917 Vienna and he is wearing a yellow jacket.  Those two facts are not true.  As for the fact that he might then have been eating if he had had some money, we cannot say if it is true or not.  Nonetheless, they are all facts, even though some are actual and some are merely possible, i.e. not actual.


We thus have two kinds of fact: actual and not actual, the latter of which we might possibly call possible (though that is awkward).  And we can right easily think all of them, which is to say that they might all be actual objects of thought. Should we say they are possible thoughts – awkwardness iterates?


Facts exist.  And the entities Actuality and Possibility, which invade them.  Some of those facts are negative facts, because negativity is in them.  A great sweltering of Existing things abounds.


Then there are those who say that none of that exists and only the individual boy exists, if indeed he does exist.  All the rest are mental nothings.  This group thinks it is preserving the integrity and worth of that person against the onslaught of my logicizing. 




6517  Some philosophers see a difference between the real and the given.  For example, if I feel and capture in words the given fact that he runs his fingers through my hair, that could mean that there is the real fact of his running his fingers through my hair, I am directly aware of it and I mention it (perhaps silently to myself).  Or I could be hinting that the real is something else entirely.  Perhaps that "fact" was only a poetically encoded way of indirectly mentioning something about the fall of some ancient kingdom.  Or God's inscrutable preordination.  Or maybe just some rather unspeakable psychological perversion asserting itself and slipping into my dreams. Am I leading you on in my writing?  In my philosophy the given is the real and all those other deviations are out of myth and midrash.  I don't do hermeneutics.


Mythic transformations are fun.  Deciphering code is fun.  A touch of paranoia is fun.  But I do logical analysis; I am not playing hide-and-seek.  F(x) is just F(x).  And that is why so many find Platonism dull.




6518  You can't say what a Platonic Form "really" is (eg. Beauty or Form itself) by trying to capture it in ever more refined, perhaps materialistic or psychological, definitions, any more than you can generate the Continuum by pushing together more and more dimensionless points.  You know these thing instantly – because they are simple – and maddeningly close.


There's something about you being in that presence that is "sinful".  To look right at God is an act of daring.  Perhaps foolhardiness.  Face-to-face with Him you wilt.  How many times must you pretend that you don't see?  It's all Exaggeration.  It's a swell feeling.  The numb Tumescence of Being.    You sweat, so you go back home under the covers.


You will go there again and again.




6519  Let's say you hold in your mind the simple thought that your face-to-face encounter with him dissolves into its eternal ontological elements.  [F(x) Dis (F & "is" & x)].  Well, yes there are more pieces than that, but my concern is with the object of the thought that … .  In one fact you have an ordinary something and its analysis.  The Everyday and Philosophy are together.  How twisted!


How can philosophy find a something in Existence that grounds our ability to do philosophical analysis?  What is that strange monster that is the here and now abut the otherworldly?  The anteroom filled with immemorabilia.  Or is that too fine a distinction for you to get onto your slippery tongue?  How can this sacrificial morsel be garnished?  The wedding of this one with himself elsewhere.


I suppose I could go on and on with that ontological riff and let it become Nirvana numbness, but I'll leave you alone with this demi-god in to dark of your room.  Good Luck!




6520  Those philosophers who have no universals in their ontological world also, therefore, have no bare particulars.  They go together.  I have both.  Those other philosophers are content to live in the everyday world where such monsters do not roam.  I am always en garde.


The bare particular accounts for the feel of the Just That.  Imagine a boy, a pretty young thing.  A thing.  That thingness is the bare particular.  That is the sexual away from the merely beautiful.  Together they make for the irresistible.  His face was perfect, but it was only when I spied a slight defect in it that he changed and became desire.  The error.




6521  I think the reason so many today want to overcome the so-called Cartesian division between mind and matter, is because they are afraid of dumb materiality, the place of the sexuality of being.   The other becomes the object of desire when he becomes object.  Then he is desired.  No one can be sexually drawn merely by a mind filled with its effervescent experiences.  Only when that stops in erotic paralysis.  And the knowing is heavy.  And the hand drops. 


Today people want a meaningful sexual experience, but that is a contradiction.  Meaning and erotic power are opposites.  Just as it is in literature.  There the breath massages the tongue, the throat, the cheeks.  The reader feels sentences push inside his head.  The mouth is an erotic instrument.  As is well-known.  Real literature is always wrong.




6522  Universals are not concepts.  Platonic Forms are not general concepts.  Of course not.  Concepts are flimsy, airy non-things in a non-existent mind.  Universals are frightening monsters outside mind, impinging on mind, but really unconcerned about your mind.


If the heavy sexual part of the objects of the world is the bare particular, then the force of the Universal is the bare particularity within that.  We can mention quietly the Thatness of a Universal, but not of a concept.  The Universal is only itself.  Just that one universal.  Separate from the mere mind observing it.




6523  Simone Weil in a great little book named The Iliad or The Poem of Force shows how Force is the real hero of that ancient telling.  She defines force as "that x that turns anybody subjected to it into a thing".   One moment a living person is pleading for his life and the next he is a lifeless corpse.  It could even be that he is yet to be struck, but he knows he is already dead.  Achilles is the great killing machine.  Achilles is the beloved hero.  the word "hero" contains the word "eros".  Achilles is the erotic.  In the erotic the object is turned into a thing.  Or it is not erotic desire.


Simone Weil, in that book, never mentions the erotic.  Nonetheless, there you are. Sex is violent objectification, even if it is purely intellectual.  The boy goes numb.  And he is taken.  In the Iliad twelve boys have their throats slit by Achilles as they are put on the funeral pyre with Patroclus. Such an act of violent love!  Today it's almost impossible to think … except in secret … in literature.




6524  Science describes this world.  Ontology another.  Some minds are totally at home here.  Others are otherworldly.  Thisworldliness and otherworldliness should not be confused.  I am not, in my philosophy, describing anything here.  Perhaps this is the same difference between the canonical fine arts and the popular arts.  Between high religion and a low, community affair.  But who am I to say?  It is the difference between divine madness and simple insanity.  But not according to the thisworldly who have the thought police on their side.




6525  And the Word became flesh.  Imagine that one sitting across the room, the one studying so intently and then looking up to see if anyone is impressed with his slicked-back hair and tight jeans.  Thoughts fly through his mind.  He is aware as he displays himself.  No one notices that under all that hard armor he is soft, jellyfish flesh.


Then as he reaches you see a small patch of skin between his T-shirt and his belt. Suddenly he is naked.  He has stopped thinking.  He is numb.  You take him just as he wanted.  Your mouth gnaws and chews and sucks.  He is strangely shaped.  He smells like rock.  The sky opens.  A white dove shoots out.  And then he is intently studying again just as before.


You swallow.




6526  God is that than which there can be no greater.  He is, by  logical force, the end of the line.  There is nothing from which God comes nor to which he returns.  Full stop.  God is that that always was and is and always will be.  Even beyond time.  God has no God beyond him.  Only blue sky.  He is alone.


I have written up a theology.  This is theism.  And I am a radical empiricist.  So where do I find this God?  Is there anything before my mind's eye that is an ungrounded ground.  Yes, finding that ground is the whole point of doing ontology.  I seek the ground of the  world.


I look about and is see many things.  One two three and on to infinity.  The ground of the many is number.  What is the ground of number.  Some have said it is mind.  Surely it isn't.  Number is itself ungrounded.  It is the ungrounded ground of the many things.


I look about and I see colored things.  Red, green, blue and on into an infinity of hues.  The ground of things being colored is Color and the colors.  That too is an ungrounded ground.  They simply are.


I look about inward and I am a looking.  Some say that is grounded in the brain.  I say it is grounded in the Form of Looking itself.  Itself ungrounded.  The Looking.  Beyond God there is nothing more.  Here we are with the things that just  are.  That than which there is no greater.  In eternal stillness.




6527  I do share one thing with the conceptualists.  I believe the mind has direct awareness of ontological things, including this world of facts.  Direct realism.  They believe the mind has direct awareness of concepts.  Concepts are the intermediaries the mind uses to get at the world. It makes no sense to need an intermediary to know an intermediary.  Thus they know concepts directly, im-mediately.  Paradoxically, the problem, of course, is that concepts, for the conceptualists, don't really exist.  They are mental phantasmagoria.  And even mind itself is, as Sartre says, Le Neant, nothingness itself.  Or the nothing that nothings as Heidegger says.  It's a mess.


Those gossamer, ghostly things appeal to some.  I will leave them to it.  I am after a powerful presence.  The boy with firm thighs.


For me the everyday world is inaccessible, but I have immediate access to the ontological realm.




6528  Everyone finally must approach God alone.  No one can guide another along the way.  No intermediaries can remain.  No priest.  No idol.  No borrowed ideas.  They all must be shoved back and abandoned.  Another's cause will not be your cause.  You will not serve ideals other than your own.  Thus, what you read about God here you will soon have to reject.  You will go on by yourself, with your own way of speaking to God.  And you will imitate God in His own self-centeredness.  Good luck.  Here is Max Stirner in The Ego and His Own.


All Things are Nothing to Me -

What is not supposed, to be my concern! First and foremost, the Good Cause, then God's cause, the cause of mankind, of truth, of freedom, of humanity, of justice; further, the cause of my people, my prince, my fatherland; finally, even the cause of Mind, and a thousand other causes. Only my cause is never to be my concern. "Shame on the egoist who thinks only of himself!"

Let us look and see, then, how they manage their concerns—they for whose cause we are to labor, devote ourselves, and grow enthusiastic.

You have much profound information to give about God, and have for thousands of years "searched the depths of the Godhead," and looked into its heart, so that you can doubtless tell us how God himself attends to "God's cause," which we are called to serve. And you do not conceal the Lord's doings, either. Now, what is his cause? Has he, as is demanded of us, made an alien cause, the cause of truth or love, his own? You are shocked by this misunderstanding, and you instruct us that God's cause is indeed the cause of truth and love, but that this cause cannot be called alien to him, because God is himself truth and love; you are shocked by the assumption that God could be like us poor worms in furthering an alien cause as his own. "Should God take up the cause of truth if he were not himself truth?" He cares only for his cause, but, because he is all in all, therefore all is his cause! But we, we are not all in all, and our cause is altogether little and contemptible; therefore we must "serve a higher cause."—Now it is clear, God cares only for what is his, busies himself only with himself, thinks only of himself, and has only himself before his eyes; woe to all that is not well-pleasing to him! He serves no higher person, and satisfies only himself. His cause is—a purely egoistic cause.

How is it with mankind, whose cause we are to make our own? Is its cause that of another, and does mankind serve a higher cause? No, mankind looks only at itself, mankind will promote the interests of mankind only, mankind is its own cause. That it may develop, it causes nations and individuals to wear themselves out in its service, and, when they have accomplished what mankind needs, it throws them on the dung-heap of history in gratitude. Is not mankind's cause—a purely egoistic cause?

I have no need to take up each thing that wants to throw its cause on us and show that it is occupied only with itself, not with us, only with its good, not with ours. Look at the rest for yourselves. Do truth, freedom, humanity, justice, desire anything else than that you grow enthusiastic and serve them?

They all have an admirable time of it when they receive zealous homage. Just observe the nation that is defended by devoted patriots. The patriots fall in bloody battle or in the fight with hunger and want; what does the nation care for that? Joy the manure of their corpses the nation comes to "its bloom!" The individuals have died "for the great cause of the nation," and the nation sends some words of thanks after them and—has the profit of it. I call that a paying kind of egoism.

But only look at that Sultan who cares so lovingly for his people. Is he not pure unselfishness itself, and does he not hourly sacrifice himself for his people? Oh, yes, for "his people." Just try it; show yourself not as his, but as your own; for breaking away from his egoism you will take a trip to jail. The Sultan has set his cause on nothing but himself; he is to himself all in all, he is to himself the only one, and tolerates nobody who would dare not to be one of "his people."

And will you not learn by these brilliant examples that the egoist gets on best? I for my part take a lesson from them, and propose, instead of further unselfishly serving those great egoists, rather to be the egoist myself.

God and mankind have concerned themselves for nothing, for nothing but themselves. Let me then likewise concern myself for myself, who am equally with God the nothing of all others, who am my all, who am the only one.

If God, if mankind, as you affirm, have substance enough in themselves to be all in all to themselves, then I feel that I shall still less lack that, and that I shall have no complaint to make of my "emptiness." I am nothing in the sense of emptiness, but I am the creative nothing, the nothing out of which I myself as creator create everything.

Away, then, with every concern that is not altogether my concern! You think at least the "good cause" must be my concern? What's good, what's bad? Why, I myself am my concern, and I am neither good nor bad. Neither has meaning for me.

The divine is God's concern; the human, man's. My concern is neither the divine nor the human, not the true, good, just, free, etc., but solely what is mine, and it is not a general one, but is—unique, as I am unique.

Nothing is more to me than myself!




6529  I have a thing-ontology, not a function-ontology.  Consider the diad, the circumstance that the particular and the universal, the individual and its properties, are different.  Obviously that pair of things will have to be joined together to make an ordinary object.  There are two ways to do that; by means of a third thing called a nexus, a maker, and by means of something that is not a thing, a making, a present participle verb, a doing or function, an event.  Function-ontologies seem to have the advantage of bringing life and movement back into still logic and also of overcoming Bradley's Regress, which is the problem of needing connectors to connect the connectors in vicious iteration. 


The later Bergmann sort of did away with the nexus in favor of a sort of function.  He went into dementia too soon.  Nonetheless, I think it is possible to see that his earlier positivism was probably tugging at his later realism.  He never really gave up the idea that uninterpreted philosophical statements were absurd.  He really did want to live in the everyday, scientific world, not the philosophical heights.  Anyway, a philosophy of only things is stillness itself and rather otherworldly.  Which is why I rather like it.


I have separated philosophy from the world.  Jump up!  It is a utopian dream.  More Real than the real.  Love it or leave it.  Consider Walt Whitman.  He supposedly writes the American ideal.  The whole world has been in love with his vision.  Great visions of humanity have risen out of him and those dreamers in his age.  Including the horrible.  Communism, Fascism, Capitalism, the three evil ogres.  Whitman saw something that cannot exist here.  Trying to bring it on has led to Sturm und Drang.  And now I think we need to see the vision for what it is: an otherworldly stillness.  The Great Doing of Modernity is now a ragged post-modernity.  I'm outta here.




6530  Bergmann, the philosopher from whom I have learned Ontology, was, at the beginning, a Positivist, i.e. one who hates Ontology, and though he was forced to give it up that he might be a clear-eyed Realist, i.e. one who hates the death shadows of Teutonic Idealism, he, nonetheless, remained true to something he found there in that "high noon" of thought.


Positivists are Giants battling the gods.  They are the heroes who affirm all things human.  They struggle to set man free.  They overcome sweet pity and weakness and degeneracy.  But in the end, they too proudly look down on all who haven't fought hard and won out against the lure of whimpering knee-bending.  They hate the rabble.


A realist, by definition, submits to the existing things "out there".  There are no heroic realists, only worshippers of some god who has them by the balls.  Positivists back off.  Bergmann wanted to be a heroic realist, but it proved impossible.  I travel with the realist in him.  "Peter is blond."




6531  Positivists claim that they are able to avoid intellect-killing religion by staying with what is clearly perceived by the human mind.  They are tough-minded; therefore, they, above all, avoid love's madness.  They follow the non-lover Lysias in the Phaedrus.  But that won't do.  The human mind clearly and powerfully experiences intense beauty and feels the madness of love.  Positivists struggle against that.  They must energetically cancel out part of what we obviously see in order to be happy with themselves.  Big boys don't cry.




6532  Art is exaggeration.  Religion is exaggeration.  Religious, artistic philosophy is exaggeration.  Positivism is an attempt to do philosophy without exaggeration.  Positivism wants to stay seated in it suburban home paid for with a handsome salary from the local college.  The problem is that positivism in its super-human attempt to remain calmly human has become an exaggerated parody of itself.  Dullness compounded. A numb numinous thing.


It wasn't always so.  There was a time, at the beginning, when Positivism was an exciting new thing.  No more dusty, musty museum pieces from antiquity.  Speed and power and self-reliance.  Man was to be a god.  Which seems rather strange now.  But the god of the everydayness of the everyday has settled in.  So here we are with the Internet.  The Internet is our Transcendent God.  It's a mangled thought.  Now we don't listen for oracular utterances, but tweets.  Man as god is one with the birds, which as we all know descended from Tyrannosaurus Rex and his ilk.  We are monsters.  Or at least suburban boys alone in their bedrooms online are.  Ooops … I just slipped into exaggeration.  Oh well.  That's positivism now. 




6533  To believe in the Forms is to believe in differences.  That is the Via Antigua.  Modernity, the Via Moderna, nominalism, finds the Forms repugnant; they are cut off with Ockam's Razor and we live in blissful sameness.  It is believed, by the moderns, that the Forms, differences, cause strife.  They are pugnacious things.  Some moderns, however, think we should cunningly, though mendaciously, reintroduce the ancient Forms, because modernity is bland.  They remain thoroughly modern, but feel the need to pretend they aren't.  Strange.  They are the Straussians.


I believe in the Forms, but I am not secretly a nominalist.  I do, however, separate the ontological realm of the Real from the everyday.  The everyday word really is nominalistic, bland and mediocre.  I agree with the moderns that a science of the ordinary world, this common-sense world, is without the Forms.  The Forms are Other.  The everyday finds that otherness to be mere fantasy; of course they do; everything is as it should be.  I don't.  The Straussians are, after all, too thisworldly to believe.




6534  There are those who worry that ontological analysis gives us an unworld where all simple unity has been destroyed. Indeed, I have written about Humpty Dumpty who cannot be put back together again.  The ontological realm is a place of disjointed pieces.  It is the clock that a boy has taken apart and now lies about timelessly.  After analysis the world is gone.  Nonetheless, each piece is what it is.  Each piece is "self-contained".  The problem with the ontological realm is that the ordering is too exact.  This is before entropy has set in and ambiguity and the messiness of everyday life.


This everyday, pre-analytical world is sort of ordered.  It is a mixture in which we can somewhat see patterns.  But the patterns fray at the edges.  Definition arises and then falls away.  Should we say that eventually only a bland smoothness will prevail?  No, because that too is a perfection ordered against its opposite.  Rather, we can say that eventually a paradoxical mixture of unity and separateness will kind of exist.  Analysis will be abut the blob.  No one will be satisfied.


I do analysis and the world vanishes.  The Boy in his room has de-constructed every thing and every one.




6535  In this philosophy, ordinary things don't exist, only the ontological pieces.  The gods and even the God of this world's religions are ordinary things; therefore, in this philosophy, they don't exist, only the ontological pieces that they deconstruct into.  Nonetheless, I have spoken about the gods and God innumerable times.  What gives?


The world of ordinary people and their cars, of gods and their deadly weapons, of mountains and their crumbling crags, of beasties and their beautiful bodies – none of that exists.  Which I suppose means that the ordinary world we are so worried about vanishes.  Still, I am not a nihilist.  Or course I am not.  The ontological pieces that all that falls apart into do.  Instead of the gods and God, there is the Form of Divinity.  My goodness, I have even seen That around the beautiful ones here – so fleetingly.  And then there are all the bare particulars that each ground the undeniable presence of just-that-one-there-now.  The world dissolves into mighty things.




6536  It is very easy to find a philosophy that dissolves the world into mind-stuff.  Or into one giant blob of interrelating dependencies.  Or simply dissolves it into nothing.  But then the nothing nothings and it's back.  I have none of that.  Minds dissolve into ontological mind pieces.  Relationships dissolve into relations.  Only the self-contained eternal entities.   And the nexus are just the nexus.  A grand Clutter.  A boy's room.  Magical things in his mirror.  Rhinestones on that Cheek of Night.  Heart-break. 




6537  What I have written here is a philosophy, but it is also a theology.  And my writing it up has been my devotion.  To him.  I have been placed in the West and I really do walk in Athens and Jerusalem.  Here on the Iowa prairie.  But also along the narrow streets of Kathmandu among the Hindus and the Muslims.  I get around.  Or I have been pushed around.  By him.  I had no choice in any of it.




6538  Like the man from La Mancha, I am trying to think the unthinkable thought.  Or rather I am trying to try.  The attempt is sheer temptation.  That is the joy of philosophy.


I separate particular from universal, simple things (sort of).  And simple things from the complex fact (composed of them (sort of)).  I separate a class from its elements.  And all the pieces lying about from their existence.  I should mention,  I suppose, that I also separate an absolutely simple thing from the Form of Simplicity that is (not) in it.  Oh my! I pull out the thread of Difference itself from differing things.  And Thingness from things.  Need I go on?  I make the impossible cut.  And I try to think together the inseparable.  Such is ontology.


Such is the Form of Love, the mind-boggler.  Such is Eros.  Such is the thought that you know perfectly well what I am talking about.  Perfectly.  And the thought that running from it into the everydayness  of the everyday will not do.  Yes, that kind of positivism is the ever-failing philosophy of the ordinary.  But extra-ordinariness is everywhere.  Even into the nowhere of the nowhere at all.  There is no solution; seek it lovingly.




6539  Essence vs. Form.  The difference between them, for many writers, is non-existent.  Which is no wonder, because philosophy is mighty confusing.  I'm going here to draw a distinction.  I think it is historically grounded.


Consider Socrates.  He was/is a particular individual in the telling of our intellectual history.  The word doesn't point just to a type, but to a particular person.  There can be only one Socrates. And that one has a certain nature.  The being of that one is his essence.  Socrates right now doesn't "exist", except as a memory and as imagined.  Should be say that "he" simply isn't?  Perhaps, "he" is "asleep" in the Bosom of Abraham, in the mind of God.  And later God will grant him "existence" again.  Or perhaps he is sitting around in Hades, conversing, as he said he might be.  Whatever, it is important to remember that there is only one Socrates essence, either "asleep" or "awake".  Oh my, all those quotation marks means we are in the land of philosophical thought.  There is a problem thinking essences and their on-again/off-again "existence".


Now consider Socrates, not as a particular individual, but as a Form that many, many bare particulars could exemplify.  The one individual is gone.  These particular exemplifications are not copies of the original, real one.  There is no original, real one.  It is as though we have copies of what never was.  Only copies.  Here Socrates is not one individual.  "He" is not an essence, asleep or otherwise.  Rather Socrates is the name of a Form that can be shared in or exemplified by innumerably many.  Do you see the difference?  I have written up a philosophy of Forms, not of essences.  Natured, historical individuals are nowhere to be seen in my ontology.


Thus I do not tell stories of real people developing and working their way through life's tortuous turns.  The Boy is not a particular boy.  And what would have been a particular boy has become a very bare particular tied to an eternal Form.  I have written up a Monstrum.




6540  I use the word "I" excessively when I write.  And when I reread my own words I think of me as that "I".  You, however, know nothing of me and that "I" is some Form you have conjured up.  That is how it should be.


To tell the truth, when I think of me I am really thinking of a Form I too have conjured up.  There is that one that appears in "my" writing and there is the "me" I know and then there is the Real Me.  Whitman made the same distinction.  I think they are all conjured up Forms.  The individual himself doesn't exist.  Such a thing is the invention of the last few hundred years in philosophy.  A fiction.  And fiction is Form.  Form exists.




6541  The Forms exist; they are eternal.  I, in my so-called life, have or exemplify a certain form.  There is no reason why I have this form other than another; it's just a brute fact that that's the way things are.  But what is this "I" that has this form?  It is a mere bare particular, a most insignificant thing.  The Forms are of God.  Thus I, as an almost nothing, am tied to God, but it is a tenuous tying.  The nexus is urgent.


Sartre wrote in Sartre by Himself, "My ugliness is certainly something I have to chalk up to fate, or what I might call the brutality of fate.  Why was I born ugly?  It's when you're dealing with such things that you see both contingency and brutality."  There is no reason why we are what we are.  Indeed, we are not even that, but something beyond us to which we are tied.  Or reaching.  Or dependent on as a pendent.  Or a ghost fluttering close.  The Forms exist and we cleave.  We submit, even when the only form we have is ugliness.


A beauty walks down the street, always on the lookout for a secret admirer.  He knows that his beauty is not really what he is, but only something hovering over him for a moment.  His form is given, then taken away.  He was himself never that.  He knows.  Our predicament is brute.




6542  After the wedding comes the veil.  It is obligatory for all of us, not just in tribal Islam.  And we all comply.  Let me explain.  It is obvious to anyone who can see that there is a moment when the young have the appearance of being gods.  That beauty is overwhelming.  For those who will let themselves see.  God sees.  We are chosen by Him as his beloved and we are wedded.  We have no choice in the matter.  Then the veil.


That dark, coarse, ugly burqa begins to cover over the beauty that had regaled us.  The body becomes unsightly.  In time it is unbearably unsightly.  Nonetheless, in the quiet and in secret God see the beauty that ever remains under the outer covering.  Here, only He is can look directly on it.  In public we cower and move fast so no one will notice.  Eventually that awful covering of sagging flesh will be sloughed off for good.  If you are now covered, you know that the beauty of youth is still there inside that horror.  You know.  Some of us can almost see it.  I have no idea why it has to be like this.  Our God is a jealous God.




6543  The gods have no personality, they are just impersonal forms.  That is the moment of love's paralysis.  When suddenly you are in the presence of a perfect one, a one who embodies the exactness of Form, blank of mind, vacant eyes, you wobble.  I suppose you might have great affection for a normal youth, a friend, a handsome lad, but you are not undone in an instant by the appearing of something Other, the Exact.  The Forms will leave you without life.  They kill.  Fortunately, the vision vanishes as quickly as it came and you have your reprieve.  Still … you remember … sort of.




6544  Eros holds the middle ground between having and not having.  That is dialectic.  I hate it.  I love it.  I hate that which I love.  That is Kierkegaard's definition of despair.  Myth is the play of transformation.  Hard reasoning wants it is or it isn't.  I like hard reasoning.  I like hard anything.  I melt in its presence.  I become grammar.  I have nothing more to say.


Last night, I listened to a smooth guy explain Information Theory.  He said information is the unexpected.  That was rather surprising.  Then he went on to describe a highly structured, binary universe.  No middle ground – it's either 1 or 0.  Logic will not admit more than two possibilities.  That is tight necessity.  And things roll on.


Eros speaks in puns.  Don't believe anything he says.  He possesses a flaming breath, by enchantment and wizardry knotting the water and tying up the air.  This is hashish midrash.  This is a shot to the head.  This is grammarcy.


So what are we going to do with  infinity?  That is the culprit.  But infinity is God and he will not die, in spite of what you have heard.  God is Eros.  A sex-obsessed boy.  A grown man's dream.  The man remembering himself.  Ganymede trans-posed.  Meta-phored.  Mere flowing rhetoric.  Down your smooth fair leg.


If you have read much of my writing ejaculate, you knew I was going to say things like that.  No information there.  Again and again.  Entanglement.  Superpositioning.  Collapse.  It makes no sense.  Addiction.  Pure art.  So smart.  Jerking me about.




6545  Every philosophy that has ever been thought up has led to paradox.  Even those with a Critical Boundary clearly marked just to try and prevent just a catastrophe.  So what shall we do with that little bugger that always creeps up when we aren't paying attention?  I say let's make him God.


Any other way of getting rid of him, including just ignoring him and refusing to engage in philosophical nonsense, leads right back to him being there.  I suppose we could say he is a product of neuro