prelimenary coordinates - a blindman playing chess.
well... you either drink, and write sparingly,
or you don't drink, and you write
a novel...
but who would have thought, that there
would be poetic odes involving coffee...
it's staggering how many women write
poems and have to concern themselves with
coffee...
i down a litre of whiskey a night, don't know
what a hangover is anymore,
and i can beat out more words
than women, who use a stimulant and write
crumbs... when i expect a loaf of bread...
if not this website, then another, and the scenario
is the same: the glorification of coffee...
it just shows you how barricaded the human
narrative is, of the soul...
poetry merely nibbles, and i know it's
flaws... write without paragraphs,
or care for punctuation marks... and it's immediately
a poem...
or... oh god forbid! there's something profound
being said with a few words...
and it has to be profound...
yes, i'm the Gargamel and those
are my smurfs...
strange that Freud didn't think up
the man-child complex...
which is the opposite of the madonna-*****
complex, which he actually did...
Edward Hopper was also bemused by
these two mental pharmacologists...
did a little sketch holding Freud as pillar 1,
and Jung as pillar 2.
but coffee and poetry: i'd expect more from this
latitude...
and it's still a case of:
people cling to the raft that's their
mental narrative mondus operandi...
Kant tried to say something as concrete
with 5 + 7 = 13... and read any philosophy book...
Kant isolates the ''i think'', and Hegel isolates
the i = i, or i am i...
and these are serious thinkers...
but Descartes has said a limit...
thinking defines subjectivity...
thinking the essential component of what's
not thought about: the existential compromise of
being per se...
and how i always seem to find philosophy
as a stumbling block concerning everything i write...
it's almost as if i can't escape the world of
abstracts... a degree in chemistry didn't help either...
am i truly so un-realistic?
not that i'm afraid of being drawn toward
the un-real... it's that humanity seems only like
an infertile groundwork speeding toward a forgivable
promise...
i just wanted to say: you drink and write poetry...
or you don't drink, and write a novel...
and true to a heart's cause i will say:
that straitjacket of what poetry is...
whether rhyme... or other technique...
hanging over it...
it can't do:
i abhor Nietzsche for making poetry a science...
and it is: too scientific...
i'd never think so little can be deemed
so perplexing... or having that essence...
so yes... Kant
really does struggle to say something
profound, but he actually does...
over and over again... namely:
i'd never could think of so many faculties of my mind...
not that's what i call a plastic saying...
****-licking brown-nosing, call it what you like...
it's just so terrible that philosophy cannot reach
toward being a humanism, like a novel always can...
which is why i could eat a historical novel
by Kraszewski in three weeks in between allocating
that time to the festive season,
and it took me 2 years to read Kant's
critique... until i let go of that post-scriptum necessity
of having to stop at every setence and do a rubick's cube...
a bit like: well... aren't those electron-migration
schematics they teach you in chemistry, a little bit pointless?
who give's a badger's nut-sack about how electrons migrate
when a a cabron to oxygen bond forms?
but they do teach that...
which is why you can take a novel to bed,
on the train... but so much focus is needed for that other novel,
the scientific one... the grandeur of... philosophy...
and that's when i let go...
the last part of the critique does allow you to read
piece of work... like a novel... unless of course that was my
need to do so...
so yes: transcendental methodology in Kant's
critique: does read like a novel... at some point
you just have to let go.
ii. ...
and you do... try saying philosophy without saying
something pretentious....
and i dare say: as long as the fewest number
of people concern themselves with it:
the more chances we have for electricity,
plumbing, food on the table...
but by now there's this talk of a curse...
premature Socratic antics... mind you: he was an old man...
but Plato be ******, he wrote down what the old man
spoke: and a clear number of them succumbed to
the tumble-**** effect...
no real prospects for life...
and, evidently, the dead gods philosophised,
while the rest remained: prone to throwing a show of
macho, and worshipped the body...
Olympus shone...
by now you should know that i don't know what
i'm doing...
give me the killer-switch to launch a nuclear
strike and i'd probably say: maracas!
shake shake shake... fidgety in the brothel...
shake shake shake...
that's the weird thing, every time i went to
a brothel i became over-heated...
i sat there, the whole **** place always reminded me
of a perfume... jack daniels...
and i could feel myself over-heating...
i don't known if that was the angel conscience talking
to me... but i always felt those eyes of scrutiny...
mind you, once the whole "naughty'' escapade
took off... i forgot those relationships where
an impotence was crowned...
don't know: maybe prostitutes just know my pin-number
and hold to say to little richard: off to the crusades with you!
phenomenal...
well... thank god for
the north african imports! i'd start thinking all european
women are bound to be: neglected.
and was it ever, not only about ***?
it's nice to doubt it...
next time i'll woodpecker a grave.
but hey! the promised land!
at least you'll have someone to cry
over your grave...
and did i tell you how there's this cult of the grave
in Poland? yep, that's not a personal reality,
it's a populist manifesto... i'm starting to see it
as a hell where people sort of forgot to state their emotion
to the people, now lying in those tombs...
give me a Hindu wedding with fire!
i wanna become elemental!
and look, libido on fire... a billion vishnu-******* in
Bangladesh... it's this thirst for fame in western
societies that's going to be a downsize...
over there that's like a **** in
a tornado... ha ha! it really is!
but then again, here i am, a graveyard hyenna...
walking in Liberace's talk of style...
most of these graves, really are: tacky...
just like Liberace, the greatest showbiz conman of
the 20st century... i love the fact that he fooled so many
women... i mean... that guy was almost as good
as ****** when it came to mesmerising people...
but Liberace had a nieche audience... so...
no khaki for the ss...
and i dare to hold
an ethnicity? in tune with bob marley: one love, one people...
it has never been so painful to strategise globalisation...
it's this ethnic cleansing that everyone agreed to
provided they received a smart-phone...
or a McDonald's fetish... and that's saying it cheap...
but that's how it feels on the periphery of H'america...
little ol' England boycots Europe...
and it's like: huh?
presto! dum-dum.
sometimes i start thinking that i have a hydra for a tongue...
and the more i drink, the more i start to see
it splintering up into a polyphony construct,
but more a case of: polyphony of subjects...
and yes, aren't we all those internet losers...
when the most powerful man in the world...
uses twitter. bastions of respectable comment!
yes, i.e. newspapers... we're riding this meteor to the end...
does anyone still consider newspapers to be
the pledges of a free society? i must have been asleep for
the past 20 years then...
someone switched on this chaos-turbine,
and we're all shoving our two cents of opnions'-worth into it...
and it's not stopping...
and yet you still read in newspapers, this underlining
feeling of being condescended... as if they are the sole
authority... they have to behave like little despots...
social media's power is invested in its
shock reverberation... think: Marx in the 21st century...
but can you? is this some pseudo Marxism?
i might have bypassed all the king-makers and
walls... but i have no leverage... my opinions are
as cheap as chips... well: we got ourselves a unison converson...
i still don't see how the television zeitgeist still thinks
that the internet zeitgeist is no connected with ''real life''...
i mean... **** me! where's the highstreet with all the shops?
on the internet. where is the frontline of wars? on the internet.
where do suicides take place? on the internet,
from all the cyber bugs that people start to represent...
if this isn't real life... then i guess i must be sitting,
and writing this in some medieval castle in transylvania,
and my computer is powered by a legion of
hamsters on exercise-wheels, in a damp room, lit by a candle.
iii.
for me, this is how reading a philosophy book looks like:
| | |
fig. 1
/ \
_
fig. 2
Δ
fig. 3
A
fig. 4
it's like i want to see something with some clarity;
there is clear movement
concerning a book like that,
but unlike a standard novel:
there is clearly nothing concerning the: any given
hope to disperse the mist.
you're given the blunt truth:
the use of language...
again, it would be easier to call forward
a use of a tomahawk... or a guillotine...
philosophy books never establish civilisations,
they break them.
and do i think that the crucifix is a profanity
of the tetragrammaton? yes.
do i feel Spinoza's anguish? probably.
when you read philosophy to start to waver,
it's almost necessary to unlearn language, and with
each philosophy book: learn it over again.
you can't remain strapped to this culture
of emphasis of singled-out words...
we can't find a constructive basis if we're
about to start any mechanism from such a dynamic,
isolating certain words and weighing them
obstructs language...
i can't even begin to fathom a pledge
to using a language, if there are these plebian obstructions...
i did write some notes when i spent these past 3 weeks
in Poland, but i'm scared of rewriting them...
i can claim to have understood
their content at the time,
but the context disparity is too much for me...
i'm rereading them in England
and i can only see England as a nightmarish construct
of such grandeour... that i might only be seen
speaking truth in the north of it...
nor do i like the tri-tier categorisation
of man... if you read Kant, you'd be afraid of
man's laconic approach to the mind, stating
the three boundaries, and literally no faculty interactions...
consciousness (the artist), denoting the overly-sensitive,
the subconscious (the worker), denoting the athletic construct
and liberation from the daily toils of pure physical
disposition...
and the unconscious (the zombie)...
if you read Kant and explore the faculties...
and then turn toward the Freudian populism:
there's enough reason to be concerned...
i can't be saying someone anti-vogue:
and that was my proper concern, that i might be saying
someone not recountable in any sort of realism...
that mine is an isolated case...
ditto alongside: why are we juggling the tri-tiers,
and so bombastic and even celebratory in huddling
toward these safety-nets of being human?
thus said: the reflective man has died...
in his place came the reflexive man...
and if there really is a worthwhile
stance to be a: **** sapiens...
then all hope for a bewildered man is gone...
when the potency of robotics escaped science
fiction, and all trodden paths of orthodox science were
fed to science fiction, humanity could begin
the process of discarding the offshoots...
iv.
the new testament... a book riddled with metaphors...
no wonder the greeks exploited the hebrew literalism...
and yes, plato the precursor made this very real...
by testifying that poetry had no place in the republic,
the new testament had to become solely poetic...
the new testament is a rebellion against plato's republic...
it's a book wholly compromised on metaphor...
culminating in a book that's founded on imagery...
the gosepls are, once again, arithmetically speaking,
resembling the crucifix... which damns the concept
of the tetragrammaton...
as a book: it's only gibberish in
its final circumstance of revelation as a book of imagery...
and in its preceding case: a book of metaphors...
who wouldn't be apprehensive to be born human
with such a thing being rampant?!
imagery is gibberish, given that we
have compentent painters out there...
and metaphor is metaphysics, given that we have
competent magicians out there...
so how far apart are the words: qua and
quo?
as good a question as: how far apart are the words
phor and phren?
φoρ & φρην?
so in the congregation of μετα, how are they
so apart? looking at language from an alphabetical
perspective... it's hard to see anything inspirational...
nor the tangens divergence of words
that are nonetheless so proximate in their construct...
a bit like the genetic proximity of man and ape,
or man and a banana...
φoρ (the bearer of the beyond) -
φρην (a mind concerned with things
under the curtain) -
and so: the futility of looking for
a soul... became translated as the new found feudalism
of looking for a mind:
given the common consensus: we're all mad....
so too looking at mythology could be revised:
that myth of narcissus and echo...
or narcissus and psyche...
or φρην & πσιχη -
we already know that there's an aesthetic
in Greek, at least they showed us
that it can be σimple, when acknowledged
and practised -
which means transcribing the ease of handwriting
into a digital format, can be seen as an unnecessary
complexity - as if me currently looking for a word
that ends, and showcases the most obvious Grecian
aesthetic (without mention ο, ε, ω, η, œ)...
but with due mention: so where the second variant
of α, given there's æ?
it really is hard to find coherency
in human language... i'm still trying to conjure up
the second sigma... unless i hit the plural noteς...
there... i hit them... as simple as that.
and yes: the father of the french hooked c
in garçon, came from this: the sigma used at the end
of wordς... i suspect that how things were denoted
to be possessed in english, also came from it.
once again: handwritting is bewildering on this digital canvas.
v.*
i don't have an atheistic argument, or a theistic argument,
i'v