Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Mateuš Conrad May 2016
only today i came across what interested Heidegger
after writing being and time, a selection
of essays, revealing that he came to be interested
in language - not knowing this, by mere study
of the introduction some things became apparent -
being quiet democratic in my reading it's a shame
i don't have the academic leisurely pace of becoming
a Heidegger specialist - it's the almost damnable
pulling-apart having to cite many influences and not
focusing on one, but since i don't have academic
leisure, the summary in the introduction
by jeffrey powell (editor) of the book heidegger
and language
will just have to do: apropos this
being an antidote to those bemoaning that we only
write about reading books, carefully choreographic
our lives for mints and espressos and ammoniac
(inhalants in a boxing ring nearing a knock-out) -
hide pretty bird, hide, hide pretty pretty bird
first your song inside a cage, then the cage inside
the heart, and thus the song with the cage,
silenced inside the cage, raging mad inside the heart.
well, the antidote is that i already have some ideas,
and reading the essays contained in this book would
put me off what i was intending to write about,
so, in summary, read the major work, then read introductions
of critical books from those studying the subject,
invent an original approach from that, and elsewhere.
before i venture into the whole affair of having to
reread certain passages from the introduction as to
guide me in this Bermuda Delta i what to do a little
sidewinder interlude:
in chemistry there are two major bonds (for the purpose
of what i'm intending, let us just assume that
we're only talking about π and σ bonds) -
and while psychology dehumanises man to strict
theories without clear proofs to a universal standard,
i want to do what will come later regarding Heidegger's
take on language, for me there's no clear philosophical
vocabulary to be used - i'm not into orthodoxy and
rigidity which says

                piquant sun strokes against
                the bargains of spring's last
                hope for a kept bazaar
                to bloom to then deflower
                petals from trees fall to earth
                like glasses, the tree stands
                as a reflection of shattered glass
                the petals remain the tree intact
                worn at the Royal Ascot
                or in a woman's hair.

obviously something like this is a poem - what i mean,
however, concerning what's identifiable as philosophy is
to me the following:  
                                        blah = monotone x algebraic
                                                    for­ non-differential
                                                    purposes, just filling up
                                                    the page

            blah blah blah blah blah blah subjectivity blah blah blah blah blah blah essentially blah blah blah blah blah blah in-itself blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah thing-external v. thing-internalised blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah blah metaphysics blah etc.
                      
                          and so on and so forth, a fixation on using a certain vocabulary to be equivalent or justification to be "apparently" talking philosophy... yet still no gain from the words of grammatical categorisation... for me? too many propositions, the basis of what the academic environment deems to be "pure" verbiage, or none (akin Wittgenstein) - that famous quote about a lion and having tea on Tuesday... or as Buddha would say: said so to shatter thus the fear of ketamine thoughtlessness;

but that's beside the point, i want to return to
how any chemist might treat psychology as a science,
keep it up to date, given that psychology likes
to shove its nose in everyday activities for a strict
expression of equivalent rubric that mathematics already
possesses and shoves into a child's brain to make
the child become accustomed to symbol encoding;
so π and σ bonds, let's say between two carbons atoms...
but in psychology we don't have the luxury of
many alternative examples...
me and language: to write in terms of optics,
to encode images rather than sounds,
language as optometry rather than a hearing-aid...
so what "elements" do we have in psychology,
essentially what defines consciousness, its sub-plot
and its unfamiliar territory - the using the dusty
Freudian units, we know the concept of the superman
(superman was a bad bad boy) from Nietzsche
evolved into the super mm hmm, and we know
there are two other units, mm hmm and the id /
it or that? it is for me, that is for scalpel for the analyst,
the prober, unlucky for the person who took to
objectifying himself, but better than being objectified -
still, remember i'm working with language in terms
of optics rather than phonetics - enough organic chemistry
diagrams and you will see that the bonding between
mm hmm, the super mm hmm and the gemini id
(one the patient, the second the analyst) trapped inside
an electron cloud of bio-electric processes is rigid and
stable due to the opposite of π and σ,
i chose the optic route using the bonds δ and ψ -
symbolically δ is the mathematical term for sum -
summation, the total of - currently i have no clue about
the significance of ψ just yet, but ψ is a symbol of
psychology like caduceus is the symbol of medicine;
a brief expansion on the natures of the bonds,
quack-science δ bonds being all alike meaning uniform
meaning holding every aspect uniformly, meaning
that a δ bond is of the same nature between mm hmm
and super mm hmm in a petri dish within the
solvent of the conscious sub-plot, likewise other variations
δ bonds are uniform bonds, i.e. ensuring one detail
is related to the other, and so to others.
ψ bonds, not much expansion here as promising detail,
asthma the highest research of breath, and all
major theoretical squeezing through the Suez -
depending on the measure of breaths, we can depend
on the internal things - but never so much Pamplona encierro
cleaning-up to do theorising an affirmative sound
like mm hmm, or other affirmative synonyms -
if it were can *****, it would be mince rather than
a clean dissection - mince meat, should mm hmm be
not an *****, let alone a body. so many attachments
to mm hmm these days, it should be attached to zoological
studies than activities of breathing: theory as a cage,
one after the over, eventually not even cages but
the caged animal turning into matryoshka doll -
Kant doesn't venture into the dynamic of his thing-in-itself
represented by the matryoshka as ad continuum -
maybe he does, but to me here merely pinpoints it,
coins the phrase noumenon and ensures the thing
is opened, god or nothing is put in it, the thing is
closed, locked and the key to unlocking it is thrown
away and never found (i'll mention a short process of
his argument some other time, most notably his
three impossibilities concerning proving the existence
of god: ontological, physico-theological and cosmological).
yes, i know, when reading these ****** books
i have to paint the arguments, i need to simplify
them, a poet reading a philosophy has to paint
the words - the best poetic technique applicable to
understanding philosophical books is imagery,
not as a technique of for the purpose of writing my own,
but as a way to paint what was written by some boffin -
precursor to understanding the three impossibilities
of proof, i find it strange that such proof is necessary,
what would you do with it? prove it once on
paper, or in your head, show it to everyone and then
slowly everyone is able, then the so called "man in
the sky" - it seems strange that scientific positivism
of the Enlightenment supposed such a proof, the proof
is more implausible than the existence - Bertrand...
just smoke your pipe and sit in the easy-chair talking
******* with Wittgenstein... more on that later.
i promised quotes from the above mentioned book
(heidegger and language)...

           das wort kommt zur sprache,
             das seyn bring sich zum wort.


working from phenomenology, to later reject it,
thus precipitating the school of deconstruction-ism,
and with Heidegger we do get to atomic elements
from words, from compounds, thank god there are
no sub-atomic ventures with language, quiet impossible
to de-construct language beyond this point,
let's face it, if you go as far as:
'as preparatory for raising the question of being...
language is one of three constituent moments in
the analysis of the being of the da in dasein (being there)'
furthered by equal atom bombardment replacing
the un-compounded sein (verb, be) with seyn (conjunction /
noun, being) - this is modern physics to my understanding,
i'm not particularly interested what he's saying,
i'm interested in painting what he's saying -
i'll spare you the details of what philosophical systematisation
is actually involved in: restricted vocabulary -
a certain limit is allowed, rigid meanings are involved,
rigidity of drilling in of non-deviation, philosophical
systems are not dishonest in that they are consistent with
a limited vocabulary - i will spare you the torture of
seeing one ball being juggled - the shrapnel of the English
language makes it even more distracting to understand,
as with the above, another e.g.?
'every saying of beyng is held in words and meanings
which are understandable in the view of everyday
references of beings, and are exclusively thought in
that view, but which as expressions of beyng,
are misunderstood...' of course i could be cherry picking
Heidegger like a Jehovah's witness cherry picking
the bible, but i'm not interested in what he's saying,
merely painting you the picture, to scale then:

books                      -              celestial objects
chapters                 -               cycles of celestial objects
paragraphs            -               prime features of
                                                 celestial objects
                                                 (e.g. Jupiter's red eye,
                                                  Saturn's ring,
                                                  Earth's oceans
                                                  and continents)
sentences                 -              
words                       -
syllables                   -
letters                        -             atoms / elements  
                                           ah, it was going oh so well,
i think i started too big, and went into too small,
which made visualising sentences and words and syllables
hard to compare what could fit between
Australia and and atoms of RuXe - by chance ruxe is
an actual word, no as stated ruthenium and xenon,
although that too, ruxir (ruxo, ruxin, ruxido) in Galician
meaning to roar.
you are all of the mind’s dirtiest trick:

a weathered image of Magdalena,
a sleight of hand and a swirl of skin.
                        defying the laws of inebriation like a culprit
      set loose, or the pallor of the moon excreting its habiliments.
the old rancor of the tree from its spurious beating. vestal buds of autumn
    frugal hands of drizzle in April, prostitutes pirouetting, pried open,
   dissected in faces of the tabloids (their almost acrobatic supremacy on centerfolds)

   all mangled like the unclear, yet certain picture of a 1990s havocked
      retrospect.

you are all of the mind’s filth: a putrid modal-jazz entrapment
   and I am that sad fellow at the elbow room of some dislimned establishment
       falling as lithe as poppies in spring

  only when my mind starts to sing freely, a clenched, harmonic framework
  will my bones start to unloose in the ether, death with its ammoniac perfume,
   closes in like an unwanted visitor with a bounty of silence drowning everything.

i imagine you anything but     lustrous this evening.
     there are certain points in the pressures of your gravity
that levitate to mere intersections of the finer points of ecstasy.

i imagine you    all soft   and plump  as a word   of salvage
   without the vigor   of   blandishments  when you start with   your
    own   way of  moving i imagine you  as blunt as   a dull  knife
     plunging   into   me – i imagine your  sidereal   satellites  fail  in their   coverage
   over impossibly the   blackest  of skies   in February,|

i imagine  you  anything  but clean
   and   all white and spruced up   with   the most
  drenched   light,   real   to the touch  and swiftly moving across  the afternoon
like  wishing you   all but   perverse  and   anomalous
    and   strikingly   beautiful.
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2015
and like dante i’d write the geometric of heaven
likened to his hell,
although instead of the ix roundabouts
i’d write of the x winding paths,
harry potter en route 9 & 3/4
buddha between motorway 4.5 and 5.5
and jesus on the crossroads junction between 2.9 and 3.1.
of course i slow down sometimes, i figure,
write a boorish poem dependent on sloth,
write a prosaic poem in vain hope of mirroring equal speed
of the reader,
never write: poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world...
instead write: poets mediate all mediums of art the easiest,
and sometimes do more than the ostriches could
and attack philosophy.
but then there’s this memory i have of myself
sitting in a room with rodin’s kiss marble statue at tate modern,
sketching the statue from all the vivaldi angles,
just before the statue was given an s & m makeover
by cornelia parker, wrapping the statue in the next best thing
to leather gimp masks... petrifying sexuality like
that can scar the hardest metallurgy product, including my eyes,
the ******* rope will not make the hellish couple cling tighter...
but a mantis or a black widow overshadowing the couple
probably would to make the male petrified to stick to
providing for high heels handbags and feminism;
i know the modern word rope = ***** in pink,
but come on... the contortions are not even exfoliating under
the ropes...
i guess i never learnt the art of “pure” and “animalistic”
expression everyone is into... verbiage and all kinds of vegetables
for me it would seem...
moving in between different art forms with an eel slippery ease...
giving due admiration for composer, visualizer, synchroniser,
post stamp / card artist, metal techno indie rapper, busker
and prose exerciser - it’s not that we leave our footmarks
almost idly, almost too infrequently, almost too lightly,
it’s because we are changing lanes on the motorway of sounds & colours,
while people like tolstoy and stephen king are stuck in
the traffic of prose, while people like beethoven and mozart
are stuck in the traffic of music -
but never you mind that quote from picasso...
that quote: all children are artists; the problem is how to remain
an artist once you grow up...
well... there’s an answer to that... retain a childish element
in your art... like picasso did in his work although womanising like
a strong alpha gorilla balancing both testicles in the abyss
of the crotch and a coconut on its head...
perfect cubes with triangles and squares on rectangular canvases...
or start talking like salvador d. about the paranoid expression
using sniffs of ammoniac substances to remember the stench of cows’ **** in the surreal.
Mateuš Conrad Nov 2017
why does the ontological study of beings,
boil down to the pathological study
of being, most notably,
in the anglophone world?
  in heidegger's terminology that's also
said with the zesty succinct
         reiteration via:
     why does the ontological study of beings
not belong to (a) being, but, rather,
(that) it belongs to the pathos of: beings in being -
i.e. man is born not born at all,
unless he becomes many men,
  and dies as: a single man...
   it just feels like the apparently
"useful idiots" are scarcely recognised -
          a study of ontology in an anglophone
world is an appropriation of
pathology - a pseudo-hypochondria -
a hypochondria associated with:
  ensuring that there's a biology a chemical
or a physical answer for any said
predicament, other than the simplest one
of all:
      having explored the world in
anthropological terms, returning to
the world that originated anthropological
study of "alien" cultures,
  the culture that the anglophone people
have returned to, has in turn become more
alien than the supposedly "alien" -
   has become the more riddled with tribalism
than the supposedly "tribal" -
    it was probably fun to watch the explosion,
but watching the implosion is like
satan's voyeurism of ****-naked adam
in the garden... mate... better get a move on...
it might be poison in the short run,
but once you survive ingesting a fruit
that bears no cohesive systematisation of
what's good versus what's evil,
well, let me tell you,
  the only siamese of an and you will hear
of being spoken as being unable to
un-differentiate or integrate good from evil,
and treat it as: and that's good, and that's evil,
and that's good & evil...
      is a woman, your entry point boy'o...
beyond good and evil = either / or...
        but then i split second magic
john - sometimes i sit down expecting a ****
and then i just hear a waterfall of ammoniac
lemonade...
  the anglophone world doesn't study
ontology,
        and even if it did,
it would study it via a pathology -
              the logic of being is its pathos -
the logic of being is its pathos -
  repeating this is to not imply
a profoundness, merely to illustrate
an unravelling:
     to subtract actual conversations by
shielding yourselves with biological terms
and chemical insignia and then
blowing everything up out of
                         toasting bread and spreading
jam and butter over the **** thing?
         if only the supposed public
intellectual could provide a dualism,
rather than a dichotomy - that all that's being
said is not mere for: show.
              casually, like the french casually
swap wives...
rather than like the english have to
make a spectacle out of: an idea...
you need a pulpit rather than a napkin,
a script rather than a fork,
an audience rather than a glass of wine...
etc. etc.,
                   i'm nearing gauging my eyes
out when the overwhelming ideas
never materialise into everyday talking...
but remain on stage,
and then the anglophone world will really
look crude...
   there's a maxim:
the russians rely on their existence via
reading...
   a russian that doesn't read: is a dead russian...
seems the anglophone world
is dead already...
                           sure:
you'll survive the great tolstoy epic of
reading the advert: nike - do it.
                   the anglophone world is
riddled with talking, overcome by defending
speaking the hell the **** said with
the cinematic triumph of: gone with the ****...
enter: the germanic burp...
   and some say: it's actually polite to slurp
chicken soup in japan...
                        with those **** fine
egg-noodles... yummy! almost a cougar
feeling, but never quiet the warmth in
that shly prosthetic juggling act of
pharma and... wouldn't you call that
predatory behaviour,
   i.e. alexandra shulman and 'arry styles?
mmm... guess it's a men's club chew-chew-chub;
blubber whale, ******* in and through,
and to think...
the woman that broke the hearts
of millions of teenage girls...
     different date-babies from the time
of the drooling stones.
there's absolutely nothing ontological
about the anglophone world...
              in that it's either comedy,
or it's pathology...
                   i'm wrestling this german out of
my head, but unlike a woman,
i have about 50+ "fetuses" in my head,
and they're all talking in the agora -
          a woman might have ten helpless
tadpoles in her womb,
   i have 50+ in my "womb" and none of them
are giving a rest... payback time for
being stuck in faking human for 9 months
stage, which lasts for about 9 years
post mortem...
                 ontology translates in english
as pathology...
   and the reason that ontology translates
in english as pathology,
is that the anglophone world deems itself
to be reverent in being unapologetic -
           pristine, clean,
   like the nazis, but unlike the nazis in
their "prized possession of darwinism" against
ethical huguenots...
        more against historical recanting
the father's sins: in the name of the father
and of the son, and of the holy spirit...
sound familiar?
                            there are no greater
"nazis" in the anglophone world than those
you stress "******" via ethnicity,
   but so blatantly discredit a historical
connectivity of: **** versus consent...
          1966 is in no way related, apparently
to other aspirations...
               apparently: there's a magical
cut-off point...
                           we live in times when
the topic of ethnicity is made titanic,
while the topic of history is dwarfed...
             how the two are unrelated is beyond
me...
                i know this is shrapnel,
   for the same reason that like you,
i too am disorientated to cling to a silver surfer's
worth of a trustworthy vector that i can
coordinate with...
       the dominant narrative of pure
biology has been replaced by the dominance
of a pristine history...
                             once more
that eternal line in the anglophone world:
it is a common mantra -
more against historical recanting for
the father's sins: in the name of the father
and of the son, and of the holy spirit...
i will not lay claim to my father's sins...
  in the name of the father, and of the son,
and other the holy spirit;
hey... we're in this together,
   you've always said so: let's grind this
mule out into a fine paste of bone and marrow
and slouch toward golgotha.
Mateuš Conrad Mar 2022
hmm. bewildering little me...
little me bewildering me...
i walked into the supermarket...
pumped up from a bicycle ride...
no... i will not buy a Lucozade Sports
drink: high in...
whatever it takes to rehydrate...
salts, potassium... etc.
electrolytes...
  i need something to bite...
please: god no... no fruits... it's still borderline
winter...
i need some nourishment...
something primordial was woken in me
today...
            the usual bottle of pepsi max
and Whyte & Mackay whiskey... a litre
of which i'm about to finish...
i need something to bite into...
hmm...
          no... not a carrot...
i eat plenty of onions: that's almost similar...
ah!
    a swede! perfect!
and i stood in the car park...
contemplating if there might be some
Monet in the sky.... none...
hmm... all that's missing is...
some tatties and some haggis...
   raw swede... eating it... i felt...
primordial... eternal even...
             having a look around...
UBER drivers coming and going with...
orders of processed beef... burgers...
while i'm here... eating a raw root of swede...
mmm.. almost reminds me of eating
a radish... there's a spiciness associated with
it... ancient Europeans didn't have access to
the spice that's chilly... ergo?
horseradish... so i'm chewing at this root...
trying to look as if i'm thinking:
only with the tender night do i know...
the sad reality... i'm sort of heartbroken...
the girl's dog would lick my knuckle wounds...
but she rejected me...
now i know... in group girl *****-fights...
one single mother fighting another single mother...
what a sad affair...
       come to me when i'm 60 and no longer
"available"... by then i'll have all the assets...
oh **** me: by then... it's going to be a proper
Hopper circus...
      the one i had stomach cramps over...
was ushered out of my life by...
another woman... who else?
           girls competing... what an ugly affair...
mind you... when i die...
i'll miss my personal library...
             i don't need to upfront my language
like some Erasmus... all formal etc.,
the basic deeds...
               a return to something humane...
so i just stood there...
biting into this raw bulb of swede... trying to think...
no thought came... lightning could have arrived
sooner... well... much better...
enough juice in the root... to have to resort
to something labelled... bottled...
in plastic... i felt content... primitive...
even the cashier gave me the look of...
you're buying... a bottle of whiskey...
a bottle of pepsi... and... a head of a swede?!
confused... i too found myself slightly confused...
i hate fruit...
i ******* hate fruit...
oranges, apples... pears...
they're not for me... all the gifts of Hades...
the minerals... gold, iron... carrot...
swede... parsley...
           so i'm chewing... and chewing...
working out the details of my jaw-line...
oh... wow... an imagining of a ******* from
ex_machina...
          that's nice... but still no Monet...
               fair enough... the grey grit...
the ******* *******... random... the raw swede...
it was a most welcome moment...
i could hear the crunch through my earphones...
a few children scuttled past...
i just heard the inquiry: what's that crunch?
oh... the argument against this supposed
"patriarchy"? imagine... if...
a patriarchy wasn't in place...
   imagine... if: MOTHER nature had her sway...
i wouldn't be arguing with certain people...
they'd, be, DEAD...
i'd juggernaut them to the sweet, sweet sleep
of death... man tried to overcome nature...
sure... he failed with containing earthquakes...
tsunamis... etc.
            but... that's a matter for the Titans to discuss...
for the elemental pentagram...
but... what the feminists spew?
you, really think? the people talking....
would be alive... if i had my... NATURAL SWAY?!
i don't think so... look at my restraints...
look at them... they are invisible...
they are constrained by patriarchy...
man trying to overcome the cruelty of nature...
oddly enough... oops...
what arrived with Darwinism?
the insurrection of nature into the dynamic of
man's attempt to overcome nature...
someone more sober and more worried
than me has to take over... this narrative...
but if patriarchy wasn't in place...
i'd run a riot...
          these little people cushioned by a hierarchy
would stand no... defence for me to bypass!
it's a losers' game... after all...
if nature had its proper sway...
               all these... patriarchal defense mechanisms...
would be... wait... dissolved...
if the primordial man were to be unleashed...
you'd be basically unleashing the Mongol
from the 13th century...
      lucky me: for my chains...
               **** these women, these modern...
whatever(s)... leftovers...
              if the man in me was allowed to recirprocate
the man of old... but then again...
for that to happen... the modern woman would
have to be as good a **** as the the woman of old...
but i hardly think... that's about to happen...
lazy *****... i have to visit prostitutes
to get something worthwhile....
******* Aaron Copland Appalachian Spring Suite...
strange gifts?
       eh... or... by the looks of it...
by the smell of it... i'm boozing... drinking to excesses
yet to be matched...
ergo? i'm ******* out... a streak of *******
ammoniac lemonade!
                 good... between Aaron Copland's strange
gifts... Beethoven's ode to joy...
Rammstein's Zeit... and Thomas Newman's
any other beauty... and... eating a head of a swede raw...
you're joking... it will have to take me eating an
onion, to prove a point?
how about we bypass the onion...
let's  start off with teeth of garlic... how about that?
what a strange way to live:
with a longing... life so incomplete...
                 it's a life that doesn't even allow sadness...
to make it into a culprit...
something equivalent to a blink...
             tonight's tonight...
                     black is black...
                                     if "these" people lived uinder
the dictum of nature... they'd ne dead....
sane... counter nature counter god man... tried...
these people... if they were exposed
to the totality of nature...
        *****, please...
                           you're ******* dead!
patriarchy is the only thing keeping you alive...
if... go... defend... the necrophilic retrogrades
of Egypt... it's Africa, after all...
if nature... had its proper sway...
mouth-offs of the current climate of "conversation"
would be... dead,,,
by the structure of the Wehrmacht...
               dead...           dead...              dead:
sie sind nichts!
                                         sie sind alle!
jetzt... fühlen was ich fühlen!
    das ist die nur-Wwhrheit!             ah...
Deutsche bla bla...
                        erste... zuletzt...
                             ich denken deshalb...
deshalb.. oh sweet melancholy.
Craig Matheis Mar 2020
I miss your eyes,
Your whiskey brown eyes.
I miss your lips,
Your fine, soft, cherry colored lips.
I miss your nose,
Your nasty pointy nose.
I miss your cheeks,
Your flabby dimpled cheeks.
I miss your body,
Your ****, beautifully arched body.
I miss your neck,
Your slender, exquisite neck.
I miss your hair,
Your wavy, auburn hair.
I miss your smell,
Your intensely sweet ammoniac smell.
I miss everything about you,
I hope that you feel it too.
And I know someday we'll meet again,
On that day I will never let you go ever, ever again.

— The End —