Wednesday, November 26, 2014
6892 Because I write from the point of view of Infinity, which is beyond any point of view, my writings lack all perspective and the reader gets lost in the Everywhere and Nowhere. This is theology. This is modern art. I write without humility.
If you understand what I am saying, then you understand beyond understanding. You float in Understanding itself without understanding. And you don’t understand. The logic is tight and no one questions it. Nor you, nor I, but then we walk away because there is nothing there to understand. Mystical gibberish. This is theology. Therefore it is pure sex. You do understand. Work it.
Hard logic, hard analysis, hard phalloi, hard pushing. Heavy breathing, the heavy head, the inevitable conclusion. Blank. This is modern art.
6891 We are not finite, limited and temporal. Words do not fail, nor love. We see the final things. And meaning is an idol we should not have worshipped. Being itself is our place. We possess bright existence. The light cuts through cleanly. I am not undone by those who are old while still young.
We are infinite. The Infinite is that which is equal to a proper subset. Half of infinity is still infinity. The boy is identical with the bow-curve of his brow, with the weight of his thigh, with the pink of his lips. Each of his parts is identical with the boy himself. Therefore, knowing the part is sufficient for knowing him. That is the power of the nexus of identity.
Likewise, he is identical with the Form of Boy. He is the fullness of the universal Form. Identity. That is what it means to be infinite. To know the Form itself look to a particular exemplifying it. The specific and the generic are identical. That is the power of infinity. The power set, the set of all subsets, is identical with a higher infinity. The hierarchy of Alephs. Forms of Forms or Forms of … . That is the power of identity. The way this particular boy tilts his head and looks at you is finally the Form of Boy itself. In Jesus there is the fullness of the Godhead and we look right at it with our eyes and touch it with our hands. We know existence clear through. There is nothing beyond.
Here is an excerpt from Camille Paglia’s Sexual Personae –
“The Greek principle of domination by the beautiful person as work of art is implicit in western culture, rising to view at charged historical moments. I see it in Dante and Beatrice and in Petrarch and Laura. There must be distance, of space or time. The eye elects a narcissistic personality as galvanizing object and formalizes the relation in art. The artist imposes a hieratic sexual character on the beloved, making himself the receptor (or more feminine receptacle) of the beloved’s mana. The structure is sadomasochistic. Western sexual personae are hostile with dramatic tension. Naturalistically, Beatrice’s expansion into a gigantic heavenly body is grandiose and even absurd, but she achieves her preeminence through the poet’s sexually hierarchizing western imagination. The aesthetic distance between personae is like a vacuum between poles, discharging electric tension by a bolt of lightning. Little is known of the real Beatrice and Laura. But I think they resembled the beautiful boy of homosexual tradition: they were dreamy, remote, autistic, lost in a world of androgynous self-completion. Beatrice, after all, was barely eight when Dante fell in love with her in her crimson dress. Laura’s impenetrability inspired the “fire and ice” metaphor of Petrarch’s sonnets, which revolutionized European poetry. “Fire and ice” is western alchemy. It is the chills and fever of Sappho’s and Plato’s uncanny love experience. Agonized ambivalence of body and mind was Sappho’s contribution to poetry, imitated by Catullus and transmitted to us through folk ballads and pop torch songs. Western love, Denis de Rougemont shows us, is unhappy or death-ridden. In Dante or Petrarch, self-frustrating love is not neurotic but ritualistic and conceptualizing. The west makes art and thought out of the cold manipulation of our hard sexual personae.”
That is so true and I know it so well. Domination. The boy, at first so pleased, later comes to think I am mad. So what? I go on. He accommodates himself to being the object of worship of a madman. It ain’t so bad. The trap. This is the art we all implicitly know. Life imitates art. We are literary beings. And no matter how we try to criminalize and pathologize all such domination, it goes nowhere. We are that to the core. I wonder what the boy of Shakespeare’s Sonnets thought.
I have written of nothing else. It is high religion. It is the reason religion is so anathema. Today’s socially-minded, moralistic, pietistic religions of ultimate sentimental sweetness are doomed to failure—I hope. The beloved is having none of it, nor the lover. Surely, the end of it all is …
Saturday, November 22, 2014
6889 I think that last piece left both me and my reader hanging. Do indeterminate things actually exist? Can a chicken with an indeterminate number of spots on it actually cross a road? If actually means it is a material thing in this everyday world, then … I don’t know. Do things in the Psi wave of possibilities actually exist? I’ll let scientists figure that one out. Aristotle worried the actuality of possibilities. It’s a lovely problem. So let’s take out the word “actually”, and simply ask if indeterminate things exist. I say Yes. They are the things of the Imagination. The Imagination exists. A Platonic Form, that most intense thing, that erotic thing, is indeterminate. The Form of Color is of no particular color or shade or hue. Nonetheless, it is definitely Color and not Sound. The Form of Color exists. It actually exists, but not actually a specific type of color. The mind boggles. Swim in it.
Where does film enter in? In one sense everything on the screen is indeterminate and dreamy, but in another sense everything there is very, very determinate because it is a picture of a very specific thing. A perfect film would be a white screen on which you could dream of a film about anything and nothing. All of which means we are still hanging.
6888 The idea of the Psi wave seems to be losing ground among physicists in favor of the multi-verse. Potentiality is just a different actuality impinging. I of course have no advice they should listen to, just as I never listen to any philosophical advice coming from them. Science belongs to the everyday, commonsense world, philosophy anything but. With that in mind I want to talk about the imagination and film/photography.
Call up one of your favorite dream scenes. No doubt it is rather dreamy, that is to say, it is vague and indeterminate as it slides into timelessness. It is that indeterminacy that I want to say something about. Should you as a reader expect to hear something determinate in my words? Should I speak in an indeterminate, dreamy, way? The philosophical Spirit will always leave you in an indeterminate unplace. That Spirit itself is not well-defined and settled. No spirit is. That’s why they are spirits, breath and a moment’s lapse. The Imagination, that august home of poetry with a capital letter, is magnificently indeterminate. It is the referent of the tiny word “a”. I see a boy. It is also the suffix “s”. Boys are vertigo. The Imagination clings to the indeterminate. How can we picture the Imagination? A physicist would ask how can we measure the Psi wave, a phase space of possibilities, without having it collapse into a definite particle. To measure, to look is to see an actuality. The Imagination vanishes when we look too closely to actually see what is there.
A montage is a type of multi-verse. We see both or many at once. Can film actually film the montage itself. Can we see montageness? Can film film film? Reflection. Can consciousness be conscious of consciousness, of itself? It this auto-fellatio? Can language speak language? Enough.
6887 Philosophers and especially their students have debated the real meaning of the poem by Parmenides for millennia. The debate will never stop. Even the dialogue by Plato of the same name is only one attempt to come to terms with that august writing, divinely inspired. I am Parmenidean. The followers of Heraclitus will revel in the fact that my stand is so unstable, so ambiguous, so impossible to maintain. I stand firm in being what I am. The rigidity hurts. The timing is precise. The moment is inevitable. I am not a follower of Heraclitus.
The many don’t exist. Change doesn’t exist. What is, is and what is not, is not. And never can what is not be. The Cut is absolute. Change and time are logically impossible. That is the Way of Truth.
The Way of Falsehood is to say that what is isn’t and what isn’t is. The only reality is the timeless instant of change when both are one. A word means what it means and then something other. The instant of change from one to the other is the only real thought. The instant of both together. A veer. A knowing unknowing. And we fall into illogic.
So what about logic? A Parmenidean forcefully upholds it as the Necessary Thing, an instrument mirroring Being. The others laughingly give it up and careen into a willed despair at the possibility of erect thought under the menstrual moon. Why? Because clinging so tight to logic is unreasonable. Life defeats logic. Or what? The debaters rage on today.
Friday, November 21, 2014
6886 I am a fucking Parmenidean. Only one thing exists. Neither time nor change insinuate their depressing ways onto my way. The dialectic is difficult and no doubt you have misunderstood already. Here, the unthinkable is quickly thought. The ineffable is an ephebe never speaking. I speak his unspoken words continually. And what doesn’t exist here exists. I write the many. It is one thing. The difference is momentous. And exact.
When Socrates asked Parmenides to once again, in his old age, retell the Way of Truth, he objected that it was like the thought of once again enduring a love affair. Philosophy and love (i.e. sex) are work. But the conclusion is sure and the one thing is insistent. You will obey. Thought dictates.
Of course you could take the way of relaxed modern thought where everything is ambiguous and never forced. You may have a choice in the matter, you may not.