Saturday, October 25, 2014

6862  Let’s suppose abstract things exist and the nominalists are wrong.  Ignore for the moment that so many of them just rolled their exasperated eyes because they suspect you just opened some theological door.  Not to worry, they are ready to slam it shut again real soon leaving you happily on the other side with your divine beauty.  And your sighs.  Am I about to open a door through which the gods could possibly return?  I think so.  You are in a dangerous place.  Terror threatens.  And the lonely wind.  (I can’t control my trolling of myself. It’s a blast.)

So, once again, abstract things.  The difference between concrete things and abstract, let’s say, is that the first are nicely located in space and time.  The second are without place or moment.  The timeless and the placeless are what we are after.  Lift your weary head away from this place to that Noplace.  Think, not this or that number as so nicely laid out in the things on your desk, but rather think Number itself.  It is Number, as Augustine says, that has guided the material world for aeons.  Think not of the aeons that have passed, but rather the very Form of Aeons.  Of course you can think all that in an oozy sort of way, but you probably think it is all imaginative ooze, nothing.  So let’s suppose that the object of your contemplative oozing really is there in the There that isn’t there anywhere.  Not the object, but the Object.  Capital letter things, gods.

It’s entirely up to you whether you believe in abstract, timeless, placeless things or not.  I really couldn’t care less what you think.  Philosophical argument, hard consideration, however, always leads to their existence.  Your only recourse, if you don’t want to believe, is to walk away from dialectics. Which is exactly what most have done.  Positivist anti-philosophy.

Friday, October 24, 2014

6851  Life is awkward.  Everything is off.  Of course there is no alleviating your altitude sickness.  Still, I do write perfectly and a proper critic would say that I have a certain dynamic in my dead shuffle.  The wrinkle in being that cannot be ironed out.  Globular globs.  It’s just a matter of that little sidestep into another place.  Along the way they hand out tissue paper. It’s him again.

Certain things, certain people just have to go.  They were useful momentarily, but now they stick out.  Back to sleep.  Sheep peep.  Bleep.  Creepy things.

God blanked out and there was the world.  The Blank is the proper object of study.  What were you thinking?  How could you have made such a simple stupid mistake?  Now you’re off to God knows where.  But just as well.  Your world needed a good toppling over.  You sly thing you.

Do you believe in parallel worlds that you can just shunt your way over to?  Just sidle up to?  It’s you as someone else.  Or else.  Escape!  A slob job.  Bob in the loft.  Sky goose.  A noose.  Blank.  You are the ward of an awk.

6860  All creativity is a mistake.  We spend most of our time trying to keep things in order.  But there are times when the whole unstable contraption seems about to topple over.  Nonetheless, we have no option but to go on and work.   A slight, dirty, guilty feeling lays its menacing patina in splotches.  Everyone knows but everyone else is in the same fix.  And then the inevitable momentary blanking off and a mistake is made.  Perhaps you can fix it; perhaps you will just live with it.  It came out of nowhere.

It came out of a momentary dream.  Dreams are always twisted.  Hypnagogic beings butt in.  Why did I say that?  In just that way.  You know why.  You are a master of order/disorder.  Your very existence is the mistake.  There is no third that you could be.  And now this other way.  And it becomes so ordinary.  Later you will topple his deck again.  Why doesn’t he ever look at you straight on?

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

6859  America’s love of the 1950’s epicene rock-and-roll boy has, after all these years, ended badly.  But perhaps that is the natural course of things.  He has gotten old and looks like hell.  Drugs, sexual violence, poverty, have reduced him to something deeply pathetic.  Wasn’t it the Thomists who said that Platonic Love always starts off so spiritual and transcendent and ends up thinly sensual and fallen?  And why did Satanism take over in dark rock?  Was it all a natural progression of things?  The divine Form left a long time ago and only the broken human remains.  That is the vision of all the Romantics.  Beauty and time at each other.  The vision is blinding.  And what about all that Cosmic Consciousness crap that has been inter-woven for so long?

6858  What is the relation between an ordinary boy and the god-form that lies so heavily on him for a moment?  This is the same question as that about the relation between any ordinary thing and its Form.  We are here at the heart of philosophy.  Is the boy a god?  Yes, if “is” is the connector between two very different things.  A Form is not a living, walking, talking thing.  A boy is.  A boy has a history.  A Form is without history.  The boy is in time thinking.  The Form is in eternity and is thought about.  Nonetheless, the connector “is” is tight and confusing.

Our view of man is entirely too anthropomorphic.  He is also a god.  And as did the old theologians, we have to figure out the relation between the human and divine natures in that incarnation.  The Form is ever innocent, unknowing.  The boy is never innocent, a la Freud, and knows very well.  Q.v. The Turn of the Screw.

Still that empty look on the face of every depiction of a god and the boy when he is close to desire are much the same.  He stares.  He is waiting to be taken.  The subtle thrill.  Le frisson.  Ganymede.  Transsumptive passion.  He “is”.  

6857  If I ask almost any graduate student to look at my blog he will turn away from it telling me he doesn’t like twinks.  Empty-headed twinks.  Are twinks empty-headed?  Yes.  They are The Greek Beautiful Boy that Camille Paglia so delineated for us.  Just as are the epicene rock-and-roll heart-throbs of the 1950s.  And the boy band boys.  They are empty-headed and the music is empty-headed. And their fans are empty-headed.  They are gods.  The gods are always empty-headed.  Philosophy graduate students laugh at the idea of the gods.  They are adult thinkers speaking to adult thinkers.  I dare not waste their time.  But the Greek Beautiful Boy is an archetype that will not go away.  And his perfection stings.

Do the gods really exist?  There is that fleeting moment when youth really is godlike in appearance.  And we approach with caution.  They are very judgmental of our imperfection.  Emerson knew it well and he spoke of it as self-reliance.  Pater spoke of it as a gem-like flame.  It is extinguished so quickly.  Materialists dismiss it as neuro-stimulation.  Tight like a bow string.  The life of a graduate student is tense; he doesn’t need more stimulation.  But the gods have no mercy.

6856  In transcendent stillness.  Perfect and complete.  Thanatos.  The Boy.  That is the realm of Being.  Where the cut of difference clearly shines.  The outline is exact.  Apollo flashes.

Immanent commotion.  Imperfect and partial.  Bios.  The maiden.  That is the realm of becoming.  Where the blending of ambiguity lulls.  The form is softly blurred.  No gods need enter.

When Mary took her place in the Church and Life was heralded, then dynamic perspective replaced static geometry.  Nominalism replaced realism.  The Will replaced Intellect.  Subject loomed over object.  And the modern world started up.

But then such an analysis is itself intellect and death, says the mixing together that is will and life.  I hold fast.  There is no middle ground.  To think so is to hang above the abyss.

website counter