Monday, September 15, 2014

6846  We all have learned so much from academic analysis.  And we read it always.  But there comes a time when we lay aside the strict observance of its laws and fall.  We all have learned so much from academic poetry.  And we read it always.  But there comes a time when we lay aside the strict observance of its laws and fall.  I have fallen.  Into the arms of a god.  Outside the academic walls.  I observe myself.  He insists he is my all in all.  I have neither recourse nor appeal.  I go where he goes.  He is bane to the scholars.  But the scholars have had no other topic of concern ever.  Scandal.

The modern age began as rebellion against the academic.  I am oh so modern.  Maybe post-modern, but what is that but excess.  I am excessive.  Therefore, the negligible.  The sheer negligee of thought.  A rascal.  In the dark alleyways of inversion.  Perversion.  I converse with the gods of language.  My tongue swells.  He comes slowly down my throat.  I throttle.  And bottle up the sweet elixir for the future fallen.  I hear them calling even now.  The conch.  The sleepless nights.  I fight those who refuse to fight back.  I fall back again.  Held.  The awl is in.

6845  How should one reply to such an unknowing analysis?  Unknowingly?  God forbid.  One must have faith.  In what?  In analysis.  What is that?  It is no more than the sweet night breeze of an open window.  Where is that room, that window, that night watcher?  Nowhere.  With Devkota on the steppe.  In the stupa.  The home left behind.  Huddled.  Muddled.  Greatly befuddled.  But I digress.

Why did he leave?  My dear, we have all left.  And now looking back we see … we see our own seeing.  Can we return?  There’s nothing to return to.  Seeing sees seeing.  One becomes two.  So strong, so weak.  And the inevitable words.  The wind blows.  Thoughts coalesce.  More or less.  Write it down in rhyme.  Magical meter.  Find yourself in yourself.  You are the beautiful lover you once were still within.  And I mouth the emanating breath.  I chew the flesh.  I am the rash on the analysand.

Something about memory always abuts my mind.  A poem is a remembering.  Remembering what?  Remembering itself.  The past the present the future, it’s all one.  And done.  The words remain.  I have lain with them for too long.  They jab into me in the dark.  Devkota has me by the balls.  And I have no idea what he really wanted to say.  I am analyzed.  That writer did me in.

6844  Here is an invitation to a killing.  Perhaps it is holy sacrifice and we are priests; perhaps we are ordinary murderers.  Let’s be scholars.  Consider the great poem of Devkota Muna Madan.   So many things have been said about it already.  So many lovers have tugged at this poet’s shirt and now it is ragged.  The analytical knife has sunk into his heart.

What does that poem really, really mean?  On one level this, on another level that, on another … but wait.  What is a level?  Is a poem like a departmental store with upper and lower floors?  Is there a roof top restaurant where we can stand and see the evening sun?  And the night effulgence?  Maybe there is a dark basement.  And if there are all these levels, what about the poem itself?  What’s left of the precious thing itself?  We took it apart and now it is nowhere.  This emporium is cast among the scattered stars.  We walk its aisles in all directions.  Everything is for sale.  And nothing.  Our pockets are empty.  But we must get back to the killing.

The scholar loves his analytical knife.  Surely he will have time in eternity to cut up the whole universe.  Such fun!  And of course he is not guilty of any wrongdoing, though his knife may be.  He loves his victim.  Is it really true that one always kills what one loves?  We must analyze that.  Whatever, it is still love.  So sexual.  Such a thing of taste.  Language lies gently on the tongue.  And teeth and palate and the back of the throat all want their part.  We eat a poem.  Suck the seminal idea out.  And go about to conferences and lick out lips.

Is a scholar a priest or an ordinary murderer? We must analyze that also.  So much killing work to do, and where is the Brahman guide who will lead us back when we go astray?

Devkota.  The name reminds me of the Dakota Indians on the American prairie.  And Muna Madan is like money madam.  But I stray.  To the other side of the world and an unwanted economics.  Deconstruction.  Have I been irreverent?  Am I a priest in an unholy rite?  Is my analysis impure?  Or puerile?  What level am I on anyway?  Am I outside the store in the back alley?  Have I failed at being a proper scholar?  I must analyze further.  And commit not a little more killing.  Please take your seat.  The show is about to end.  You have a lovely fair neck.

Sunday, September 14, 2014

6843  I have used the words “eternal” and “shimmering” recently and they do seem to be foreign to the tradition of logical atomism that I have always found myself working within.  I think it would help if I explain them in terms of the great problem that tradition always had.  For decades those august philosophers wrestled with the statement of a general fact.  How to analyze “all”, “any”, “some”, “none”, i.e. all those “logical” words that seem to “name” something indeterminate. All kisses lead to shimmering anxiety.  When you think of a Form, e.g. a Kiss, you aren’t thinking of any particular kiss or of any specific kind of a kiss; rather, it’s a dreamy “something” beyond this or that exemplification of it.  Yes, the Form itself is a particular Form, but that is different from being a particular, determinate exemplification of it.  Thinking of the Form itself, you are away from all determination and specification.  I say that in spite of the “ontological fact” that a Form is a very determinate thing in itself away from other Forms.  The Form of a Kiss is not the Form of a Cheek.

So think of a Form.  It is shimmering because it is not a definite this or that particular or type.  And that also means it is not at this or that particular moment in time, i.e. it is timeless, i.e. it is eternal.  That is to say, it is a shimmering, eternal Thing - if indeed there is a thing there being contemplated at all.  The truth is that the logical atomists never did figure out what to do with general statements and the existing something they are of.  They, in the end, refused to accept the existence of “dreamy” Platonic Forms.  Those musty, musky unthings offended their tough-minded, clean sensibilities.  So they dropped the topic altogether and jumped into set theory.  Which leaves me still wrestling, like Jacob, with this hypnagogic God.    

Saturday, September 13, 2014

6842  A cultured man, an intellectual, a man of refined taste and erudition finally believes in nothing.  He sees through man’s conceit to the emptiness beyond.  Nonetheless, he admires the brute with his simple-minded beliefs.  He knows that such strength will at times be necessary in this rough and tumble world.  He encouraged him on.  He smiles at his childish religion and his desire to defend his kind.  This gentleman aesthete needs the athletic brute who will uphold the Empire.

Nihilism is the philosophy of the sophisticate.  The learned, literate, civilized man.  An atheist, a bemused urbane, intellectual adult.  A man of worldly compassion on the benighted masses.  He really does want to help and he thinks his academic good manners will be of use.  He will humor the needful brute.  In my philosophy he will find nothing of value but he will momentarily find my style entertaining.  Fluff.

Friday, September 5, 2014

6841  So if a set X is identical with each of its aspects or parts or elements or whatever and X and any one of those are two and not one and the same, then what is X aside from all that?  Is it the Whole?  No, at least not in this ontology.  There is no Whole.  Or if there we say there is, then it is just one more element.  So what is it?  I have at times said it is the Form, the Platonic Form, the essence, even the thing itself.  I have also called it a structure, which is an ordered set.  Still, there is an ontological mystery here.  Indeed the very idea of identity, the not-different, is weird.  It is a two-one thing.  And is the nexus of identity a thing?  I think it is, but Bergmann and others think it isn't.  They thing the class and its members are one sans nexus.  A strange sort of internal relation, a super-dependence.  I think I see why they think that, but to me that fusion is confusion.  Identity as a nexus is a thing.  I say that knowing that paradox looms up ahead.

Most today would say that a set or a class is a mental construct.  They have jumped into the Sun of philosophical Idealism.  I cling as hard as I can to realism.  There are no mental constructs.  Sets or whatever they are exist external to thought.  Psychologism will not do.  Russell et al. wrestled with it for years and made little progress, if any.  It's a bugger of a problem.

6840  The nexus of identity ontologically grounds the set.  The boy is identical with his new, black jeans, with his slender arm, his silhouette and the curve of this thigh.  One could also say that his thinking is identical with his silent stare and desire with his perfect stillness.  Thus behaviorism and materialism are almost right.  But only because they misunderstand that nexus.  To say that a is identical with b is not to say that there is only one thing there.  Two things are there with the nexus of identity uniting them.  Sort of.  Yes, it is tricky.  Just as the non-dualism of Vedanta is not the same as monism.  You must cross your eyes and think paradoxically – which I'm sure you can do right easily.  You know that the Morning Star is not the Evening Star and yet they are identically the same star.  That's more of a mystery than anyone can fathom.

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