Monday, March 2, 2015

6971  Mary is a virgin so she is pure and holy as God is pure and holy.  Actually purity and holiness are the same thing.  They mean untouched by death.  The mortal cannot approach and stand in the presence of the immortal.  And that has become a meaningless concept today when mortality has been banished and immortality is everywhere.  Let me explain.  I live in Kathmandu, where real nature, the squalor and the great disorder of real life, is impressively evident.  This place is not the pixilated hyper-reality of High Definition cleanliness.  Back home in suburban, golf-course-trimmed, America everything is so nice.  Technology is protecting us from the rest of the world and entangled nature. We instead celebrate Nature, beautiful faces near beautiful landscapes out a clean window overlooking a brook.  In warm, sanitized energy efficient cocoons called home.  We never think about mortality.  We never see death.  Or birth for that matter, because it too is rather disgusting.  Indeed, birth and death are now in high tech hospitals where everyone is so nice.  Immortality reigns.  But in Kathmandu hospitals seldom see sanitation.  And the toilets are … if you like the smell of piss ammonia (not cleanser), you will love them.  Hepatitus A flows like a river.  Biology is on full display.  Death is near.  But the gods are displayed, just like the ever-virgin, ever-youthful Mary, is such bright beautifully colored posters, so useful for covering cracks in the wall.  Today in the developed world all the young women are virgin mary and pure and they look so superb on big screen TVs.  Nature, real nature, is nowhere to be seen. 

Saturday, February 28, 2015

6970  All philosophies, when taken to their logical conclusion, find themselves in the brambles of self-contradiction and parody.  Even today’s positivistic, materialistic scientism.  The question then becomes one of how to deal with that.  The most common tactic is to not go to that logical conclusion, but to remain in the penultimate anteroom.  Some can do that, but it’s a little like not going all the way to orgasm.  There’s something cravingly unsatisfying about it.  Another way is that of Nietzsche’s Zarathustra, namely, to become an agile dancer and step joyfully into the Dionysian whirlwind.  Whichever way you choose, you’re going to have to give up ironing the sag out of your favorite conceptual jeans.   (There’s no way I can make all those mixed metaphors fit together smoothly.  Sorry.)

Wednesday, February 25, 2015

6969  Someone on Quora asks, “What is the use of asserting that things exist independent of human observation?” and then proceeds to talk about axioms of independent existence.  What’s the use of such and question?  That word “use” is strange to begin with.  Nonetheless, I will use it.  I wrote this erudite smart alec answer.

The real is that which exists independent of, or better yet, separate from thought. The truth is that some of us crave such a real thing.  A lover longs for the real.  That should be axiomatic.  What’s the use of dreams if they never come true?  If he will never be standing there “in the flesh”, taunting you with reality? The problem with today’s philosophy is that it is all head and no groin.  Eros is our guide to the heights, not dry academics trying to be relevant, but are of little or no use at all.

What's the use of such an answer?  I think it serves to bring the philosopher back to the proper object of all philosophizing: the beloved.  There is where we encounter Being and the Real.  All else is preparation for the event.

Tuesday, February 24, 2015

6968  God said he would rather we be hot or cold; the lukewarm he would spit out of his mouth.  And that of course is just how you want your eromenos to be.  Passionate fury or frozen insolence.  Such a come-on.  Rapture him. 

Atheists are no problem for God, i.e. real, stare-right-at-you deadly serious atheists.  Lazy agnostics are worthless as lovers.

The one really superb invention those slow-moving dark-eyed beauties on the cold/hot desert gave to the world was the pillow cast about inside the shady tent.  Exquisite seduction.  And deadly.

Today’s relaxed computer programmers are just too tired.

6967  Style.  Can we say that God has style?  Or is he all serious content and severe substance?  It seems to me that Jesus was more of an argumentative brat.  One who ran away when faced with a crowd he had made angry with his insolence.  He was easily upset with his own who couldn’t understand and who fell asleep.  Is that style?  I imagine there was a certain charisma about him, otherwise how could he hang on to his disciples and make them love him for so long.  But does that one in heaven he prayed to have style?

Consider those raving mad men, today euphemistically called prophets, who fell down slain in the spirit on the high places.  Surely that one they were worshipping had a certain je-ne-sais-quoi.  That blowing phallus.  That jealous jammer.  Jesus said, “… before Abraham was I AM”.  That guy is the burning bush itself.  He knows his own.

As for God in Islam, Rumi said, Go forth, my comrades, draw along our beloved, at last bring to me the fugitive idol; with sweet melodies and golden pretexts draw to the house that moon sweet of presence.  And if he promises, "I will come in another moment," all his promises are but cunning to beguile you.  He possesses a flaming breath, by enchantment and wizardry knotting the water and tying up the air. 

And then there is Krishna the bejeweled dark lover.  Well, of course he has style.  And Buddha the slim-waisted serene one, sitting there eyes half-closed in his dispassionate come-on.  Style.

Yes, God has style.  He is all style and seduction.  I am very religious.  I kiss the foot of Jesus.  And swoon.

Monday, February 23, 2015

6966  There never was a dark confused beginning.  First there was the light and fairness of the smooth face.  Order and division.  The clean cut.  The untouched.  That smooth face. And his rosy dawn cheeks as he walks away.  You delicately finger your pan pipes in the infinity of fractal perfection.  Honey, sit with me on the scales of scalar self-similarity.  The explosion.  Come. You're so reptilian.  All down in the down of your smooth thigh.  Mellifluous and cultured.  Butchered.

The evolutionists are wrong.  The world has always been created just twenty minutes ago.  Or however long it takes you to work it up and out.  A pouty sprout.  A rout and root.  And then the eternal cleaning up.  Preening up.  Screening out.  Screaming ice cream dream.  A bit too easy.  Frozen.

Cosmology is no more than cosmetology with that euphonic t.  Sweet stuttering.  Shuttering out the murmurs.  The intramural recluse is at it again, working the games of simulated life.  The beginning of man.  A mere appendage to the boy. 

6965  Ever since Rousseau and Wordsworth and Freud, thinkers have been trying to get back to the primal things.  Scary things of our original nighttime.  It’s such a civilized thing to do.  Boys of an advanced, very advanced intellectual dreaminess, lying about in their white underwear while the curtains gently breeze.  I have been thinking of Agni in the Rig Veda.  One could of course see those mantra as an early science of fire making.  Far from the smooth skin of a high priesthood.  Pixilated digits groping in the soft night.  Fire in the groin and the ethereal scythe.

Which came first: speaking or writing?  Which came first: material inchoate stuff or the straight lines of high intellectual civilization?  Which came first: groans and dirty beaten heads or smooth messengers out of heaven?  The duende or the angel?

Today boys languidly watch fantasy videos of the far future which is also the primal past and listen to cybernetic loops of perfect sound.  They masturbate themselves into religion.  Scary stuff in suburban security.  And then dinner is ready.

The primal and the last things are inventions of our holy ennui.  Our divine self-hypnosis. It repeats and repeats and repeats.  Every angel is the same as every other.  Fiery jewels in the sky.

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