Thursday, January 18, 2007

Vertrauensbruch zwischen den Echt und Falsch


There's a problem in poetry that can be hardly solved by philosophy because it lies at the very pivot of one's interior castle, it is the problem of truth.

This truth indeed has very little to do with the authentic and the false, but rather encompasses both in an objectivity that can only be experienced by means of music, by means of revelation, of compassion, of estrangement.

This problem attacked Lessing and became his lonesome companion through the many years of his life, through the many letters and the anger before his own inability to find himself at home in the world with it.

Grasping the fragments of a truth that chops the head of the other which burnt to their innermost essentiality past the railways, this unsoluble problem disolved perennially when history ended and truth found a place among the dead wonders of the world, alongside Greek and Romans, empires and saturated towers.

I believe Heidegger made some baby steps toward the solution by which unknowingly he murdered Kafka and made himself all too homely by allegedly removing the foundation and throwing freedom outside reason into the abyss that creates an ever-changing present, he didn't believe it a Christian problem.

But his repetition wasn't new at all, it came with a metaphysical rebellion that started in Kierkegaard and found a pivoting point in Nietzsche, a reworked version of Hegel's recollection in which one can only grasp philosophy, revelation and truth in the very moment of its passing or right thereafter, twilight of names, bereft.

I shall nonetheless be more interested in Lessing because he didn't propose a solution, rather a model of speech, of human speech, in which this problem without being overcome could be discussed. This model was termed "friendship" and laid at the very beginning of our tradition with the Romans.

But the bridges of Grittli are no return or consolation, there's no longer glorious past. We all had to do something not to remain innocent, to choose our suffering for the sake of the world, to choose our own untrodden path and become existent, contingent, broken into pieces... like our bridges.

There's no real speech these days, but a rather lame and mute morse code. It's a postdiluvian nakedness once again as the rape of Noah by his son. Everything watered down in a moment of bliss that contained the anger of all possible flight, the waters turned themselves up and down and Noah drowned altogether with all the unique and individual possibilities of salvation.

It ain't time to turn to God for advise, for it's got nothing to do with him. We're bereft and stand on our own in this groundless world, wandering and wafting like a Cain of our days after the most murderous deed, history. We started to count the days as soon as we left our heavenly home on earth.

The truth tears apart the noble hearts and hides inside blocks of advertisements, at the end of railways and becomes immune to love, happiness, beauty. The rawest form of existence, because after all it is that which remains at stake and comes home to roost, one unbearable minute of mirrorhood that waters down all the colours of the world, all the paintings and all the words, the worlds. An empty glass house is the result, a drowning Noah is the sight.

We leave our houses of security and nauseate. What have you done? What is your sin? What is your humourless irony? You've professed nothing to believe in, humanistic mechanic, dilettante, horrid screeching noises draw crowds to your house that can only provide mirrors without floors, without ceilings, without doors. But the gate is always closed, always closed, always closed.

I hear your voice mumbling from within the wombs of the wet earth in Archadia, I hear the musings of forgotten poetry, of forgotten density and choose the later for myself as to drown with Noah at the pivoting point where truth, friend and existing meet.

You couldn't finish the house, you couldn't love the world, you couldn't fear God. At most histories were told from Tuebingen to Jena as a mad poet cried out the despair over his distance from humankind, from friend, from foe, from love. I only had a story to tell you, but it watered down as it had been written and returned to the beginning to fall back upon itself, to the very moment right before God first spoke.

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