Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Speech-acts are not limited by the reflex of everyday contact and the rational language of functional speech, they serve the function of quoting, of quoting life after the fashion of photographies, all conversations between humans outside the sphere of rationality are modelled on this pattern, they quote stories from others, they quote what they quote without refence back to the original author of the whole thread.
It is but they, the objects of the world what ultimately leads to thought and not the opposite, so that reality is modeled after linguistic possibilities but in itself is not constituted by it, merely mediated in so far as it is made communicable and not remains solely on the sensorial plane. What one lives in so far as it experienced in images prior to associations is conditioning of the human condition.
Friday, August 14, 2009
Durante aquellos cortos momentos, horas suspendidas, en la sala de espera del vínculo humano, hubo un gran fervor y deseo en mí de aferrarme a algunas imágenes específicas que compartimos, un deseo de esencializar la imagen y remontarla a un presente absoluto. La espera humana de la intersubjetividad es siempre concreta y constante pero se refiere a algo que nunca se puede concretar, la espera es una necesidad radical que no se puede satisfacer sin trascender estructuras sociales existentes, la necesidad radical no puede ser objetivizada dentro de un índice temporal concreto o ser utilizada para restarle legitimidad a necesidades humanas cotidianas, es una necesidad constante y nunca inmanente. “Creo que aquí está la causa de la debâcle: no sólo como estudioso soy más débil de lo que pensaba –aunque esto también es posible y aun probable –sino como persona. Me hace falta algo. Me hacen falta personas –incluso necesito calor. Y el calor es algo que se genera en mí con tanta dificultad (contrariamente a la facilidad con que entablo una conversación o empiezo con cualquiera una relación superficialmente íntima) que es prácticamente imposible conseguirlo. Y lo echo de menos. No es verdad lo que voy repitiendo desde hace años: que no necesito a nadie, que puedo vivir en cualquier parte. No creo que pudiera. La cuestión es esta: ¿se podría aprovechar el malestar que siento para incrementar mi productividad? Me temo que no. Y con esto quedaría definitivamente pronunciado el veredicto. Sólo hay una cosa que no entiendo: ¿por qué me sobraban aquí Baumgarten y Leo? ¿Por qué no me ha importado que se fueran? Incluso –allá en lo hondo- hasta me he alegrado de su marcha. En realidad no son ellos a quienes estoy echando de menos. Ni tampoco a alguien determinado. Algo inconcreto. El calor. Parece que soy hasta tal punto cínico que ese calor podría venir de no importa quién. Pero algo me falta para que esto pueda realizarse; quizás que no me mostrara indiferente sólo en el sentido metafísico en lo que atañe a dónde vivo y con quienes, sino también en la realidad empírica. Pero así están ahora las cosas: en el sentido metafísico soy absolutamente desleal, apátrida, etc.; sin embargo en la realidad soy leal y apegado a la tierra. Desde luego-porque en sus relaciones externas toda persona actúa con la esencia metafísica de su ser (está bien expresado: ens realissimum) –todo el mundo se comporta conmigo como si fuera desleal; mientras en la realidad soy un enamorado leal y desdichado… ”.
Con todas estas consideraciones en base a las cuales no puedo emitir juicio alguno sea ya por ignorancia o pereza, aún me considero afortunado de nuestro breve encuentro, ha servido de puente para regresar al mundo, incluso si la casualidad de tal fortuna no sea compartida, eso es irrelevante al trabajo aquí realizado, a la semilla cultivada. Más allá del motivo estético nos encontramos navegando en la oscuridad, pero la afirmación misma del indeseable compañero de juegos en las areneras del mundo privado y selecto permanece también indeleble. Regreso a Hopper para así poder partir incondicionalmente, el silencio no lo devasta todo aunque si convierte las imágenes del cuadro en algo secundario –es como tener un cuadro habiendo perdido el lienzo pero conservando todo el mundo conceptual, el de antes y después de la creación. De la misma manera que uno escoge el rio o la persona rio, así se escoge la filosofía, o el amigo, la decisión es lo fundamental. Se pueden aprender mil cosas, aprender a escribir e incluso olvidar, pero cuando siempre se retorna al pensamiento no es simplemente un ejercicio intelectual, es una elección concreta en base a la cual nada cambia nunca –igual que la imagen esencial del no concreto aquel. No existe cuantificación alguna aquí, pues al dejarse tocar por el reflejo cotidiano y luego por el silencioso momento robado, adviene un cambio cualitativo, ya sea que se rescate el presente o la personalidad, el futuro y el pasado absolutos e inmediatos del presente aquel habrá ya cambiado para siempre. La historia personal al igual que la de la filosofía nunca puede ser vista como la acumulación de errores pasados –eso sería convertir la experiencia y la sabiduría en un proceso de reciclaje. Probablemente es la verdad, no como un agregado de argumentos, sino como un esfuerzo singular y común lo que puede salvar el momento estético de la muerte y transformarlo. La transformación va más allá de los intereses, concierne a la totalidad de la persona. No me parece que la melancolía de Lukács sea realmente contradictoria o perjudicial; es el testimonio de un esfuerzo integral y honesto que acepta la paradoja y no se niega a la espera –la fundamenta por el contrario, en todo contacto humano. Eso es precisamente todo lo que pude aprender de usted y todo lo que recuerdo: Negarse a esperar en función de una forma más elevada y menos restringida y menos mutable es una decisión sin duda valiente y típica del héroe trágico griego, pero vacía de contenido en el sentido que no es una espera ansiosa: es simplemente el carril lento de los procesos biológicos. Todo contacto humano a través del cual dejamos de estar solos con nuestros pensamientos, es una posibilidad de fundamentar la radical espera en cualquier persona sin importar las consecuencias –ya hemos externalizado el vínculo. Este es un fundamento necesariamente mediocre y absolutamente contingente, ya que involucra algo de la resignación poética de Susan Sontag, pero es esta resignación lo que nos devuelve el mundo y no permite que los vínculos humanos lo destruyan por completo ya que conservamos la referencia inmediata hacia el fracaso de todo vínculo humano. Aquellas personas que no podemos ingresar a las filas del mundo histórico porque no venimos al mundo a construir un hogar o a entregarle un hijo al mundo como conciliación entre la biología y la existencia, necesariamente permanecemos alienados en vínculos que siempre van a fluctuar entre lo erótico y lo no concreto, pues la vida como tal es imposible de objetivar o de concretar terrenalmente en esta situación. Es por eso que el proyecto de Lukács siempre frustrado, de conciliar la forma con el alma, representa el más sublime de los esfuerzos humanos, pero sin embargo debemos dejarlo de lado, porque la melancolía de Lukács sin la risa de Sontag –esa libertad de poder reírse incluso del buen dios, es la condena del aburrimiento eterno y una orientación inequívoca hacia la muerte. Esa risa, cuando compartida, es la forma más radical de transformación –en ella nos conservamos a nosotros mismos en fragmentos, a medias, y esos fragmentos nos salvan de la angustia de una imagen siempre irrepetible y al devolvernos el mundo, nos entregan una existencia temporal e incompleta, pero irremediablemente soportable. No es más sino esto, todo lo que traté de decirle mientras que todo se hundía en el silencio imposible de la reconciliación solitaria.
Bogotá, Agosto de 2009
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
In between so many conversations I encountered newfound stories about my life. Maybe I am as yet incomplete but I decided to become the abyss itself. Intense abyss full of unknown eventualities and perhaps of entirely different universes. The curiosity together with my search led me to you without being really conscious of what I was doing.
Thus, we live in eternal sorcery of the unconscious present. Obscure will is what has led me to envision a future, never certain but yet provoking. To lose myself with the pariahs and return back to my life, this is what I want to find. I started off with you Cynical you and then the back is never an option for someone that already held fast to the axe of time.
We are construed on mutable and selective remembrance, we are thirsty because of our being and at the same time we are ourselves the water that sate the thirst.
Saturday, August 08, 2009
Friday, August 07, 2009
Tuesday, August 04, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
“Die Krise ist Permanent geworden” –Jacob Taubes
The bard stands at the opening of a new door, it is the gate and it is not even open, it lays shattered and giving way to a thorough-passage into motion –the place is still hidden, there only lays bare the movement of an action and a certain petty passion; there’s always a story being told here... The story isn’t, it doesn’t exist in itself (it ain’t yet), the raw indeterminate reality of existence determines something ripped off from its staves:
“ex” – out of itself
“is” – a non-relationship, intransitive expression, belatedness of the function in relation to the thing, purely phenomenal appearance of non-whatness
“tense”- geography of time, false hope, twilight
Let us turn to categories of speculative thinking: the dualistic map of a thought-out idea to match the thinking-in world doesn’t satisfy our instincts, we’re building upon a tree whose sin is not knowledge, but the fact that experience can shatter knowledge and that pure thought that arises from experience alone is a trigger, its only aim it so vanquish the world with rage –that deceitful world of contradiction and dearth of coincidence between the appearing and the inner constitution of the self that is always withdrawing into itself.
A story can’t just be – it is only being told… As to vanish later into the spider web of human associations, it is but these associations that are ciphered into the everyday foul play of colours and pairs and shaped objects what construes the soft tissue of human knowledge. Each story (and not every story, for “every” denotes a membership in an aggregate of generic objects –stories are both objects and subjects) contains the pegs of the linguistic map, they predate not the spoken word, but fully developed speech –the transit from Adam’s ability to name things in so far as they exist (exist as torn off from the generic world of possible and potential orientation into the actuality of their earthly passing, the Christ can’t save trees or dogs pissing by the trees –he can only save unearthly creatures, creatures come from another world so to say) to the first human song –the Song of the Sea sung by Moses as they crossed the Reed Sea and then the grand finale: Israel’s unison at the fulfilment of the first historical dream, the giving of the Holy Torah.
The pre-storical experience is both biological and linguistic, but it is not a commonplace, it is an affair of prophets and scribes… From story to story a Tower of Babel of right and wrong is erected, but the truth is not at the top leading us into heaven, it is but winding in both directions all the time, often running counter to the experience of the everyman, and so far no scriptural passage says hell is devoid of truth altogether. The
The originality demanded here is not epistemological –philosophy has forsaken insurance policies, nor is it teleological. Storical man is not all that willing to arrive home, his journey runs into the infinite future much more than into the commonplaces of his own lifetime –into the general future of absolute things such as life and the world rather than into the present-future of the present-present, thus the originality resides more in the citability of the structural experience of the story into the body of practical wisdom than in its uniqueness as content –too unique stories are unlikely to be commonplaces and therefore hardly stand the test of adding up to the hay of general knowledge –this is the greatest charm about the Bible. The citability is the ability of any storical association to stand for a historical question –historical not as scientific-historiographical or a station in the course of mankind’s appearance on earth, what is meant here by historical is bound and coeval with the human condition.
The story teller is disenchanted, he’s meant not to avoid or circumvent (which is impossible) the Final Judgment, but rather to delay it for as long as the morphology of this world can be kept. Whoever stands of his own will at the thread of the Judgment, such as Kafka and Kraus, they have melted themselves with and chosen to terminate the unrest in the pathic way –throwing themselves upon experience alone, so here there’s this recognition that every written word that follows from the ocular anxiety of Archimedes over our diminished size in the post-Paradise world, has made a failure of its author; one can as well choose the ontic way, but bare being, existence alone without the orientation of prophecy, is alive but mute. Whoever denies the Judgment as in the case of Sartre and De Beauvoir, he has lost the claim to the future and in so far as he is only looking toward the past, the future will be always desperate, inflexible, mechanistic… Their story can’t be told, they have made sure to lock up all the doors before the speech act is set into motion. This is the difference between the story-teller and the mythological; an association into time through genetics, for what could be more tautological than thinking out genetics in terms of eternity!
Geometrical forms such as shaped objects, lines, successions and points do point in the direction of something remarkable: the indeterminateness of story-telling; in this kind of thinking so much unlike in the case of metaphysics, the unities of the monad cannot be broken down piecemeal to the original parts unless one of two choices is made: one is to believe, that is, to take the basic concepts in the Cartesian plane as truisms, another is not to believe, that is, to understand the universe as infinite, and the person who chooses not to believe is but a theologian, he is working under the assumption that this isotropy is possible only within the greatest contingency –if the universe be infinite, it must necessarily have two measures: infinitely small to one end and infinitely big to the other end and perchance both ends meet and are but one. This is informing us only of one thing; that the idea of the infinite is but a tautology unless we hold on to it as a paradox –the paradox that infinity is only possible in space, that is, as long as we are not thinking in terms of measures. The schism within the spatial is that pure thought in contrast to the storical man, has encountered the space-place relationship as a network of functions and when there’re only functions, things can’t exist. Greek mathematicians knew this very well, that is why they were so troubled with reality, with suffering, not with everyday suffering but with the cosmic nothingness that paralyzed the Renaissance men, back in the day they only laughed, laughed once, like Socrates, but it was the laugh of shudder what they had.
The bard tells the story again, from Adam to our days, the same story, even in front of the numb eyes of the astronomer; now they all pray to keep the gates locked, they yearn for quiet and still of the dwelling place, they crave for the Romantic view of man, the appraisement of mental illness and the secret salons, the interesting mankind, the idle chat and romance. Perhaps only because it can’t be had anymore, even the naïve bard knows this too well. The salon is a discreet manner to keep the gates locked. No unleashing of human forces, let us leave everything up to God. The story isn’t, it doesn’t exist in itself (it ain’t yet), it is not an existence, it is an extension of life itself:
“ex” – out of itself
“tension” – space of time, true hope, looking at the time without a watch
“Extension” – Duration of time, in the Aristotelian and Thomistic philosophies extension is a fundamental attribute of substance/matter that makes it possible to divide into smaller parts. The other attributes refer to extension as the immediate subject of the substance, whereas the extension is referred back to the thing in itself. Geometrically speaking it is a property of bodies in general to occupy a certain measure of space but in Logic it is a grouping of objects to which it is applied a common knowledge element.
The story is an extension of life itself in that experience is only reflected as a past of the present thrown upon an absolute future; for we are always losing hold of the sentiment in the present tense, and a unique personal non-verbal past doesn’t reflect individuality but cosmic loneliness. If Aristotle had any idea about time and therefore about space, he would agree to the fact that the extension contains all the logical possibilities of the geometrical surface, except one –that of its own reality, and this is definable only negatively not as a syllogism that cancels logical fallacy whenever possible, but as the knowledge that the origin of man is unknown and this is precisely the reason why the law in whichever form predates any form of history, religion and culture. The bard holds the key to the Messianic charade, he keeps the gates locked. Giants walk in through a rivulet trespassing the bard’s prohibition and later return, breaking into tears.
We’re building upon a tree, branching out, into singled-out objects realizable only in their association, growing roots but decaying and growing again, thrown into life, and just as violently taken out, always relying on a previous image of ourselves, but the tree is safer than the Tower of Babel. It is earth-bound, like us. Had we but the freedom of monads!
“You’re walking up the ladder, heading always downwards”
A is logical, B is necessary (without the world or the work)
A ≠ B
A wills B, so that A ≥ B
However, A does not contain B, so that (A) is not (B)
Invalid propositions are A+B, A ≤ B, A+A, xⁿ A = A ∙ n
Valid propositions are A ≈ ∞, ∑A ≡ xⁿ B but ∑ B ≠ A
General Propositions are Bⁿ = a + b + c ∫ B, A = A
Relationship of A to B in terms of x:
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
- The end of Religion is not the end of the Religious; it will linger about for a long time under the rubric of “religious”, wearing masks falser than those it wore before. Back in time, it at least made use of authority or conviction in order to carry out the divine plan. The new “religious” discovered by philosophers like Habermas, misusing the tortured theology of Adorno and Benjamin, is nothing but the last desperate moan of a comatose metaphysics –here I am not speaking of self-secure Thomistic and Aristotelian metaphysics that still hold their world together for themselves, even if at the price of an alienated existence, rather what I am referring to is the so-called philosophies of “(political) freedom” engaged in “practical concerns” of everyday life, that in their self-avowed rejection of spirituality have mistaken Plato’s world of forms with the world from above. In this confusion it is not only that it has not been possible to give a framework to this such eminently practical philosophy but also that its lack of metaphysics under all its names, reputable or not, has evidently torn into pieces its possibility to reach any philosophical climax and therefore any claim for truth, they have instead devoted themselves to criticize the rationality behind the processes of public and justice administration and governability; this comatose religion does not even have a theology or a scripture or even a God, it is sated with a mourner that claims that those theologies, scriptures or gods have never been such, and therefore denies the claim to all possible past, and it is not like there is a future that looms with the splendor of a renaissance.
- Everyday Life as an unchallenged structural concept is not the equivalent of everyday wisdom but neither is it a philosophy of life –Lebensphilosophie and the philosophical biologies could not be any further removed from the concerns of everyday life. In its long career as a hidden pathway from St. Augustine to Heidegger, Everyday Life is but a concern with personal salvation. Salvation and religion are not the same, because it would be an oxymoron to say one is to keep religion in its actual form as a liturgical or social practice once he has reached into the world or state where he is meant to be saved… Religion is ought to belong to the morphology of the world in its actual form –as a lower form if we were to adopt Platonic philosophy… Isn’t what we learn from Jesus that salvation comes from faith and not from religion? Religion and Culture have their origin in Roman life; however in the age of alienation they have become a bridge between people, even a channel of inter-subjectivity if that’s how we want to call them.
Days of unbearable pain, but I am in full awareness that this statement means nothing at all… I have outgrown the Romantic ideal of always speaking of one’s suffering in terms of interesting, as if to suffer were anything interesting… That is a voyeuristic attitude which is not so bad after all except when it is the sufferer who is placing himself in the position of the spectator, as if the vanity of being possibly observed could sate anybody, but then thinking about it a second time, the sufferer knows not the metaphysics of suffering. They are meant to be disturbing to the good God, but stand on the way of salvation.
Physical pain is an empty space in a lifetime; it is like a white dot, or that corner that has to be cut off from the canvas in order to frame it. It doesn’t teach moral lessons in itself; it is but in the care of physical pain that we learn, self-learn… Extreme physical pain can, and no less than fear, lead us to a clinical death, the pain can cause our brain and heart to break their feedback and let us fall into unconscious suffering, of whose consequences we are not aware in any way. In Victorian love diseases as in “pneumatic” tuberculosis we are thought of as gifted, with a Pandora’s Box, but gifted… Making a superhuman effort to overcome the natural tendency to avoid pain, for the Greeks after all work and pain and sorrow had the same word-root, thus what a tragedy it was to be enslaved.
I am not sure what part of the anxiety is worse, if the uncertainty of an amateurish self-diagnose of the worst possible illnesses or the certainty of something having gone definitely awry and the medical care being out of reach. It is a world of practical things and shopping, something aches, you see a doctor, tell a story, receive in lieu of passionate footnotes to your story a detailed prognosis and a prescription, you walk into the pharmacy, swallow pills, trust that God is dead and get better. I am ready to accept that it has been a choice to live without doctors, at least it was while the insurance could be afforded, then it became an existential necessity, a state of affairs. I strongly believe even now that they greatly contribute to our deaths, or to the impoverishment of our lives. At any rate, I would feel so much more in peace if one of those murderers of the healthy people would tell me that I am going to die. Certainty has such a high price in this world, usually the price of acquitting the devil for great crimes in the name of some little good we derived from them. Certainty in religion comes at the price of leaving the world as it is, poor Leibniz, the best of all possible worlds?
I try to write and I know eventually I will, write a master piece that I will loath one day thereafter, but it is all part of a big whole I see only in parts. I am writing basically about myself as if it were something that could save me, as if leaving a word behind me constituted the only thing I can do not to lose the right too heaven so completely… In writing about myself it is all likely that I am getting to know myself, and perhaps it is in this knowing that I can choose myself for what I am, and only then be saved. The pain comes often during the day but the mornings are particularly bad, there’s too much noise in the environment, the air is too heavy and the people, to just see them, it is an open wound in me. It starts at the height of the teeth in the right side and slowly envelops the ear coming all the way up into the middle lateral head and all the way down to the neck. At the tact my neck is steel stiff, enlarged lymph nodes and that desecrating pain, screeching, emptying everything…
Strangely enough after some time it stops, but the minutes are eternal to me, more than the pain I dread a moment of un-heroic weakling’s death, brain stroke in the middle of a headache, and then no more essays and martinis and lovers and paintings… How strange, this is what really troubles me, not to enjoy the goods of this world I have been so committed to dread, it troubles to go to heaven without having exhausted with enough radicalism all the good in this world. When it stops I feel such calm around me, the silence of litanies, some calm as I had never experienced before, in a similar manner, no pain I experienced before equals this. In thinking and even in mourning about this world and its life, one is not that alone, one keeps himself company and he has a lot of imaginary interlocutors –friends of old, teachers, the great masters of thought, people he fancies and with whom he imagines himself in interesting conversations even in spite of not having ever crossed a word. It is only in physical pain that one is really alone.
This doesn’t take me by surprise, in my lack of tranquility I had expected this, after all leaving the world of peace and tranquility, to let them be stolen piecemeal, this is not only about courage, it does require so much talent. To suffer-only does not achieve anything but increasing the lust for tranquility, this requires an attitude. But then there’s the world of the home with foster mothers and parents, half-brothers and a dozen of other well-known but borrowed relatives… Their eyes are mirrors; they reveal the accuracy of one’s own contempt, the end of biology I suppose. The organic ties one set himself to tear have not been glued yet, they even seem now not just broken but shattered… Time seems not to have passed, neither disdain, at times we get used to an everyday comfort that doesn’t save, it just gives you the shattered illusion of an eternal tense, of the repetition of sequences without any temporal index, because any index whatsoever when temporal is charged with the ailing feel that it must end.
We become attached to parents we didn’t have, or to siblings we didn’t know, and tell ourselves little lies, in order to escape, to choose some piece of mind that had been broken already in olden times, when they still recognized you, when the gap was still something you desired, not an actuality of experience. The silence of love in the un-distance is something that I will always bear, the lack of a creative language like that of God –it is but this dearth what makes a requisite for being a denizen of this world, but the despair settles in when the language of un-love dawns on closeness between people, their living-together is only one another contingency like that of fish being thrown into a tank, in order to be fished and eaten and belched and defecated, mere dead biology. Biology and love, it is like death and cosmic order, related but one cannot know the other.
So many days elapse and I find my mattress at night an eternal purgatory, if at least we were Christians then this purgatory would have all the advantages of lewdness and Philistinism, it is as if my hiding place had to replace the world, how much meaning can there be in living in a place that can’t see, a place without windows to the external world –the most precious sight through a glass pane stained with animal fat from years of cooking sifts the outside with detour at a kitchen of bitter meals, and then you remember that kitchen, the beatings, the repetitive twenty years of the same plates and the great joy of drunkenness and oblivion. Perhaps one is to prefer the emptiness of the radical headache. Beneath the stairway, the mattress eats my health away, like fat being consumed by swine… And it is paradoxical then to think that there’s been really never any other inspiration but my very own life, under the stairway even… It seems hermetic as a glass house but one’s quick to realize the deceitful treat; the noises penetrate each and every cubic millimeter of air inside the little cave-room, the wooden panes even seem to cause the effect of maximizing the noise, making every desire or every intimate thought into the most reckless depravation, everything is turned into prohibition, privation.
Oftentimes I prefer when father doesn’t speak, then I am not so forced to lie with such blatancy, I must confess I do it only for the money… I don’t do it willy-nilly; I feel he owes me for so many years of abandonment, of spurious and abject abandonment, for the years of spiritual mediocrity and for the beatings too. The silence is tense but not like the silence of lovers, it is a silence in which all partners know that they really don’t want to break the silence, that things are cool as they are. I could die in the cave from a midnight headache, and perhaps days would elapse, they would think I am just pissed drunk or depressed, it wouldn’t be until the settlement of the smells and fungi that any alarm would be raised. This, this is my greatest fear. Whoever will say that I’ve spent my whole life running away from my fate, I will say he is absolutely right, but this possibility is my only faith.
I am frightened of the street nowadays while I hadn’t in younger years, but in Tel Aviv the nights showered with warm rays of invisible heat and the sea always offered some ideas about the endlessness of things, even when I had little patience to seize over these thoughts and preferred to wander in the lewdness of free alcohol, small talk and casual sex. I guess there were some ideas about “ends” anyways, especially in the mornings, just right before the noise blew back into the earth… It reminds me of that thing I wrote about Asaf, I think I dreamt about him the other day. In the middle of everything I never ceased to honor my people, the story goes that Rabbi Akiva couldn’t afford to learn so that he would climb up to the roof and watch the Talmudic discussions from there under the cold winter nights. In hungry days I never quit writing, I think it was precisely that what kept me alive through those years, no matter what I wrote, the letters to Katharina especially, in them I opened a savings account of my whole life, so whole that in them I included the futures that could not be, that would never be and perhaps even without knowing those that were to be.
In the end one could always study the Talmud and sing an ancient melody, grab some cookies and hide them in the pockets, roam the streets of the market at night as to pick up leftovers from whole bread loaves, gummies, some potatoes, tomatoes, a cucumber even, ah how happy were those nights! How regrettably impossible to speak on. Then when one had the money, a whole lunch from the nearby restaurant, delicious to the fucking bone… The entire day spent watching the pale clumsiness of the Protestant church and taking delight in thinking one could just be there somewhat at home, on a boat sailing right through a sea of burning fires and sins on the high-speed highway to the end of the world. To be at the church loomed easier, for it was easier to believe in Plato than to study Talmud and you would get free lunches instead of cookies, but at the price of salvation, at the price of communion, at the price of destroying the present. Then Talmud represented the uncanny reality, the exhaustion of logical possibility that leads the man of vision into the aporias of passion and therefore to action. The knowledge that man isn’t fallen, but yet he can’t be trusted… His sin was not the apple, but the idol worship, so that the damnation is not existentially applicable to the whole of universal history.
In the end, just like in those days, what I feared the most was not illness or the pain even, but to let myself be convinced that the world was emptied from love, no matter how strong my perception of reality had informed me of such being the case. Information is not a decision, then in that order of ideas I make sure to hold on, not to lose the temporal index, the fact of one’s own mortality. All my dreams are of royalties, expensive watches and designer’s clothes, not because they’re expensive but because they mean to represent universal ideas in the earthly and coward disguise of power… I am not so contemptuous of poverty as I am of living part-time, of intellectual “jobs” and “experts” in this philosopher or the other. There’s here a belittled idea of greatness, belittled only because we have cleaned it from theology and have thrown the weight of the victory and of defeat’s argument not into the wide universe, but right inside the body of the monad.
Last time I went into exile from the privileges of the home had been exactly six years and five months ago –enough time to catch a mortal disease and write a book, also enough time to have achieved quite a lot of happiness in earthly affairs. This should include an unplanned hotel booking that lasted already sixteen months; I had booked for a home-stay and was received with a cave-room, that after a few months of landing dead drunk on the cushions set upon the cold floor tiles. The janitor felt compassion for my Christian vale of tears and replaced it with a sanatorium without daylight, well; it seems like a place where I would be wont to be found. The payment policy at the hotel is crystal clear, you receive a mattress, some food and endless aggravation, and in return you pay with indifference, irresponsibility, unaccountability and disdain. No more could be asked from charitable institutions based on fundamental rights of denizens in every country such as those that entitle him to a name, a nationality, a family and so on. Institutions that of course have never collapsed and had withstood all tests of history, war and man’s lust for power. Right on.
I’m strong, I always said… But there’s so much I forgot along the way, and now in order to retrieve it, my only option is to do exactly what I did years ago, to take as much as I can from then and swiftly walk away without the sin of Lot’s wife. I might regret this so much later, in when it dawns on me that the nighttime of life has settled in, but this is my only option, lest I want to give up on all the claims I have made for myself in life. A strong drink now, then some tears and excruciating pain, but decisions made. I must be stronger even, to be able to carry out at least a few of the things I’ve been lucky enough to see in this life. An understanding is not a conclusion and a theory is not a hypothesis. It seems as if I will say something out of order bearing in mind the advantages of my position, but I will do my very best to stay alive until I can land in the far-away ports, this seems an overrated statement but it is so far the only practical truth I’ve dwelled on in the whole week of headaches and blurred visions. It didn’t hurt me to leave friendships behind at that time, and it shouldn’t now, however I am a little bit of a lot older, and I draw back over and over, but once the decision is made, fates will be up to world history.
I fear my sleep too, I don’t look properly after my cave, piles of clothes in the reduced space make it difficult to move, even to go in, but it is a pronouncement from my part, I pronounce my verdict: I am indifferent to this. This proves beyond rationale that my antinomian argument about loving the world as it is is but the greatest philosophical aporia in the moment you break it into separate congruent thoughts applicable to individual questions. I fear it because I awake from my sleep right at the same place, I fear the physical pain again, and I fear the fatherlessness so coldly striking me in the mornings when I feel like a beggar trying to make ends meet in front of a leper asylum. But I am free at night, so free… So free that I mind not the long hours walking home from drinking bouts, I fear not the long tireless day exerting its pressure over my eyelids with a surplus of daylight unnecessary for life, the nights are mine, so mine that they are like the body of a man, and because I have loved men, I know what their bodies are like, they are like this, treacherous but inevitable, and so inevitable is then the day when I will go and face the street again, less wise than when younger, but less tranquil, less persuaded, less deceived about happiness. I don’t know how I could have lived through the stations of my own life without writing, without thought, without the spirit of hell. Only those will know heaven, for the rest there’s Disneyland still. A home is always a destination, a psychological orientation, only in so far as you’re driving there, but past the entrance all newcomers are more than often disappointed, this is what happens when one goes on sojourns! World-Tourism is how one philosopher called this whole thing. I am outta home, hitting some free hotels where one prays for meals instead of lying, it is not yet practical freedom, but is rational, it is a half ticket back into the world of hotel rooms and hotel people. After salvation comes the everyday lover, that is my eschatological hope.