Feeling the thought

My friend says I need to allow my readers to visualize what I'm saying: It's as if I need to use examples, real life situations, to explain my thought. But isn't there a merit to esotericism? Isn't there a reason why I write the way I do; hasn't my writing progressed in a certain way up to the way it is now? And this along with the progression of my thought. I don't think my writing is too difficult to understand. This is non-sense. But my friend might be right in his implication. Visualize means to see. But is to see closer to to feel than to think? We get to the feeling of the thought from thought, and to get to the feeling from seeing we must go through thought. But sometimes we can feel what we see without even thinking it, for instance in a picture of a young sudanese girl withering away from lack of nourishment, or in a horror movie when the alien jumps out onto the screen.

But how are we meant to visualize the thought that the I exerts itself as an I, creates more of an acknowledgement of itself, through the act of killing, of murder. Its as if the worm that squirms beneath my foot, in its death, creates the that in the that I am, makes the I more than a sight in the distance that is never recognized, makes the I immediately recognized, respected, and appreciated to another being, even though that being has to die in the process.

It's about feeling the thought, and remembering the thought through the feeling. The thought, when understood, exerts an impact. This impact can be remembered when a similar instance turns up, when one is reminded of the thought by another thought, and the impact returns.

This is evidenced in the dreadful and terrible impact "the sleep of reason" caused in me. I could not sleep, afraid that I would be left behind on the path to the godhead. I believed it my duty to keep up with the quest, and would not be left behind while sleeping.

Naked in the Thunderstorm

"Dasein is nothing other than exposure to the superlative power of beyng."

Extroversion is the way to escape being: is it an indifference? A willed ignorance? To one's own existence, that is. Yet we still are, simply ceasing it's recognition.

Dasein, this ubermensch, stands out, willingly or unwillingly subjugated to that unceasing and impenetrable domination; as if it is always the mystery (either hidden or seen as mystery), the concealed, that baffles and haunts us: we cannot escape its power as it is in us and around us.

The superlative question: will we learn to live together, as One, to accept differences and co-exist in peace before we ruin the earth and can't live on this beautiful planet anymore?

I'll continue this later: the next poem and commentary is truly enlightening, please read on. I really didn't want to cover it up, but this is important!

DisConfession

Circumference expresses
a return to an origin
that is no origin
but already in the process
of return (back), turn (always),
and forturn (the turn to be).
The forturn always already
was turning, and returning
to turn. It will become the turn
that still returns retrogressively,
in the same way, to the non-origin
of the circumference; where the turn
returns to turn again, from
the beginning to the end, the point
at which the forturn returns
to begin to turn.

It rests on principles: the future
comes around, ahead of itself,
assimilating with the turn, turning
itself into the nothing of lost time.
A time il y a un seconde that mimics
the forturn in its aimless not-hereness.
A time disappeared that will return
to return again, in the turning into
turning of the forturn. All is return.
As if all has already turned, and
what returns is the forturn, that is
the return, ahead of itself yet as if
already behind what has already returned,
a turning again of the forturn into itself
as turn that simply returns to return again.

I planned here to confess
but realized that I always already have,
confessed a past that is yet to come,
confessed a future that has disappeared,
to come again, a return to returning
the wheel of fate already spun,
stopped by the supernova of fate itself:
friction and bumps made the turn
end, only to return to begin again,
a forturn already forturned by fate
into a turn we cannot yet live,
returning as we do in this second turn
spun by ourselves, that can only follow
the same dull round, returning
to the forturn in the return: a return
of the turn; a return of our fate.

Twice taken by fate;
slave to a free will
that can only choose
between suicide
or suicide.

I can confess a fear
in anticipation;
I cannot change:
only conform in changing.
I cannot improve:
only improve in my conforming,
a conforming whose improvement
is only conforming.
I cannot be happy.
Only conform to being happy.
Conforming is not all bad
when you realize you are conforming
for you can then anticipate
what you will have to conform to.

Conforming to the return of fate.
Conforming to the turn of chance,
a turn that returns as a fate forturned,
a chance that returns as fate already turned.

I confess a deep regret over having been fated by return of the turn of chance, with the ability, as of coming to this ability to return to this fate, to anticipate the forturn as the fated turn that has returned and will return in the forturn whose fate, not simply in its returning but in how it will return, will be known by myself by having seen the return of the always already having turned of the forturn, a future ahead of itself in a past behind itself, already decreed by the turn of fate, the present return of the past, as the former becomes from out of the future, which was already past in that it has turned. With fate I have seen it all already. Or fate has never existed simply because it has always existed. What was always already there returns to become what it returned to before. My confession was over before it began.

Alone

Winding downward spiraling
retrogressive movement
into itself, slowly yet
faster and faster,
disappearing into nothingness.
A relation that everything bears
to the abyss of similitude:
on which reality relies.
Yet what if the abyss were
purely not even itself:
absolute difference?
Then there would be no relationship,
nothing would be anything,
for both must be for either to be,
for if anything were everything
it would be nothing: such is saying
all is the same, all is different.
For all is the same as different;
difference differing even from itself:
yet only in one way and not in another:
Every thing is wholly other
to itself as wholly same: Alterity.
But, to the point, alone presupposes
an other or others to whom the alone
is separate, alone:
solitude presupposes community,
as sameness presupposes alterity
which cannot be other with it
being other to something wholly other
to it - that would be sameness:
The wholly other to otherness:
the alterity to alterity:
The tragic bliss to which we are confined:
L'Haim. Allein.
Yet together, with ourselves.

Life alone: a daunting prospect. A friend used to say: "we are all gregarious people", as if we need the company of others, companionship at a bare minimum, to survive. It is not as he presupposes in his implication (I guess you may have needed to hear his tone and the context to derive what I have from this statement) for we do not need friendly company to survive but only communication with others to attain those things we need to sustain life; but this communication is fostered and improved to aid us in this attainment through friendly company, for sometimes, the man who has never had friends, who does not understand friendship, may have a hard time getting what he wants from another due to his inability to relate to the other on a personal level rather than solely on a business one. Yet some people have this problem even though they have "friends" to converse with: but these are only acquantances that the one uses to further his personal prosperity, not friends, who are those one treats as ends in themselves or for the pleasure of their company and conversation, in mutual good will, and not as a means to the attainment of their personal desires or needs. Although one of the principles of any system of justice in politics is that every human action is essentially selfish, for without this assumption there could be no responsibility, as one could have done something legally reprehensible entirely for an other, who only wanted that other to do that thing entirely for him/herself, and there could be no blame, a friend is one who does something for another friend without there being any personal gain whatsoever, an entirely unselfish act. Yet is this even possible if the personal motivation could even be as little as to get closer to that person or with the expectation that that other would do a similar act in return?

If altruism is impossible we are always alone. Even reciprocal altruism, which is all that I believe there can be of altruism, infinitely separates the other from the same. And even that side that would sacrifice itself to the other, altruistically, is different from the self same self whose intentions are always selfish. We are always alone, separated from the otherness in ourselves that succumbs to the other of our the fear of being alone. Separated from our alterity that imposes itself upon the other, yet only his/her alterity, for this same fear; in some cases, possibly immoral yet debatable, this action of imposition is motivated by pleasure. It cannot be other to these two, these two that are wholly other to each other, and wholly other inside ourselves. We are so comprised of othernesses to our sameness that are all other to each other, inhabiting the realm of alterity, infinitely other to the one single sameness that is in the individual, the that of his/her individuality, that resides in the proper name. This sameness, although everyone has it which means it can be said that simply in our sameness, that we have a sameness/individuality, we are all the same, is always alone in its relation of absolute difference to anything other than itself that has identity with itself or anything other than itself. This is the paradox of the single individual (as higher than the universal). For nothing can bear a relation to all and only those things that do not bear that same relation to themselves (Quine). Perhaps it is easy to escape this by saying that we are all infinitely different to each other in quality and experience, although we can have similar qualities there are nevertheless no ties or draws in singles tennis matches, but that we are all the same in that we all have a self sameness in that we each are who we each are and not another. This, once again, is noticing the identity in the difference between the one and the other, an identity that I believe is all important for the reasons that follow:

If there is an identity in difference there must of necessity be, at times (and in the relation), the possibility that one thing and its opposite or contrary are each other: for at least all the oppositional relationships themselves are the same in that they are oppositional. The next step in disproving the principle of non-contradiction's unwavering application to reality is to show that there can be a difference in identity or a difference between difference and difference, which this in some sense implies (or at least proves the possibility of asking the question), for then we could say that the oppositional relationship is and is not oppositional, at least at times, which would prove that the things in the relationship are and are not opposites at the same time, which would lead to hell on earth, the destruction of coherence, the overturning of language, the beginning of a period of meaninglessness affirmed and confusion: chaos would assert itself as a more prominent member of order than order itself, the beginning and end of order, the absence of ground and the leap of faith into the system would be affirmed. We would all be considered equally as crazy and therefore no one would be crazy. Perhaps my intentions here are selfish.

But the point of this is not to dwell in this and commit logical or even physical suicide, flaggelating oneself as the ascetic ideal willing nothingness out of the tragic realization of the inability to eradicate desire, which itself must be desired, but to grasp ahold of this with ones radiant force and appropriate it in ones life, appropriating ones life to it, aligning oneself with the will of the cosmos, in which, as which, and with which you are alone. You are never really alone, only alone with yourself, yourself as different to yourself (other's influence) with which you can converse preventing solitude, aloneness, but then, to not appear schizophrenic I would have to say that your alterity is really part of you AS WELL. Then, of the part of you that is the same to you, your self sameness, you cannot be alone when dwelling in this, just out of the realization THAT you are the same to the other in THAT you are different even to yourself, to all others, and same to yourself. We are both the same and different to ourselves and to others, which facilitates how we can feel/be alone when with others or even together, gregarious, when with ourselves. And all this without being schizophrenic, so long as you realize you are actually not two different people, but two different parts, in the relation itself, of the same person, different to itself, yet this appreciation and constant taking into account of sameness annuls the difference that overcomes in schizophrenia. There is so much more I can write on this, but it is all in the poem, in need of a stuffit expander.

Epitome of Beauty

View with your passion the sunrise of hope,
rising as bubbles in the champagne of heaven,
the end of the process we begin to enjoy,
only when the future looks short and the past long,

My life, the world, ameliorating each day,
early warning of happy color,
sparkling sun from so far away,
where life begins again and saves

us, a two or more conjoined, a one,
as everything together makes nothing
or two, the blue and snow, a glow
together - the weather gets better

even after summer goes running the marathon
flying soaring like the eagle,
far far away - becoming intelligent beings
on another planet in another universe

that imitates our own in its splendor,
its ultimate sound, symbol, harmonious
peace, and my pipe calls me to leave
my computer and relax in front of ani

walking peace, talking joy, silent bliss.
Tranquility ineluctably overcomes the stale
noise of silence, the dissonance of the
background, that ends the world of me

endlessly, a limitless limit outside of which
we can think, but only a thinking of non-thinking.

The vacuum in which we subsist has boundaries
that enclose the possible world of ironic paradox.

A hairy toy seal stares at me as I surmise my mother
bearing the weight of the world on my shoulders
and never appreciating my achievements.

Looking down on me as avoiding the harsh reality of life.

But there is no reality to avoid - everyday we face life

and win our battles just in surviving.



Art is doing.

The song

treats the essence of philosophy
its purpose:
to understand the relationship
to the other -
an other too much other to be other.
So it is one, as nothing can exceed
the limits of thought, a limit that
in its thinking thinks beyond it.
One is any relationship in its simply
being a relationship, an identity -
without which difference would conquer.
In naming the other as other you are
naming yourself as other, and both,
hence, as one.
To get closer is the onening of otherness.
Intimacy, otherness's dissolution.
Yet the other remains wholly other.
Even while there is oneness.
Difference remains in the distinction
between being and appearance
that annuls the identity that in
intimacy annuls the difference.
The others otherness is wholly different
yet wholly identical to my otherness
as wholly different
to the other.

This is precisely why it is in the song that the relation to the other is strengthened - its goal, its purpose is this realization of the identity within our differences as basic difference: this cannot be, for it would mean that the individual, in itself and in its in itself relations to others is a contradiction. Reality, in the relationship, is a contradiction. Or is it a paradox? The paradox that lies at the heart of truth, for truth's heart is pragmatic or subjective.

The question

follows the answer:
Silence needs to silence itself.
Or the world may come to begin -
or end again, endlessly.
Construction: cancer
Destruction: auto-immunity.
Reconstruction cannot help
itself to kill itself:
A brain virus.
Construction has built within it
its own need to self-destruct.

WE, likewise, the constructions of a disease, are programmed to self-destruct, just as the disease itself will or has, unless it has it's reconstruction built into it: a cycle that must kill itself without helping itself to kill itself, in itself, by itself. God committed suicide in being causa sui, the beginning of a cancer that it had to spread throughout Being. But it never dies with suicide, for in creating itself once it must recreate itself as soon as it destroys itself, in itself, by itself. Faith is and is not, as it both is and is not in a being that is and is not. And this recurs throughout the rest of the endless end that has already come.

Celan

If this be the last poem I ever write, let it be, it is a poem for you.

"To Stand, in the shadow of a scar in the air."

Impossible to be, then
Not impossible to be:
A metaphor.

This, holding, opinion;
without belief,
for with no truth
its possibility rises.

Yet I cannot speak it.
Its possibility rises,
begins to fall as
I do begin to speak it.

Begins to fall as
it comes clear;
It is interpreted
It comes clear

It is not interpretable.
Untranslatable maybe,
but it is interpretable,
Maybe translatable:

It holds, yet never true
then always true
it never holds.
Strong.

It is translatable:
the word represents
in indirect light
a fabrication.

in indirect light
you still see
the healing wound
of a fabrication.

the word:
a fabrication
of a healing wound,
a fabrication.

The air so clear
hollow, void
till the fabrication
of a healing wound

is fabricated
on to the word.
In nothing rests
the nothing

we call something,
we CALL something.

This poem is not only about the standing that is in holding an opinion, but also in the standing of a term/expression for the concept/representation it is meant to signify/"stand" for. When we hold an opinion in an argument we do not have to believe in what we are claiming as our opinion. To be hypocritical is the nature of language: we do not have to believe that "belief" exists to seem as if we are believing in the stating of an "opinion" we don't even have to believe exists. We can say and not believe even that "to say" exists: saying must correspond to the reality that one is saying (something) in order for THIS "saying" to exist, or even for saying itself to exist it must be possible to say. But this correspondence relies on a belief in the existence of "reality", which subsequently relies on a belief in the existence of "correspondence", "belief" and "existence", all of which we only believe to exist, it is our opinion that they exist, in the face of a reality that (pseudo) qualifies/certifies that there are such things. What is hypocritical about language is the way in which, to express how it cannot be possible, how it breaks down at its very core, how all meaning and the terms that signify such meaning are fabrications of the representations of the meaning and the representation that representation represents, it cannot escape itself to show how all the representations used in language are fabrications from nothing fabricated for a reason we cannot know. Language breaks down as every term used in it loses its meaning in that each term was granted a meaning that was fabricated, the representation being a fabricated nothing.

To explain and relate: "to stand" for is not only all we can do for this concept, that is, hold it, for there can be no truth value placed upon it if the term "truth" only stands for a thought content whose representation stands for nothing, other than itself, and is stood for by the fabricated term "truth" which is meant to represent the representation that is "truth", while this latter representation stands for nothing, an empty pre-representation that is fabricated to form the useful representational concept that qualifies statements. We must create these representations and the term representations used to signify them in order to unite these representations to attain the status of a concept that can be expanded to encompass more and more attaining truth, within a system. But these representations float on air, have no ground for being other than a mirage "reality" that itself has no ground for being, and were falsely created from nothing being previously there (fabricated) to fictitiously ground the relation between language, or thought, and being in that what we say or think, what we represent, can represent the actually existing state of affairs. But here we are only classifying, by naming, representations in our languageless thought contents that were fabricated to represent states of affairs we only think exist, we only thought existed, states of affairs that cannot be singled out and classified even into languageless representations without losing all the connections that "representation" had to other things hence blurring the representation to indefinibility, without losing the state of affairs that representation had to interpret and solidify to create itself: in this level of interpretation the representation cannot represent the states of affairs without knowing WHAT, in essence, that thing is, which is impossible as all essence is merely the appearance of a more fundamental essence: between the object/state of affairs and the representation of it in the original fabrication of the representational thought content represented by the term, interpretation loses most of what is needed to define the representation in the way in which it would mimic the actual state of affairs that exists in reality: "reality" is a fabricated representation of a fabricated representation of the concept/state of affairs.
I can't express this in thought or language properly. A representation is a fabricated representation of the fabricated concept "representation".

Prophesy

I've opened three packs today
cigarettes are addictive
what?
Empathy
Bed...sounds good
but I'm so alive!
The same when asleep though,
to remember my dreams,
never happens!
Record when it does,
but something else arises
too quickly
and the truth, accurate
prediction, prophesy
escapes consciousness
at a gallop:
perhaps I subconsciously think
Its better not to know
now that I know that
IT I can know: anticipation.
No one believes
that this is possible:
the future will come
no fun if you think
what it may will be like:
it proves to be too close
and makes itself real
really as thought before
which could never have
achieved truth or reality.
It is a...?...?...?
Where the ? is answered
by the ... at least in
the subjective mind
where thought makes
everything it thinks be.

Black is the night
that resounds in the eardrums
pressure pops
LOUD
is the silence.
It is noise that calms the soul
from its troubling itself:
this is why people need to escape!

So stupid are these people that refuse to listen or succumb to intelligence!

Yet when I decide to speak about the meaningless banter they discuss they become overwhelmed and attempt to understand, to respond, yet they need me to rephrase, reiterate ideas that I have expressed so precisely and so simply, entirely relevant, and I cannot make these ideas any simpler! So I give up, I cannot teach. Or else I need to not care whether they understand or not and just keep speaking without expecting an intelligent response: I must respond to myself!

First Level

Experiences inspired
by bliss, joy, ecstacy
sorrow, remorse, anguish
One or the other always
pain or its absence

Creation: can it
take place
any
other way?

Post
Structuralism
Irony!

What is, I think I've heard, (correctly?), belief...
I mean, what should I say, apotheopesis, enough!
It really is, finally, an insult addressed as a complement.

Or the word you had to look up: in addition, can it mean
not saying enough, in the word you used, to express
what you intend to convey. Unintentional euphemism?

Do I need to use examples? Can I be this abstract and
expect people to understand me? Do I want them to
have to decipher the meaning behind my hints,
the way my poetry arrives? Bear to hear...
The way I restrain my truculence is by being esoteric
in the accuracy of the complexity of my relevance
to my thought content. And then deciding, if they
fail to understand, not to give an example.
Iff I fail to be relevant and I believe the hearer is worthy
(How elitist! But should everyone know these things?
Only if they are capable of likewise restraining their truculence!)
of the meaning, will I explain.

I have given everything away, why do I now fear giving too much away?
My power was in having mysterium tremendum, secrets I had told no one.
Now, I can give everything away to anyone, but I feel as if some ought not know.
This may be an ethical decision, or it may be unethical.

Everything me comes out onto the blog.

Existing comments
On itself, commends
in itself, in existing
for itself.

The will of life cannot be compared to the will of inanimate objects.
A new term for will must be created.

Now, live
then, forget
soon, think
Prepare!

My glowing world of rotten stuff
I'm being tough
humbling myself by saying sir
one upping them no doubt for sure
But I mean I mean even the stutter
even the redundant reiterations I utter

Manipulation/Persuasion:
Believe I shout and try to force
Don't let it out its true of course
Or sarcasm

Win or lose its all the same
Do or don't you're still to blame
If there are still expectations...