Notes: VI
when the world reveals itself only in the haunting voices of a choir that never stops, it is that the partition between life and death has begun to collapse.
when the world reveals itself only in the haunting voices of a choir that never stops, it is that the partition between life and death has begun to collapse.
“into the ragged meadow of my soul” cummings uttered, but you, something else, you say, right now as you are, into the burning spire of my soul!
after tragedy, the unreliable narrator becomes downright untrustworthy; while previously he had hoped to retell an account of his life to the best of his perceptive biases, now as his grip on the very facts of life begins to slip, for what had initially been a casual interpretation of the facts, now transmutes into an almost concussed fantasy.
the four horsemen: the feudal, the judge, the petty administrator, and the general.
fools ruled by fools, an infinite regression, and what is received is what is deserved, all the while the mighty thinkers wait for the wings of ideology to cast the shadow of redemption on these unholy lands; perhaps, they are the mightiest of fools.
wretched as we are, what may would we have done if afforded any substantive material ability? this induced wretchedness is the blessing of divine pity, the slave is blessed in poverty, in his ability to not commit crimes, but on the arrival of the celestial approval, he becomes not precisely “worthy,” for this is not a moral adjudication, but merely able of now to wield the matter of doom, for he is now, hasty and vain as he remains, deemed not fully bereft of an intellect; what an optimistic view on existence to assume the achievability of “realization,” we only toil and are betrayed at every step by the multitude of cognitive, emotional, and spiritual alchemical reactions in the body. the subaltern may very well declare that his time be now! that he now charts his own destiny, that he is writing a new history of man, of his own development, and that the there is no master that can say: not yet! that may very well be so, and yet, does the Lord not hold authority over all of time? rage and ask, demand, but do not question, for He is not questioned.
somehow, is it not a wondrous affair, of how “God” wills whatever the capricious mind so fortuitously desires.
was it not then the case that the meek morality of the righteous, who had the simple task of crafting out of that meekness a morality of great ruthless incision, wrecked the wretched farther still?
to reject the times is akin to attempt grasping the wind in the palm of one’s hands: there is no grasping, no rejection, only abdication of the moral demands of the times, and such an abdication comes in two types: an abdication out of perceived incapacity and the other out of a crude calculus to accrue material benefit; the feudal rejects time to satiate his unceasing hunger, and the poet rejects time for being the romantic he is, he is uniquely unable to accept how brutally torn apart the landscape of existence is.
one of the fundamental problems of prolonged isolation, you see, is the destruction of our world-making language as we begin perceiving what is around us not through words but primarily through images, as without the company of man, there is no need for language to act as the stitch for any collective perception we require to communicate; the fundamental problem with this over-reliance on images then is the lack of any self-correcting dialectical process.
the philosophers concocted theories of noble lies, of shadows, of hidden realities and perceptions, because they could find no reason their way to any proper logic as to why men should not be graded based on their perceived intellects, and who could blame them when the lunacy of the gathered masses was observed in practice, the ruckus. but, within that lunacy there is yet much more they often did not perceive, or did not want to perceive. this had not been a philosophical or religious question in the disciplinary sense, properly observed, it had been, and has been, a deeply spiritual problem that would and sets the tone for how one is to even conceive the very concept of the human; for if I am to now take the position that there is no utilitarian need for this noble deception, despite all the misgivings of the masses, and that there is a deep fractured hope in the soul of every man, wretched as he may be, truly miserable as his soul may be, a hope that transcends the domain of the perceived intellect, I free myself from the problem of class, of the shackles of measurement, of the demon of status.
feel the walls, the grains in the paint, it is a reminder that you live in a material world.
proper belief cannot be upended in any circumstance; to “lose belief” based on any contingency means that it was only whimsical inkling to begin with, merely a flirtatious affair with the divine architecture of being.
the industrialization of medicine, its capitalization, destroyed the moral fabrics of the vocation, and now it remains wasteland; being able to avoid the medicine men is now a life achievement; the noble few exist in corners of the world, but, by and large, it is all evil, a death cult. the “wise” religious man sculpted in the cauldron of modernity insists in that action is a necessary co-constituent to belief, he does not wish to be categorized as the lackadaisical oriental, so he insists on action, and it is his insistence on an already intuitive point that proves his lack of perception on two points: first, while there is a definite relation between belief and action, it is not by any means co-constitutive. second, there is no reason to assert a point that does not require an expression in language.
a story that rips the fabric of time.
what are proper first thoughts when the world extinguishes?
poor countries are labor camps for the global empire: the poor-peasant in the poor country serve their own master-peasants, who then, through the manipulation of capital and brute force, serve the global empire in more ways than one, even offering their sons and daughters with pride, as an offering to the gods of the empire, to bless this offspring of the master-peasant by etching on to their social-being the marks of elite approval, a baptism by the fire of status. the master-peasant desperately flings around his weight in efforts to catch the last train out to the perceived final journey, to an arbitrarily coercive financial system, to eden! and how curious then that the last compartment on the last carriage on the last train has its back door wide ajar for the master-peasant, almost as if now the horse that pulls the master must now push from the back; this is modernity, the grand affair of perceptive blindness, but how silly then is this master-peasant for feeling in his being this self-assuredness of having survived, of in the heart of his hearts feeling that he has been saved by what he deems to be the very hands of gracious fate! but what has been written has only been delayed as the mighty Lord tells, and then as it always turns out, somewhere along the way, one son of this brutish feudal peasant-master is struck by some poorly granulated sense of history, “tradition,” or even the color of his skin, but by then it is too late, for now the child, and he remains a child even as his hair turn white, is simply the product that had been designed, manufactured, assembled, and long already dispatched; he thinks himself the savior who has understood his own predicament, has self-diagnosed his postion in time, but he is merely now a moral liability towards the journey to the day on which the Ascension is to be truly realized.
the work must have a calculated frenzy, a controlled storm, a vigorously oscillating mind, on the basis of these tensions, through the negotiation of competing impulses and thoughts, comes what is worth speaking.
the crackling thunder often pacifies the distressed, momentarily overwhelming the capacity to perceive immediate pain.
man is not completed by child, but only by the shoves of life, and this completion is not an absolute one, rather it is the stitching together of the mosaics of his life where the scar lines always remain visible even when fused in a whole.
the modern Anglophile world has destroyed literature, the historical moment is such that the beautiful English language itself is held captive to its societies, and with the literatures of the third-world long buried into meekness, the limitations of language grow day by day, extinction of the word looms.
the idol is first worshipped, only then rejected; wealth is first acquired, only then renounced.
gamified religion is a joke.
the hostile reader’s first response is always is to negate the contents of his study and then persist in that negation, even if the evidence of the material’s truth arises upon further investigation. comparatively, the compassionately skeptical reader of the text also similarly denies the content upon first examination, but continually revises and refines his stance as the contingent process of disclosure proceeds.
pride in lineage destroys the individual, for he no longer remains an individual.
billions shall continue to be poured into “technological progress” for the coming years, that is now the very nature of capital, a mesh that continues to colonize digital space. concomitantly, an expendable army of soldiers able to manage this development shall also continue to be produced in perpetuity, and without any proper sense of themselves in time, they shall be useful instruments on further degrading the realms of law and ethics, with notions of financial autonomy, the right to private conduct, and so on, continually being eroded further, towards the aim of domesticating man. cardinal sins often lurk beneath all tectonic shifts in human history, on the pry for a chance to infect the transmutation of time; here, it is greed, masked by its more palatable sub-categories of status, prestige, illusions of stability, and a domineering world-making arrogance, that we, the army of this new capital, can make the world anew for the better. yet, it is the case, as it has always been, a feature of existence, that these regimes can always be shattered in an accelerated manner by the spontaneity of the redeeming reaction between time and agency.
first came the fall of the monastery, then the madrasa, and now then the university. the time is ripe again for a new spiritual heart of moral education; the technological monastery shall see out the end of time.
a casual pessimism is anti-religion, but a true pessimism is world-making.
relinquish your share.
the truth lies in alchemy; alchemical thoughts require instrumentalizing the mind as the field for reactions to occur, and as all reactions demand time, it must be freely allotted for ingested ideas to properly combine with the existing structure of the mind. this is the secret, as we know not what can be produced through the admixture of various intellectual elements. alternatively, biological thoughts can sprout more indigenously, more intuitively, but that is the harder path, one on which God must burn all illusions.
because historically minded writers, ironically, have naive assumptions about time, they often say egregious things without realizing the conditions of their own words. take something bizarre like “the future man will be astounded at how man had historically treated his fellow man” or some rendition of this idea. it would be rather historically sound to state something like “the future man despaired at how little had changed in how men treat other men despite all the trappings of these new times.” but a writer of the former sort is so imprisoned by the bars of his own position in time, that while he may even recognize the concept of context, he has no tools to shatter the glass of context in any meaningful sense, and shatter is the best that can be done, inducing cracks in the glassed cages of context are the limits of human capacity, but fortunately, these splits are adequate enough to let the gleams of other times filter through, to mediate against the insularity of the now, but even this is beyond the capacity of the “historian.”
every epoch has a fundamental political problem so deeply entrenched in the very fabric of political thought, produced in the crucible of that context, that without its resolution, by whatever method, the normative understanding of where we are in history remains stationary, i.e., narrative time, not physical time.
land reformation is a necessary condition of resolving the problem of the post-colonial situation. without it, there can be no substantive reorientation of the feudal architecture of society.
the reckoning is nigh, this house of cards, nay, a house built on the crystals of sugar, on the uniform, on the Seat, on the land, on a spirituality stolen, will not only crumble, it will erupt into flames, reducing its inhabitants into ash. as the doors of forgiveness are closed by the Lord upon death, so shall they be closed upon these predators right as they live; as the hermetic realm wails, rubedo, and as the numinous reckoning comes forth, the deeds and records will be struck on the Church doors for all to see.
a pharoah in every house, street, village, town, city, district, province, country, a pyramid of barbarity.
no one ever said to the birds, silence!
defining the term religion, the linguistics, the essences, is for the scholastics, whose vocation it is to define, and for the rest, it is intuition.
will is not invoked, it arises autonomously from the conditions of soul, mind, body, and their celestial arrangement. once it does emerge exogenously, it takes root in the human, and even a once derelict self is alchemically transformed, his scattered perception united upon the singular point, the nuqta, which the will now desires.
making sect politically irrelevant is a necessary precondition for the material integration of the Muslim. at the twilight of time itself, the world of petty fiefdoms is over.
when the mind stops perceiving time, it at first loses the logical strictures that create images of life, and then it is made free, and with this newfound autonomy, he ventures into a new world, back into time, but not from it, of it, just through it.
the cruder temptations may be rebuffed with ease, but the imprints of childhood, those that create the most persisting of temptations, have a more suffocating grip on the self: say, why does the dying old man still feel in himself the urgent necessity to please others who are not yet dying, not yet indisposed like him? this is the temptation of the existential sort, he remains what the psychoanalysts of the day call “unhealed”; yet, he is not unhealed, he is just himself, and he will always be like that in a fundamental sense, and the more he attempts the prescription of self-healing, the further he erodes the fabric of his world-making sense, but when he accepts his wound, he is not “healed,” he is liberated by the burden of being whole.
the less the contradictions in the desires of the self, the more well-adjusted the soul remains through the ebbs and flows of life. for instance, if you covet two, seemingly, incompatible objects, the innate reality of their incompatibility notwithstanding, you will always have some degree of regret, for if you acquire the first, you shall miss the second, and if the second, you mourn the first, and if both, you are unable to contain together in the mind your own perceptively contradictory possessions, and without this integration, which at times may truly very well may be impossible, either due to historical circumstance, say the childhood, or even metaphysical contingencies, you are destroyed.
third-world art, unless liberated from the strictures of a particular liberal secularity, remains impotent; a restless focus on the self, on desires, on abstractness, and on memories, do not particularly serve the cause. this art is an affair with the self, and this type of bourgeoise artist perhaps even realizes the limits of his own context but knows nothing else, for if he tries now to be “traditional,” barring exceptions, he often corrupts the very object of his gaze, and in trying to induce agency into the marginal, he changes the very elements of its being.
God can impede the effects of the contingencies of history on the self.
