Notes: VII
be with the wretched, always; the body may break, but the soul will prevail.
the colonized subject is an immigrant on the land of his ancestors, the diaspora who are quick to, and naturally so, think about identity can at the very least have the solid belief of being immigrants, but this sort of local that we now speak about neither enjoys the identitarian benefit of being a local nor the nostalgic freedom of being an immigrant, and it is this liminality that kills him, his spirit to create or produce the majestic, being unsure of his past or the future, the radical instability of the now forces him to be a cannibal; he must now devour his own: the people, land, the sky, whatever his greedy hands can come across, he must possess, to flaunt and gesticulate like a mad drunk king even if he possess only a room’s worth of land; he has been lost to the ravages of time, madness his only prevailing state, understands nothing, understood by no one.
as the poison wilted his body, Alexander turned his gaze upwards, searching the sky for the heavens no longer visible to him; ‘why, why! have you abandoned me, Zeus? why, why have you held your friendship from me?,’ he cried.
he had has lost the conditions that made him good, and hence, he could no longer be good. was the goodness then circumstantial or innate? both, but in a different semantic sense: circumstantial insofar as the consequential aspects of goodness were lost, but innate insofar as the recognition of that loss were still pillared in the consciousness.
fixated disciplinary thinking is dangerous; the Verse teaches you the Quantum in the verse of Abdus Salam.
the existentially colonized subject in India was not necessarily produced during the Raj period, yes the stage had been set and structures installed, but if we speak en masse, that, we can make a case, was rather only after Partition, primarily through the the proliferation of particular modes of imposed post-colonial citizenship building models in under the guise of nationalist sovereignty; arguably the accelerating age of information coinciding with political decolonization only proliferated the process of colonial domination as it was now throughly indigenized; yes, again, the apparatuses had been constructed during direct colonial rule, yes certainly, but there was now something more insidious by this new mass colonization of the post-Partition period; these histories shall becomes more and more apparent as there is more proper work done by the proper people. in any case, it has to be said, the State is still raw and moldable; there is no “steel frame,” and what is perceived is solid is not so at all; the entrenched columns of domination are not as indissoluble as they appear on first sight; it is only that the single point of failure we covet so much in our search of dignity is yet to be discovered in its fullness, and in this contingent process of finding that point, we may very well come to the conclusion that there may not be this single point, but multiple nodes that need to be carved open, skewered with the rods of a dignified freedom.
you do not tell the truth, and hence are not free.
be with the wretched, always; the body may break, but the soul will prevail.
the Punjab is prone to unnecessary spiritual ecstasy, unnecessary in the sense of modern utility; there is now an acute material problem of channeling this ecstasy into modern life without deracinating the very spirit of the ecstasy that opened Hind for us.
more people than ever in the history of time are formally educated in some sense, but now more than ever before, even the most educated of people have an arguably poorer perception of reality than the most educated of before, even when taking into account this assertion relative to the amount and quality of knowledge available respectively; the binding webs of knowledge the created older cosmologies of the past cannot be replicated by “inter-disciplinarity” of the now, but a newer redemption we seek is has to be possible through a sincerity not of of method, but an honesty of character.
the feudal likes to be the “youngest” or the “first” to “achieve” something, to thump his chest as if he is a miracle right from God himself; is he filled by the Spirit or the spirit?
sometimes when surprise ourselves at the wonder of realizing how many people exist, have exist, and may yet exist.
an infatuation with the collaborators that you have, to carve out your piece of the pie, at any cost necessary, has put you on hell on Earth. if it were even a consequentialism, one could stomach it, but here in the pure lands, there even are no good ends, let alone good means; doom is currency of speech, and the merchants never go out of business.
thrust into a world made unstable by the celestial arrangement, and hence the heart may find no rest until it is pierced by the dagger of brutal anguish, and a devastating love.
when the fire is lit, does it know it has been lit?
the feudal master cannot but help to look at the wretched laborer with certain degree of disgust because he can never see himself in the worker, the weathered clothes, the pungent odor, all reminders of the master’s aversion to a state he sees beneath him, sub-human: this is the politics of disgust.
when status is achieved through collusion, euphemistically colored as a “conflict of interest,” there is to be no justice, and that is the ultimate prevailing story of the Musalman; you sell your kind for meagre profits, and wish to see yourself as the galloping knight of enlightenment, but you are a leech; at the very least, leech on me, maybe your casuistry may heal me: this is the politics of disgust.
why do you wish to be reborn in a new world? I do understand why, I would too, but the truth is that this is all we have, this existence, this minute, this repetitive pain; the dichotomy between an existentially burdensome realism and a romantic defiance to loss are not enemies; they are not even on the same plane of perception, and hence, it is this friendship of the apparently conflicting facts of life that redeem us even as we turn into carcasses.
I am the colonial slave, and I must remain the colonial slave longer before the pardon is granted from the first realm; the inhabitants of this realm currently adjudicating over our future, and now we await the rubber stamp of being grated movement in Time from the mighty Lord. yet, in the meanwhile, the decolonization that we see is only through the hard labor of education, not through the industry of education, but the proper processes that produce the necessary cosmological envelope needed to light the fire; no longer are there are any shackles left; yes, I remain a prisoner of the demon of historical context, but there is also this freedom that has already been induced through the alchemical effects of fate; and now, language itself has to disappear for our new freedoms to appear, and it shall be so, because our grunting egoic articulations themselves perpetuate a delay in the adjudication in the first realm, whose judges take sides on what case to make to the Mighty Spirit; the danger now is the technologies being readied for the further degradation of our perceptive strength, and in exchange for mere Franklin, our friends sell us. as we wait, we remain attentive to the critical need to combine words and numbers, because the facts of life that are we looking for so intently, those that are so elusive, not so much for the mystics might it be said, but we are not mystics, but the mere men of lackluster intuition, which more properly defines us, can only arrive at a proper understanding of perception through this combination of words and numbers, the syntactical consciousness with the lines of the graph, art and the material; there is no other way that is apparent yet, and the language that we are necessitated to kill today for our freedom, or rather are allowed to, after a decree of allowance is passed, may very well be the final sequence of the final sequence time itself; the man of the now always thinks he is is the only man that ever lived, who knows, there may yet come a time that all of man, everything ever spoken, acted, built, destroyed, may culminate into him.
the purported flourishing of dying kingdoms, civilizations, and cultures are sometimes useful academic lies in times where the masses that reside therein have still not experienced the full flavor of a dignified freedom, so the thinker is compelled to manufacture hope; how very unfortunate that such a burden cannot be crucified in favor for the real facts of life, for the belief that a full, absolute imprisonment is substantively more liberating than poor perception of these facts of life. do not lie, and in this defeat of ours we will find peace, until matter shifts nature and the tides of history are kinder to our kind.
God had made all men distinct and their shares of burden distinct.
why is grief real and happiness illusory?
casualness is the primary symptom of societal collapse and excess speech its adjutant; here, by casualness is not meant the petty arrangement of one’s room or a “respect” for time, as if Time demanded any emotional signifier, but rather it the feudality in man that wishes respect for time, and there is a time and place, a certain utility for that properness, but no, this casualness that is devastating in its aftereffects is more a laziness in thinking, of articulating and bringing into existence a certain matter, a particular particularity through language, the fecal matter of rapid ideology.
invisible beggars crushed by the devil’s spawn, broken backs, death the only dignifying force left.
with the Law embodied and spiritualized to the capacity of the particular man, the religion dissolves into nothingness, becomes irrelevant as a category, summoning no attention.
the total destruction of reading, in due course will be, perhaps, may merely be a return to pre-literate society or perhaps, maybe even worse because this time we may have no articulable oral traditions of the narrative art to redeem us.
using religion as a total analytical category is imbecility.
an undeserved but desired attachment to the Lord makes the man beloved.
a half-hearted attempt at humanistic study is the worst form of education, but a proper devotion to it is its best form, and with or without material gain, there is nothing that may replace it; a loss of hope in it indicates a loss of hope in its more superficial elements, and by half-hearted is not meant the the duration allotted to study, but rather by the entitled attitude of the student in expecting a return on his investment, and not necessarily even financial, but rather purely intellectual, for if it is expected that grand explosions from the combustion of ideas are guaranteed, then that is capriciousness.
day and night, toiled to mend the scars, waiting for the moment they would no longer be enveloped by the clouds of fear.
for when you have been tasked by the weight of conscience itself, there is no more I.
the creator is not the aggregator, he produces but does not collate, because if he collates he becomes a lier, a pretender.
the introduction of plastics into the colonized world: a proper history to be written.
can mercy be held for the worst of the tyrants whilst seeing justice dispensed or would it be for you a moment of shameful glee? choose, and with a burning heart, plunge the dagger.
things had been left unresolved, and there was no great need to integrate the cracks.
be wary of the butcher doctor; as pain becomes the constant companion, it becomes God’s friend.
harness demonic agitation for good; it has to go somewhere, it always exists, in some form.
wrestle back the people from the State, not the State from the people, one by one, arm by arm, unbreakable bonds of dignified brotherhood, and if not, wither away and find that an acceptable and honorable end, but do not despair.
God gives the paints, what shall we make? new colors emerge, and the sky makes itself know, the grass reveals its blades now.
destruction induces new modulations of bravery previously unknown, the timid psyche is coerced to draw a new self-architecture to just survive calamity.
fires in the mind, soul, and body, alchemies. in such a state, centuries are traversed in seconds, where the words of the masters are admixed with the strokes of the masters, with the weeping of the ney.
burdened not with great lineages of these lands, not sardar nor mir, not khan nor mian; the sons of the masters, Ali and Hussain, may God be pleased with them, sully themselves not with theatrical self-perception. nay, it is the sound of the flute from which they conjure their worlds, and the all the real, the material, that they need is alchemized in their very hands without schemes of feudality, for when the decree delivers it often delivers through grace not works.
modernity splits the constituent parts of the body into discrete entities, yes, we all understand this by now that the whole is dismantled into the parts and is less than, yes this is all known certainly. but, what was to be done has been question poorly answered. there are many an answer, but none sufficient on their own for doing so would neglect the circumstantial elements of one’s particular history of being dismembered. so, you must speak to the body, to the mind, and the soul, to convince them with your spirit, that that they must make amends with one another, to remember o their shared covenant with the Lord; they are to be plead with if need be, and if the spirit fails, the Lord must intervene himself on your behalf, for if He finds mercy for your torn being, His mending will not be the healing of the tyrannical physicians or the foolish men of the Oracle, but rather one that is real, material, pure, then, and only then, are you, the man able to write what has been so ever the goal of the man, a new history of man that we so dearly long for today; for in every time memory is ravaged by the prevailing spirit of the ages, but man may be, under celestial favor, allowed to step out of the unit of time he is held captive to, and it is only then that he has the requisite capacity to speak, tell, and write this much coveted history of the new man we speak of, a history that breaks the chains of our slavery from the poison of the egoic tentacles of context, from the clutches of the Devil himself, who is the great Limiter, and then next from the feudal man that is no longer even a man; when the dam withholding the possibility of the amalgamated, fused, the whole man, is burst, there shall be no return to the olden times of when men were broken into their discrete subcomponents, rendered impotent in their minds, souls, and bodies, with their dignity stolen.
the body is broken, yet the spirit remains.
the times have always been bad, from Egypt to Rome to now, but there is a limit to how much negative input a human may perceive, so it may very well be so that the new post-post-modern psyche of man may be become very well-adapted to the trials of the future.
repair is done, not articulated, unless the repair is of an emotional sort, then speech is necessary if the repair is to be whole, for even a pat on the back may constitute a partial repair of the aggrieved; an intellectual wound, however, may be patched without speech because intuition can rearrange the problem without words.
