Notes: VIII
what cannot be reversed must be redeemed.
what cannot be reversed must be redeemed.
she waited for spring anxiously, she had been waiting for spring for years now, how many she herself did not know, but enough for the calendar to become obsolete.
developing the passage of words is parallel to developing the proofs for a mathematical problem, step by step, variable by variable, an arrival unto the newness of discovery begins, but words bleed, and the proofs do not, and that is the key difference.
layer your thoughts like they are an orchestral sequence of the highest quality: the tempo, the dynamics, the texture and the harmony need not be perfect but they do need to be in a constant amiable embrace with each other.
attention is found not by grasping onto the carcass of one’s nostalgia for one’s culture and home, but rather by the incisive penetration into a context so foreign that the only compass one may posses is that of their own humanity.
the proper equilibrium of thought is brought through with analytical precision and continental madness.
the philosophy of pain and happiness remain underdeveloped in the current period; we may now draw new architectural plans for the current anatomy of emotions, a new history of feeling, of the senses.
a genuine grappling with the destruction of one’s life is a trait induced directly from the heavens.
on the third of July, Raphael became more than a child; now fifteen of years, he became able to push away the gang boys who had colonized fifteenth street, who had often took to instill in the young boy a total anatomy of terror, but not anymore.
if you are corralled into rejecting the innate structures of your cognition, for there shall be times when they will be so severely challenged that it would be easier to accept the thought that that you have never thought a good thought in your entire life, then resist that inclination, it will pass, and only a newness of life itself will remain.
a new anger rise, against those who destroyed time, the stability — the solid ground, of a gentle existence that is but only in imagination now. in its infancy as it is, it cries and wails, unable yet to know that has been born into a world that may very well still be its cradle.
writing, out of time as we do, is sure to wreck any “rational” sensibility, any linguistic decency, but this fire, rendered timeless, will certainly itself find a pit loving enough for it to burn the timber, to catch on fire and escape into reality, into existence, into a new reality when it needs to.
sobriety has died an awful death, that is certain; in its ruins, can we salvage anything? the age of hubris is upon us, folly the eternal attendant characteristic of man in aeternum, has fully taken root in man, and the physician has gone amiss. the immediate gratificatory liberation of tomfoolery has girded its claws into the structure of existence, regardless of age, although more common in the urbanite; we live in the burlesque parlor of the now — those in their coffins pity us, and us who covet their state.
to her, mosques and trees, minaret and birds, they all looked the same, aged. an atheistic mystic of the highest sort, her repulsion to the divine was merely a total love unable to find a home in the ragged existence of this material world.
even in conditions of oppression, it is vital not to recast the self through an analytical sieve that commodifies the self into the oppressed. if so, the weight of such a betrayal shall dominate the recesses of the mind in perpetuity.
after meandering through the weeds of the micro, the local, the minute aspect of the various units of life: their history, their development, and their shades, interpreted surgically, and if done with the proper care, one may arrive at the conclusion that before his forays into the abyss of historical thinking, he had been rather child-like in his approach to existence and time itself, and that perhaps, he had been right all along as a child, right in the sense of reaching the conclusion without proof, and it is through this threading through the densely weaved web of the micro-strictures of study, he returns to the primal tendency of being simple in his perception, to be grand in his vision, to see the world as the Sun and not as the Moon, not as a wound but as the cure.
self-disclosure, under the bonds of God, is severely constrained, the norms of what may be said or written are narrower than the mean.
for truth as a condition of life, not truth as in the metaphysical reality of existence, but rather as attitude, any element of transaction, contra Mauss and others, severely corrodes the value of its matter, its essence.
on the occasion that he realized that his self had died an absolute death, Jean Paul, sitting against the bark of the conifer, gazed at the open blue sky, and rather than the miserable pain of his existence, felt nothing, became something more, yet something less, than a human.
after the demise of his brother and his leg, loss settled in Andre’s flesh. “I am not the same, not anymore,” he would often mutter, with an empty dazed look in his eyes.
nurturing pathos like a friend is key.
Christie dragged himself away from the pew after what seemed like an eternity in submission to God; the dimly lit Church comforted him but after some time made him more anxious, his alienation from God lesser yet greater than when he had arrived.
I walk the same path every single morning, the trees that guard the outer boundary of the way protecting me jealously from the vast green glades on the other side, but that was before; now, they don’t look at me and neither do I them.
slowly, all these beautiful things you had held in your mind as the critical substrates of your life fall away, and you ask me if you were wrong to believe, hope, and I say nothing.
he always spoke about her mother, but never to her; her name would erupt in response to the most mundane of conversation, and would as quickly dissipate when he realized.
there is no possible way to surrender one’s subjective appraisal towards any particular fact of life, and the best that may be hoped for is the mere awareness of the former.
upon the cessation of her grief, her active grief that is, the very first act was to look in the mirror, in disbelief, at the radical alteration of her very face without any physical change.
the longest goodbye is the one unable to be actually perpetuated into existence.
your heart will only explode when you believe it can explode.
what has destroyed the most outspoken of these religious men has been the lack of a sober decent assessment that maybe they have not accounted properly for the brutal facts of life in a way satisfactory to the grieving man, not the structure or content of their words, but rather the degree of sincerity in the tone of their voice, a phenomenological balm.
the cracks are more valuable if we are to speak of perpetuity; the splintered process of thought, when laid out in its messiness, renders the entrant, who has newly entered your world, naive in his trust towards those who say things, renders him properly attuned to your exertions. emergent thoughts, like wounds, must be kintsugi’d, rather than painted over. hence, do not close the circle.
