this incessant finding, the soul of science, part 2

Oh yes ghosts with cold, prodding fingers guide the seekers all along the way.  Science may begin or often be practiced as a way to stay safe, under the benign direction of answers churned out by the maternal machine, short of any rite of passage, maturation, apart from a possible hiatus of perfectly un-perverse sexuality to perpetrate the species, infinitely delayed; but whoever never finds and learns to skate on its dangerous edges or to break through the surface, bore down, and manage to walk right through and survive the fiery core with some scars to prove it, those who only know findings as results approved by the machine, are not the friends of science, they are exploiting it, sucking out its soul, and eventually killing it, not just slapping its face like the relatively harmless grand inquisitors of old. 

The finding of the finding in the finding transparent to it is the holy grail you must earn on a quest, the one of which the magic flute sings, and again, this is not a personal quest. She who unveils the ultimate elephant man and wins applause for him is a cipher to humanity's lifelong quest, where so much more is revealed and yielded in cracking this pinata than appears before the final wack.  It is not just a decent thing to do, though that would, of course, be enough.   The father is waiting to shower the prodigal son with the feast of his life just for running out of money and giving up.

I can only reconstruct the skeleton of the act of finding the image that shines through the diaphanous finding, which would be invisible were it not for that glowing skeleton, the finding as a verb, the gradual, painstaking unraveling of all that conceals the finding -- returning appearance to the original meaning of the word, an appearing, not a thing, but a happening in the world and in the mind.  An always gentle, always cataclysmic happening, a slow burning fission reaction, which if it could be harnessed, would lead to peace on earth and enough cooperation to sustain the earth for millions of years.  What I am working on is quite parallel to a nuclear fission reactor.  For once the word and thing, appearance, is returned to its original nature, this fission of word and thing becomes contagious.   By restoring and ongoing watering of the roots, language is revived.  It works, and as Confucius wisely teaches, for things to work, we need words to work.  I sound mad, until everything else sounds mad, and I sound sane -- because that might just be the way it is.

I have given lectures recounting the finding at noted institutions to interested applause, but then everybody leaves and forgets it. 

Because the skeleton needs to be fleshed out. You need to walk a mile in the shoes of the person I am always becoming in always finding this finding, which repairs the rupture in the world, which sees down into the very roots of words where they connect to, and are part of, the world, and sees up into their crowns where ethereal ideas dissolve into actual atmosphere, not at first by special inspiration or imagination, but having systematically removed the lies and obstacles to special inspiration and imagination, a method that can be shared with whomsoever will stoop to pluck the natural flower.

Oh long time I have been looking for the one sentence that sums all this up, the open sesame.   i know it is out there somewhere, but I've failed to find it.   

James Joyce wrote a novel out of the words that lie between words, because that is where life lies, and everything else lies, and where life lies it lies and does not lie.  

but the longer the sentence, the more chance there is to correct the lie so as to lie rightly right beside life,

such that words that lie between the lines of life bleed over into it,

for it isn't really words that lie only on one of two sides of life, but the way we use them and demand they stick to their lands between the lines, when in fact a proximate red can turn a purple blue, and a strong low table you bring over to the circle to sit on suddenly becomes a chair...

and all of this could easily become so prohibitively confusing, it would be far better to remain silent than to speak, were there not critical things to communicate, and were there not such thing as good faith and intuitive understanding, if the reader and writer were not on the same side and, though each different,  members of the same body, as Saint Paul describes the Christians, 

who in his mind have uniquely awakened to this universal, or catholic truth, as it later appears in universally appealing Greco-Christian art and music, which is uniquely articulately harmonious, in contrast to post-Greco-Christian concertedly cacophonous, chaotic music considered a better imitation of life, not that Greco-Christian music -- culminating in a Beethoven mass -- can't be very stormy and dramatic, but harmony prevails.  

But modern classical music "accepts" the domination of death, the ultimate victory of chaos.  Popular music may lull us into harmonious, amorous or patriotic moods, but these are escapes from the purported existential condition,

but science posits continuous creation forever blowing bubbles, when this universe pops, another will pull out of the wand.. isn't that really rather egocentric to privilege death as the dominant existential principle just because it's such affront to my ego, and is my ego that dominant in my life, or is the nature of existence most naturally mirrored in me. 

and I and the whole human race are like notes feverishly running here and there as Beethoven scribbles madly seeking to recover the wholeness of our body, seeking to re-express the harmony, as one note conditions the other one, and recreates its meaning, phrases form,  but novel ones change the meaning and sound of others in relation, or that is what we naturally do,

and yet we are ever more under the sway of, pledging allegiance to the machine with which we must communicate, the machine that cannot understand what lies between, the communion, the underlying skein, 

the machine we really do worship demands words never cross lines and so always lie concerning life, which lies between them

and there are religions theories poems novels music paintings sculptures architecture gardens love affairs friendships meals walks in the woods jokes games that correct the lie, or provide temporary escape from it,  but the big lie turns all this lively life into private escapes from life, as if real life were the vacation, the artificial life made of the lie were reality, and no correction can keep up with the lies that uphold the big lie as they keep pouring in  -- 

strangely, as all of life belies the lie, but more and more there is not enough life to stand against the lies running through language and images, which crystallize language, as they debase and deaden life, or put it on a pedestal, high above itself, and turn it more and more virtual whether seen through a literal screen or not,

because all these corrections, all this life, involve escape from the words without penetrating the core of words and reforming them and reforming our way reading of them to reverse the atrophy of the art of speaking and reading as a highly creative intuitive act of cooperation running far ahead of any proofs and caveats -- 

where we do constantly run ahead of proofs and caveats when we find what corroborates what we already feel and think and no good faith is required, 

as the stability of our world is placed first, and we will rarely set out to sea, instead of living there, where we belong, in fellowship with all on the rocking waves in the ever-changing weather,

in good faith, in the expectation of understanding, in the expectation of one, common origin, in the expectation of constant surprises and reversals, with no attachment to previous usages and understandings of the fluidly meaningful words in the trust of the one who has seized the wheel if the ship seems to be steadying, in trust of imagination as a tool, as leverage on language as it morphs from metaphor to metaphor.... 

as it flows through this gigantic language purification plant bringing us face to face with our enemies in lying language to lay the lies low and reunite us, conjuring up to be sure true demons within and without us who have pledged allegiance to our disunion and destruction, and the more we unite, the fiercer they fight, such that it may seem we may as well not bother, but to rally one's forces and fight as an equal, win or lose, is surely better and more honorable than lying down to be rolled right over to join the enemy side as that's a lot less immediate trouble for us and our own.  

The enemy being not they, but we versus they, even now, even as they seem allied with the real demons.  According to what I see from the helm here, this alliance has not yet been sealed, though it could happen if we continue on the course we were on before I stepped up here and began steadying the craft.  It could happen that it would be too late for this kind of effort.  One would have to fight with the same gruesomely crude, yet technically refined, old weapons, one would have to accept and embrace the lie, and live the lie to the hilt in order to stand a chance to win a few battles (sometimes called world wars) against the demons whose natural element is the lie, however they would be bound in the end to destroy everything, 

as presently predicted by our most disinterested machines, fine tuned to every nuance of the lie right up to the thin line that divides each lie from the next one, but it cannot touch what lies between.  We are safe here, so long as good faith protects us, so long as we discern the general drift, the spirit over the letter, so long as we resist all knee jerk reactions to words and ideas that out there have crystallized into impervious categories in defiance of the fluid life of language, so long as we let the words melt into metamorphosing mutually influential organisms swimming ahead of us winding through the weeds and reefs all the ancient wisdom released, we, fellow children, can make progress, we can carefully build our Trojan horse, we can win.