earlier draft, philosophical foundations... with reminders to breathe

I

neglected by the philosophical establishment (from which I learned the basics), like with that Florida apartment complex that one day just collapsed.   For philosophy is the foundation that binds life to thought, art to science, or fails to, and so the edifice falls again, and brings down whatever lies on top of it, with much wailing and gnashing of teeth..  however sanguine the philosophical establishment playing this pingpong game to catered lunch in the ivory tower

therefore if not us, who? if not now, too late!

if I asked you to read it, and I keep changing it, keep lashing me and crashing down the zen stick, I am a perpetual acolyte showing little promise after all this time, but I can't and won't ever give up, and as Suzuki says, with such persistence, eventually the worst horse becomes the best horse...

it's a trudge, but nothing compared to Hegel...

please suspend all judgement -- 

for what sounds earnest may turn out ironic 

or vice versa, until all the lumps 

are smoothed out 

of the velvety earnonic,

ineluctable modality of the visible! -- 

a language made of what language calls oxymorons would at first be perfectly mimetic, but then outside of controlled works, it would swiftly degrade into a new set of stereotypes without the principles of keeping language fresh taught with the ABC's -- which is, actually, what the mongrel discourse proposes eventually must be done to stop polluting the waters and killing the fish, not only proposes but demonstrates, to avoid the widespread practice of hypo-criticality...

and please do not try to finish it

in the near future,

it's philosophy, it's a tome,

equivalent to at least five hundred pages,

that's how dense and fraught is every line,

you should please stop right now for the day

and just let your mind absorb 

what's already been said

after reading it over a few times.

ii

Welcome back! (really, I meant that literally!

well, you'll do what you want, 

but I hope you soon see the wisdom of my suggestions,

and TAKE ACTION!  Switch off the automatic default

in a TRIUMPH OF THE WILL that makes 

Hitler look like the robot he was, 

not a grain of the adorable Miltonian Satan 

demanding knowledge and freedom.

That's more like Jesus with it being like being

God's son, God couldn't bring himself irrevocably

to banish him, but settled for next worst punishment --

he thought tying him to a rock for eternity would be it,

but Prometheus, grown fond of his rock,

despite their stormy arranged marriage,

kept putting off Crucifixion until tomorrow.

and that's why they, 

thinking themselves doing God's will

or just plain doing it, according to Jesus,

however he wasn't the devil after all I firmly believe,

despite the close resemblance to Milton's,

crucified him, and why he stays up there on the Cross,

however the Protestants deny it,

as if a triumph of the will

seizing freedom and knowledge is something

you accomplish once

and then you can just brag about it,

as you resemble a devil enough 

after one taste of it. 

iii

if you caught my drift up there.

that would complete this session,

but alas, only what comes later

after that would probably induce 

you to come back, so again, 

if required for the task,

please assert will over proclivities.

iv

I'm asking YOU particularly triumphantly

to exercise the will required to read this

(professionals included, but go to the back of the class;

zen mind is beginners mind, go! go! mind this stick!)

because professionals have let us down

and the foundations are crumbling, 

Even professionals should read 

this philosophy for non-professionals

especially those for whom philosophy 

is NOT their thing.  While spoken plainly,

this mask of plain speaking

conceals an alien presence.

a stranger with an uncanny, eerie off putting way,

the mask trying to lure you sometimes 

hurting more than helping, 

v

but really,

it's not a mask, it's all something novel

whose known qualities you latch onto

applying the usual preconceptions to them

not giving it a chance to reveal 

its completely different nature from its parts,

like judging their offspring by the parents you know

and whose features you recognize in them,

which you know isn't a nice thing to do,

and would fault others for doing it,

but we usually, in another context,

do things we fault others for doing,

actually, we always do, I think

because we, like they, don't notice we're doing it,

motivated by desires that run deeper in us

than the principle.  That's why we all need

constant relatively superficial self-psychoanalysis,

no need for deep sea diving,

snorkling attentively will do the trick,

and meanwhile reveal many beautiful creatures

and colorful reefs if the water is clear

and the source is pure, and if not,

allow you to recognize and address that problem,

just keep observing and describing the muddy condition 

in clearer and clearer terms.

and the description will eventually take the form

of a solution to the problem.   A recognized lack

is simply the lack of the lack, not yet unveiled.

Perhaps some lacks are intractably simply that

but I doubt it.  The recognition of a problem

is the sign that it is being solved.

vi

To get to know the adorable offspring

apart from the well known parents

whose traits visible here act 

magnetically repulsively,

as does the very fact of their mixing

to create this monstrous gothic hybrid --

vii

such as, say, if I may say so, the first classical Greek temple,

an absurd morph of a high Egyptian one and lowly primitive hut;

no wonder the chief perpetrator of the philosophy

crawling all over those stones like a happy vine --

these structures transcend the art Socrates denounced,

but art claims them for reasons I will shortly explain --

was decreed an enemy of the people.

viii

Thereafter, with brief interruptions 

in which all hell broke loose again,

authorities have managed to keep things in their place,

now one drop of alien material in the blood of art

means it's art, the servant, not science, the served.

art the black, not science, the white.

science must show its pedigree 

all the way back to Socrates.

Should an edifice marry art and science

in homage to the sacred One

in which all true gods, really one, partake,

clarifying the fact 

that there's really no difference

between black and white,

philosophy does well to resist

even crawling all over it.

Guilt ridden, it can mutter 

about the problem endlessly, 

but best stay away from the edifice,

this very one,

that solves the problem

systemically, snipping the stem

of the bud before it flowers again

and spreads its evil seed.

ix

Perpetrators, victims all are playing their parts

in the system that feeds everybody,

one need only snorkle awhile beneath the surface

to see how different it looks down there

in all the tangled roots of Monet's melting lily pads

explaining why, however the mind may like the idea,

every bone in your cultural

and physical body cries -- 

read no further.

danger danger danger

disguised as boredom boredom boredom

annoyance don't push it outrage rage 

weeping -- keep hankies close

as does a professional,

you're safe here it's okay, yes it's covered

somebody else paid --

sobbing seeing redemption...

x

Good day.  Hope you're still feeling a little better,

or a lot, but must keep going, we've only just begun.

Only new gains consolidate recent ones.

"Perseverance keeps honor bright."

Please read slowly, hearing the words 

in your head if not reciting them, 

spiraling forward by constantly regressing, 

like a great wheel traversing a continent..

I wouldn't advance more

than one of the numbered passages

at any one sitting.

Just something to do on the side

for five or ten minutes a day or week

while doing your time out breathing --

having read a very little bit,

thought about it a while,

and considered that it might possibly 

be interesting, beautiful, important, 

even essential --

once you get the hang of it...

I don't believe there's no gain without pain,

but you do need it for the quantum leaps.

and though personally you may have made

peace with your maker, what about the world?

I am the world.  I have not yet made peace

with my maker.   Though lovers,

we're in such a constant state of struggle,

the neighbors think we're on the brink 

of separation, but that's just our nature,

that's love to us, we must be rockets 

heading where no man has gone before

by quantum leaps, or bored to death...

x

a Jerry Maguire type scenario

first critical leap leaving so much behind, really everything but praised Folly herself  -- 

philosophy to have anything to do with anything, must be a performance telling a story not a set of general assertions as all of culture -- and I do mean all; look at all the religious and philosophically driven wars; man could care less about bread if it threatens what is not bread alone, who wouldn't rather lose her body than her mind? -- when not drifting in the waters of art, pretends the round peg fits into one of the next set of rival square holes, the implication, however repressed with great, noble efforts at compensation, that only art, not life, were a dream and all things and beings not distinguishable as distinguished art were deeply degraded and outright lying, however art cannibalizes them constantly, redeeming them briefly with its Midas touch only to freeze them solid, good only for selling, or lift the spell with some skin included. Not that the art or the artists themselves feel that way, but that is the objective effect, seeping up from the decaying philosophical ground. A respectable and certainly better option is, say, to praise Allah openly at the onset of almost every almost minimally different occasion, but the very need to do this might suggest the need for a more self-refreshing default, if only as a backup. To the aforementioned end, I ransacked the files and made wonderful use of anything worthwhile in there. Just because the whole world, especially the art world as it usually overlaps with the secular one, puts up with the present condition and will likely suffer shame in facing up to it and be obliged to painful reparations doesn't mean that I'm not right, and it isn't wrong.  In fact, my kind -- I just want to be liked, my God my God, Word, words! why has thou not forsaken me like pretty much everybody else??? -- have always saved the world in the nick of time by using language in a whole different way to fit the whole different world, a world that gets more and more different per minute until the catenary curve bends almost to vertical, that is dragging around the old way that, frankly, stinks of decay like all dead or dying things.  Forgive the stridency, but that's the character I must play, and in playing, while playing it, become, that the play as thing perform the sting.  (thus spakesheer).  The aforementioned narrative imperative must decisively distinguish itself from all the ideas it carries while remaining tightly stitched; if you detach the ideas from the characters in the story in which they're woven, the whole thing unravels, and you're back to square holes with the round peg finding nowhere in the scientifically verified reality even fundamentalists share with everybody else -- I doubt they would affirm the non-scientifically verified existence of a glass of water, say -- to lay its weary head or find a glass of water, the ghost just beats at the door, and how grateful it is when I open it, the unpoetic professional called to the case, her short and long features shortening and lengthening, respectively, into the caricature that all prosaic language, and she (the last one attempted a black, Christian ex-army sergeant I thought might have a bit more rhythm) as its representative, represents until the pentimenti start bleeding up in the palimpsest, flipping the manual from anti-depressants to anti-psychotics... whereas if you hold it all intact, once the weaving begins it weaves everybody into it, until everybody manages as much megalomania as the writer of this travesty, but all the megalomaniacs, like first class classical musicians in the greatest orchestra in the world, play very harmoniously together, as sound and sense, practice and theory, walking and talking, discover and recover the single seed wherein their strands entwine; and then, as if every coffer in the world had been drained to cancel, due to the generosity of the lender, the incommensurable debt, the ceiling dissolves as we grow into giants with kaleidoscope eyes, just as long ago, before we violated the command that my Swedish friend Anna's mother wrote on a photograph of her at three years old and pinned to the wall of her room -- Never betray her. 

breathe 

1

welcome 

keep breathing of course

just very deeply and consciously where indicated

and please forgive me.

the mongrel discourse 

can only barge in here from outer space

without any proper introductions.

Though made of known materials

it is as different from anything that came before

as the first life is different

from the molecules of which it's made.

There is no way to bridge the gap --

now it wasn't, now it is.

you were there, now you are here,

already unwittingly rejecting it 

with every bone of your body,

as your bones must dissolve

and be replaced with new ones

to assimilate it.

It is a sea of itself that you must circle around,

dip into, and finally dive into

as only by immersion can you learn the language of it,

and you will never know a language at all as a tourist

however you can ask for a taxi and a coffee in it. 

breathe

2

This description fits all works of art

and should fit every new instant,

the mongrel discourse is a tool of reading

breaking down resistance to reading itself

and everything as a work of art,

a violent disruption in total continuity

with every other instant as that,

a slow burning home fire 

the frozen world stumbling into the cabin

having banged on the door for millennia 

and completely given up on its giving in.

At least it might be expected to take 

the most unexpected form

in the most unexpected hour,

what else would you expect? 

Like all living things, it is self-similar

all the cells carry the same code

that gives each cell its different task

like instruments in an orchestra.

breathe

3

but, alas, until it finds its place

the whole world gathered around the home fire,

as the scales fall from everybody's eyes, 

until then it's a particle that, 

after having been carefully, decisively calculated,

checked and re-checked again and again, 

eludes detection in the massively expensive

accelerator built to verify it,

embarrassing everybody,

a gigantic flamingo,

an elephant man who can't 

even get a job in the circus due to

liberal anti-exploitation legislation,

a ghost bumping into furniture

in the middle of the night,

often camouflaged as

what everybody knows 

so why even bother,

little red riding hood

until it tears off its mask

and bears its pointy teeth,

not that it isn't somewhat tamable

breathe

4

this entity possessing me...

😫🤬🥺😢

whom you can't but flee.

Of course, of course, I see.

Of course, certainly, let's play something else.

Forget I ever mentioned it. 

I'm sure the professionals in charge 

have noted the cracks in the structure

and will tend to them diligently 

before it collapses on somebody's grandparents.

After all, they weren't afraid to risk 

crashing the global economy to save them

during a pandemic.   

"So I contradict myself. I contain multitudes!"

We're in good hands.

They are the poets! They are the scientists!

Who am I??  What am I contributing?

I'm nobody! and I prefer not to contribute anything.

I'm happy just to happen. 

my sibylline -- you can happen to have the gene,

but you must happen to carefully cultivate it --

happening as it happens 

to be a focusing mirror.  

a secretary of sorts taking dictation in shorthand

from the luminous written objects that surround me,

as I unobtrusively translate the input as it converges

on the head of a pin,

fueling the aforementioned fire

as it contributes itself.

No need to learn shorthand.

Just warm up by the fire,

let it melt your cold cold heart,

the text as if placed to the side

and only glimpsed out of the corner of your eye,

lest you be blinded by the light.

breathe

5

The information on this webpage is meant to cure disease,

so go ahead and sue me if it doesn't.

Please sign below before proceeding.

I have read the above terms carefully and agree to them

fully aware that they might change at any time.

__________________________________________

no way, never!!  Why are you bothering me??

Have I not made clear by now that

I have chosen, while protesting as a cover up 

(stop screaming at me! remove that boldface right now!)

to sign my soul over to corporate capitalism 

without even glancing at the terms. Why bother when

they metamorphose as madly as that mercuric monster

out to terminate the reformed Terminator 2,

which yours seem to do as well, you little devil!! 

Do not mess with my angel

I'm on my guard, I'm beginning to see 

that you've done your homework

and might actually pose a threat.

I notice I'm spontaneously consolidating

my defenses and offenses without even trying,

even the part of me that almost 

likes you a little and wants to resist, 

my angel seems to be collecting the debt

from all those documents I signed

to accrue all that holey information

and all those immortal (non-biodegradable) products,

that big rock candy mountain sugar coated with, say, 

expensively ecological, organic makeup.

Please, help me find the loophole, you little devil!

I didn't mean to! I really didn't mean 

while protesting as a cover up

(I said stop yelling at me!

okay I'm yelling too now, but you started it!)

to sign over my soul

to corporate capitalism.

breathe

6

Yes, I see, well, let me take a look at them,

no doubt there's a loophole somewhere.

We're not dead yet.

Of course, I'm one of you too.

I contain multitudes. You're in good hands,

I mean, I think, I hope, I pray -- as one never really knows --

really good ones, that can blend right in -- 

my magic costume closet -- 

and clothes make the kind of man I am -- 

snaps into a tiny oval box affixed to a pinky ring --

whether it's fireworks or the day after the parade, 

the ground littered with trash,

I can slip in there, quite invisibly,

and cut the wires.

breathe

7

maybe literally, maybe metaphorically,

or somewhere between, as I'm not saying 

that corporate capitalism 

or the machine are in and of themselves the devil; 

they are just marks, and I'm not just a marksist,

I'm a read marksist.  That's when the marks come alive,

as you blame them for what you turn them into,

not that the material itself doesn't play a part,

the ontological condition is a tango that always takes two.

In attempting to change the way you read them, 

their nature may prove quite intractable 

as verified in many different perspectives, 

or they may prove far more malleable 

than you supposed,

or somewhere between.

Just keep looking for soft spots,

hoping a better reading

will have penetrated the atoms

contagiously enough to transubstantiate

the whole before I arrive at the inner sanctum

with my clippers, and that my radio still works. 

breathe

******

8

the mongrel discourse

or roamin catholic (all inclusive) 

read marksist (dialectical etherealism

see commie Lennonist Revolution song

-- it works both culturally and naturally! 

and it sells too, up to a point) 

kerystianity (no worries only Roman Catholics 

think the word impregnates through the ear)

a sibylline oracle,

is NOT in itself theistic or atheistic --

imagine nobody ragging on either --

though it is a portal 

to synchronistic signs of something strange.  

breathe

9

It describes and enacts an epiphany 

autonomously occurring in the evolution of language,

as language mirrors itself like a machine 

seeming or actually growing conscious of itself,

notices, verifies, and processes its dire deadness,

rediscovers its roots, wiggles its toes,

smells its own flowers, comes alive!

added September 21, 2022:

this process encapsulated in a performance

fabricated or recorded in a story

that, following steps outlined elsewhere,

crystallizes in an image

that tells it most economically

and actually directly purveys its actuality,

the actuality, no longer symbolized

but right before the eyes,

the eyes that drink as well as think,

the eyes whose clarity fills the whole body with light --

and yet what authority or enclave on earth including

the art world -- notwithstanding the worthy efforts of art,

when the artist concedes,

as a painter named Malcolm Morley put it, 

the artist concedes to playing the night watchman 

as the paint flies from the painting table to the canvas,

or in the words of the historian and critic Leo Steinberg,

the artist finally asks not, what can I do,

but what can art do...or as JFK might say, 

ask not what art can do for you, ask what you can do for art,

however you yourself might die -- please 

however tempted, not by your own hand --

on the field of battle.  

breathe

That is, if the artist really does concede fully, 

and let art make the work, which concession is rare

given ego and any eros exterior to art's 

as it sucks the ecstatic artist's blood,

and given radioactive theories that seep through the walls

causing birth defects in gestating embryos and fetuses.

Still, it happens, and it even sometimes sells, 

but then the artist having let art make it, 

has no idea what it's about, 

and in the common overbred, non-mongrel discourse

bandied about on the surface and underlying everything,

perpetrates the very obfuscations it transcends,

as the art, seen but not heard, like good little girls,

who rarely excel in these fields let's face it,

remains gagged, misunderstood --

but unable to explain itself as such -- 

of course each person reads it somewhat differently

but that doesn't mean there's nothing there to read --

not just display its body and face,

no wonder it's so often prone

to histrionic fits, when not too weakened

from anorexia  --

breathe

I say and yet what authority or enclave on earth 

including the art world puts its whole trust and mind 

into clearing rather than distracting and entertaining the eyes,

or perhaps fracturing or abstracting the world 

to shatter what an un-visionary mind idolizes,

a violent measure -- 

the world miraculously incarnate in all its parts,

the least as great as any, bone not greater than blood or skin

however the former remains for a ghost dance,

parts for thriving as essential as those for surviving

(otherwise why bother to)

the soul is in each part and in the whole

with no function, even thought, privileged over any other,

thought claiming otherwise might be THE fallen angel.

Like Leonardo (among others) I count every hair 

on your divine head and feel a very unpleasant pinch 

at the removal of a single one --

by which, for all the righteous pains of those iconoclasts

(some assuaged significantly in the marketplace)

though honored and raptured up at the final rapture

will die in the desert as the "reformed" idolators

ravage and ethnically cleanse the holy land,

an idea so fiery bright, so moving to the hearts 

of xenophobic, tribal men --

what would the despairing howling

Hebrew prophets say to that?! --

it echoes down the generations,

while all the while, for millennia, short of a brief hiatus,

clearing the eyes to truly visionary --

apart from the incommunicable personal experience of 

"seeing the light", which, if it is not soon debunked 

in the next revelation, is soon reified by a group 

fostering a novel kind of blindness,

the truly visionary kind diagnosed as psychotic,

its language that of tongues that sound like gibberish

even when they also, in my case, sound like 

a logical machine on which the switch broke --

breathe

I say, the actuality, no longer symbolized

but right before the eyes,

of the redemption of language

and its replete re-capacitation, 

here it is, way up here, you just spotted 

something over here, not sure what,

probably just a projection pushed on you

by a madwoman, but only probably,

not definitely, and what a chance!

The terrain is rough, the distance is long,

but it can't move to you, or convince you,

you must move and ascertain yourself

that your version of it is not the thing itself,

I mean what I just said it is, 

scientifically and poetically speaking,

that is, adhering to the best rules and means available

for objectifying and sharing knowledge

as well as arriving together at the limits of it, 

or that the version that's right for you

needs to be made right for everybody,

at least for me it does, and surely 

there's a remnant of others impossible enough

to make the same demand,

not just in ("blessed" earth inheriting) poverty of spirit, 

that is, given those adjectives, possibly appropriate humility

and even possibly simple honesty

as to the degree of genuine faith --

cmon I don't see anybody with supposed

masses not just mustard seeds of it 

moving any mountains, apart from those

cut out of paper by selective literalists

whose selections seem rather self-interested,

and even Jesus lost his --

still available on a battlefield after the futile prayers

for health and healing and peace  

one might have sworn one would never utter

or one might have been muttering

or occasionally simply uttering, 

one's whole life, are spent,

breathe

10

or that it takes a village to raise this brat,

if you're hellbent on denying it

and/or caring more about 

your personal space

and sharing whatever peace

you've garnered there.

Maybe you can and best forget the sighting

and just go on with your usual life.

Excuse me though, 

when the eye is clear, the whole body is full of light,

the poor of spirit must inherit the earth --

and I must get on with it,

but before you go, I repeat,

if not you, who?

end of addition

breathe

11

Friedrich Nietzsche's 

(six year olds etc. may refer to wiki entry)

hatred of religion obviated 

using its forms as tools

to reorder the world visually, 

as will be gradually explained here -- 

where I will show precisely 

how the personification of the word seamlessly 

evolves into a procedure for its imitation, 

the procedure into a story, 

the story into a very specific image 

in which the word and world 

are fully reintegrated here and now, 

creating, when assimilated, 

a novel mode of consciousness 

that bridges between disbelief and belief. 

Whichever way you might end up traveling, 

or whatever you think of a wall 

between Texas and Mexico, 

in this case, history agrees with the poet Robert Frost 

that good fences do Not make good neighbors, 

and I am proud to have resisted,

to the deep consternation of my schoolmates

and the diabolic orchestrator,

the most regular of regular fellows,

of that scam, any of the lucky charms offered 

for adding another layer of whitewash to this one, 

but instead, I tear down this wall like that elephant 

wild to greet her long separated sister at the zoo 

they've been brought to in order 

to reintroduce them tomorrow, 

but sorry, I can't wait for tomorrow,

breathe

12

because it's like the enemy within everybody 

has coalesced in a gigantic asteroid

reeling in our direction from outer space

and so we finally, phew! welcome! Vulcan salute!

put aside our differences 

and rise to this technological feat 

that will change its course a minimal

but decisive degree.

breathe

13

Too bad Nietzsche hated religion too much 

to understand how its language,

in "merely" metaphorical form

alone can create this image 

hovering between metaphor and materiality,

being and seeming,

that unfolds into a parachute,

and so Zaruthustra was stuck all alone on the top of the mountain, 

never soaring into the clouds or enjoying the green valley...

the image like or as the universe being 

something made out of nothing  

breathe

14

Sigmund Freud called religion an obsessive disorder, 

and it could be so,

but by his own terms, it is far more certainly so 

that science and modern art's pervasive need 

to cleanse the world of signs and symbols --

art reclaiming them mainly to degrade them

and/or celebrate their degradation, 

while subtly sneering at the degraders

with ironic winks to insiders --

is indeed an obsessive disorder. 

We are symbolic beings, 

we are creatures of language

as are all sentient beings.  

However unfathomable consciousness be,

continually eluding science's grasp --=

for it is science's driver 

who will not be deposed by underlings,

the booth is sealed, 

and no-one will pull the curtain on this wizard --

it is built into our bones and our blood is wise with it.

An a-symbolic world

is like an acid trip with no escape.

However wild the flight, with nowhere to land,

the adorable seducer soon drops his mask,

as it soon turns into a very dark one.

By contrast, with a conscious guide,

a lowly symbolic being, right by your side,

or even a disinterested interrogator 

as in those early experiments,

the trip just gets higher and higher, brighter and brighter,

as signs and symbols melt into the thing itself,

which otherwise goes the way of signs and symbols,

nihilism annihilating everything,

while patronizingly protecting 

what it's pulling the rug out from under,

just to add a topcoat of hypocrisy

to ram in the sponge soaked in gaul.

It seems utterly unimaginable, impossible,

but once you catch a glimpse through that polished armor

wherever you've been fishing, you will drop 

your nets instantly, whatever the investments 

and take up another profession..

breathe

15

 ...he who does not gather with me scatters. Therefore all manner of blasphemies against the father and son will be forgiven, but sins against the holy spirit will not be forgiven.

seeming to mean -- no wonder it's been so thoroughly debunked -- that gathering everybody, even the most blasphemously irreligious or most blasphemously religious or both together...  this positive act of religament (religion, originally) must define everything one does.  see no hear no speak no evil.  hard, if one is called to the vanguard at the forefront, or possibly even afore the forefront, to watch parents and friends fall behind and suffer resentment, contempt, including but not limited to envy in disguise, quite possibly a collective enterprise allied with every earthly power, hard to climb the mountain, hard to battle the dragons, but ohhh one sip from the holy grail, a gotkin long starving will taste ambrosia and never go home again, and once a molecule of that aroma finds your nostrils, it's no longer hard, you don't climb, you fly up the mountain...

veronika sheer  (spakeSheer, the sheer veil)

krvs at me.com

some other bogs* in progress

thehomefire.blogspot.com

callistosgarden.blogspot.com

16

*not a typo, despair of speedy progress given the tangled roots, the soporific sounds, poor whippers of the will, but the Walt Disney fairies thinly disguised as dragonflies will be your guides, and you can glimpse the wide waters through the cattails. Do not fret, it's such tortoise slow progress that wins the race -- look around, if I'm not mistaken, there are no more contenders left in the running...but don't think on that account we have all the time in the world. cmon we aren't running this marathon to win it, but just to do it and complete it...at the end we can, after the shock wears off, relish having won, the icing on the cake. We are not only symbolic beings, we are animals! We are cured of our obsessive disorders, our neuroses by ascending to the divine madness (perfect sanity) that is our birthright, not just in galleries and art studios but everywhere...guided by the dragonflies... when they said toss away the maps, the maps are wrong, they meant it, but no! no! not literally! literally, keep the maps! all the maps! but stay detached...you know all this, you just need to update language, as Confucius says, rectify the names to fit the things, so we can stop rowing upstream and building without foundations.  One can contain multitudes without constantly contradicting oneself, but patient weaving, I guess, is woman's work. That's why as Lao Tzu says, to live in peace, in harmony with the Tao, everyone must be a woman, even the men Christ came to save according to the Catholic creed.  Transexuality appears to rule on earth as it is in heaven, but then again, words are just uniforms they wear when doing certain jobs, not the things themselves.  Use all the maps but stay detached.  It's almost impossible if you're operating in a moribund paradigm that keeps contradicting what you very well know, as you yourself do, unwittingly, for one's paradigm is the air one breathes, one's definition of sanity, and any other one is not an option... until it is...

oh but I notice that the distance between us isn't shrinking at all, but rather expanding, I guess things have to get still worse before they get better, but how much worse must it get?? 

final describing the specific late medieval image that orders the world into this visual order: 

forthcoming, 

"now I speak in parables, but a time will come when I will show you plainly..."

 in case of immediate dire need,

approaches discarded for formal reasons

http://detritusofmongrel.blogspot.com/2022/06/

giottosyetmoredivinecomedy.blogspot.com

themindofbeauty.blogspot.com

myyearbookcopy.blogspot.com

more very rambling notes

detritusofmongrel.blogspot.com