Mythological Being of Reflection by Markus Gabriel is first chapter in book called Mythology Madness and Laughter. Second and third chapters of book are by Slovoj Zizek.
Markus Gabriel’s chapter on Mythology and Reflection tours classic byways of academic philosophy, he working-horse digs through great philosophers orientations on meaning, and dutifully goes in at outer edges of language – where with great fascination (however under the encumbrance of duty to religion) philosophers turn with Homeric attempt/contempt to refine define the sublime.
Gabriel even throws an anchor here and there at my thumb contracting knick knacks of madness – so of course I am going to read it (and love parts of it).
Yes where meaning (in terms of being) pushes up against the limits of experience (and corrupts with impossibility), Gabriel sorts (snorts) and sifts, starting straight off with Sets. Subsets and domains. Which are a mathematical way to ascribe place to interacting particulars. Philosophy created math as a way to describe solids, space and number.
But in philosophy, truth be crowning, language of every Order (and lather) also sink in too-ra-la-rue at the phenomenology of being (and the numerology of religion – mono-ah-hah-mono) incessant with reflection (& meaning of god as being equivalent to our even being here).
Oh, & the recursiveness of reflection where thought comes up against the infinite, in bottomless waves so to speak, with unending overlapping map-ness and set-ness, however the Big One you are fixed upon. Recursiveness is very big in thoughts on thoughts, in terms of systems (computers) as well as sorrows (death).
Thoughts hit up against what hurts/asserts as an absolute negative and then philosophy vies desperately to find a cut between what is of it and what is not, except that all it is is language and suddenly words start turning loops, seemingly impossible to adequately domain, to set absolute –
And instead stumbles into revelation, with romantic defiance. Drilling down through depths of phenomenological hell, like a laughing dialectical phantom with an out to lunch sign.
These certain areas of phenomenology blew like wheat in fields of grey hopeless mourning, of sunless shine on sorrows of loves being rained on broken and forlorn, with me (gasp gasp) grasping for wood and instead blew in constructive/desconstructive castles in air & hair reverential – this girls heart complicit with the Almighty (grump) right there at the Pump.
Trauma of God
God is an uncanny revelation. The unity of being vs neurotic consciousness. Next to this I put a star. And of course here I am grumbling manifestly about explosions of sorrow and desire, as thoughts benighted by love, got eclipsed, as though pulled out of the square by a hair, from the suffocating reign of time, in a series of vivid wicked near breathless breakthroughs.
Breaking throughs, from what had been a very idealistic and yet repressive dogma. And how it happens as revelation. As though falling through a hinge that is suddenly searching (increasingly desperate) for unity – among rebel throws! Here it comes:
Beauty as Nihilism.
The delicious contempt of a nihilistic virtue, as an opening into the void, a transcendence based on yearning for something truer than true, for higher and higher and higher ground. Gabriel describes (in stark philosophical terms) as a denial of appearances, isnt that lovely – winding out into a dismantling of the (great) beyond.
notes working on
Sealed off in an encounter with reflection, know that feeling. Here is Gabriel “… sealed off from world, eternally caught up in an unfulfilled desire to encounter the world” he describes as an internalizing of the world, since Descartes. I read philosophy because it helps disentangle madness from the turbulence of its seductions. Being a victual of The Seal is definitely one of them. He calls it reversionary where “soul mysteriously regresses back to origin(s)…” And there where I see sacrificial ecstasy of medieval Mary’s eyes yearning towards heaven over horror of everybody (from plagues) dying, and that religious mood of reification as complicity.
The uncanny stranger. I distinctly remember when pressing my luck in hopeless love, incurring violently at times a sudden new capability for visions, and what a relief at knowing I was seeing more than I’d ever previously been allowed to admit I saw, before. Like one night suddenly shooting at baskets and you hit 3 out of 4, just because you can feel where the sweet spot is. (Does not last.)
But the stranger thing was, however I would try, there was no where to put these things without blanket denial – except there from which it seemed to spring – in delicious tumults of magic & horror that occurred for me inside a blessed jar of desire – whose virtues I dare not trust. However could not resist, as found they made me feel drunk with life.
Admit! Have always lived in something I call The Jar. A jar of glorious contempt. Was born into it. Cropped up young.
As a rejection of the impotence of time, in favor of magic, religion and magic have that foolish side to them. My little foolish ship in a floating away jar.
That a side has always, always lived raging behind a precious seal of contempt.
What a horror I became when the madness broke out. Treading deliciously on other people I was in love with to kick the bottle, make it crash. To break my ship out of its suffocating feudality.
And it worked like spirit arising out of lamp, it really did at first, as if an awareness was being stumbled into that never knew I had –
Disenchantment of disenchantment
Gabriel refers to something of nihilism being a disenchantment of disenchantment, my new fave the double no, the double “dis,” how transcendence comes through disenchantment of disenchantment – therefore: enchantment.
Enchantment being a big word for me. As stolen from William Burroughs as a way of explaining a spell of madness emerging it seemed from under a vast tissue of lies?
And an enchantment that along the way ate its own tail, turned rotten, deadly, no matter what anybody did to try help me calm down – I’d fall in again and again, into such a wild state of panic, beyond anything I could have ever imagined I’d ever put myself through, for reasons that on the surface could not acquit themselves, as madness poured in with unfathomable chaos & ruthlessness.
Now I try think of these things as roots of theatre, so as to create a place for, not as hypnotic or deadly, my being host to wildly submerged unending sets, seesawing with seeming frantic contradiction, as slither through my hair with a monstrous love – for well, the subtexts of tragedy, glory of death, magic of hysteria, etc.
The book is called Mythology Madness and Laughter. There are two more chapters to go. She rubs her hand over the mythical lamp. Last two chapters in book are by Mr. Zizek. Starting them now very shortly.