Philosophy. A means to talk about taboo topics, like nowhere else. Ventures across all rays and frays.
Tag loot at root (however moot), circle and distend, hatch and confute.
The language spiraling into all kinds of glorious exotery that crisscrosses boundaries of time as meaning, and tugs at the hole in my pail.
Wherever there is fester of finew – an ideation has grown devastated by the real, philosophy groans (imperiously?) at the rigging – and a rise along the curve begins to dig in, dig in after the green onion, of my rattling contempt, and peel away. Peel away.
Often refer to Nonbeing as the Wall, as if time itself is just nature fervent to divine the profane, and the Wall is where everything comes to life in that respect, haunted high as hell with love and desire, tragedy, hate, all things holy and contrite.
Where tragedy (a voice just called out from the sock drawer) was the name of the game. When young nothing else worked. As a child everything was hilarity or death.
Anger and recrimination filled the void surrounded by a wilderness of desire – for which there was no vocabulary. Every socket gleamed with sacrificial triggers, an oft pining, miraculous thirst-till-you-burst honeycomb of jouissance – fly-and-die, like a rotating magnet.
La Philisophe carried within itself – its own call to Necessity, as well as its own seeming prohibitions – everywhere is argument, that aims to particularize and construe the dynamics of an ever robustly reinterpreted vocabulary, highly-concentrated, close-grained, a kind of dirge, purge and merge of what is indissociably infrastructural, ontologically homey native –
Yet I do not experience things as structural or deconstructural or even linear-like!
Essences of beauty & horror come upon me, show up at bottom with a will of their own, as if to say: its happening to the Spirit – using a very old term.
Why Bataille is a favorite Muse of mine – because he digs through the sacred-icity of all things Taboo, digs away at the sacred inland of Nonbeing which for him emanates out of an estranged yet wildly beautiful and insidious underbelly of desire.
For all things impossibly relished – he tracks its incarnations back to the sacred and taboo, with lucent deft-peaking apperceptive defiance.
Slave to Existence
This was the way I seemed to experience it too, that that was what “it” felt like since “back of the beyond,” since infancy. I remember dreams I had at two. When “the nothing” was all I knew. By 3 “it” had acquired a hurt, secretly vengeful aspect. By 7, was tucked into the Gaze – a brutal, amorous, ornery, restless, desperate, orgiastic, infinitely-pending gaze! complotting after the Sacred, as an altar relic, as Slave, Death, Beauty, Misery, Conjuration, like a fifth dimension, Time and the Taboo.
And Philosophy talked about it! About being a slave to existence, this “sickness unto death,” how it was terminally constitutive. Myself as merely another young sorrowing thing full of impossible desires – whose tragical contraries anxiously permeated the sin spin of my skin – quite often right blindly.
By 9 or 10, Nonbeing was vested with Place and Entry, and we with curious separation (Nonbeing having gestated into “tons”) delved and probed its loops and heights, its “immortal” reaches, as if in its overbright stealth plundered a perplexingly evasive strategy – for a “groundless” imagination’s accursed sweet survival.
Pur et Dur
The Puritan still Capitalizes nouns as Persons, as Things that have Spirit, as though upon me still hangs, by definition, Emily Dickinson’s garden wonderland, pulling at me like a noose. Taunt and receptacle, the rope still swings, with a gotten/misbegotten cutting in at the throat, at Depths of Trueness as visions of threshold. Poetry surcingles the “waste” consequently at different ordinates than La Philosophe – especially in terms of language prized for its stench, for its peril and ambiguity (etc.).
Naysayers at the Watch Spring
Attempt entails a backlash of contempt. Is what it means to be at crossroads. This I first noted at 4. Much as did Colette Peignot.
The word Spirit, certainly seems now to carry in it a temporal stink, guilty by association with the pre-moderne. When language becomes anachronistic, empties of compliance with present day thinking (Incompleteness Theorem, Uncertainty Principle) like everybody else – I am taunted by its foistiness.
That said, the word spirit, in ref to what goes on emphatically in the Nonbeing – where turns the yearn to god damnit take an active stance – the term relates at times as visually defiant – as to say non-compliant but still active.