“But I preferred to abide by my simple feeling and its voice that said, Molloy, your region is vast, you have never left it and you never shall.”
Samuel Beckett, Molloy
The greatest dangers we human beings now face seem to lie in our desire for accurate classifications. We think we need to know what we refer to as facts because we sense ourselves coping with the assumed necessities of moving mountains, juggling conflicting co-incidents, trying to harmonize with the inexorability of recurring evolutions on all scales—all in the effort to make sense of everything so we can control our fate and choose our destiny, knowing all the while that all we can ever do is dream up inadequate ideologies, selfish solutions and vainglorious hopes of practically extending ourselves for as long as humanly possible.
That’s dominion. God damns It. It damns God. God dams It. It dams god. god das it. it das god.
Gradually disappearing, It gives then takes away. Appearing again, it is.
Before the beginning there is something. It is moving relative to no-thing, presumably. So the beginning isn’t really a beginning. There is no-thing already there, an emptied imagination imagining Its emptiness as other. As in the others Cain is forced to wander among. No-thing is all ways some thing. Nothing.
Then when this nothing-something’s membrane rubs up against the membrane of something-nothing else before the non-existent beginning, that friction seaming free of its initial cause tries to exactly analogize this incidental emergency of co-incidences it’s referring to as a bolt of lightning, or clap of thunder, or some such observed phenomena in nature that’s seeming to resonate with our categorizing perceptions. But it’s all in our mind.
God is born. Nature lives. God is killed. Nature dies. God is born. Nature lives. God is killed; etc.
That seems It outside the mind, the other we seam, strangely attracted, to.
Terrorized by this molestive, apparently metaphysical cyclical force, chemical entities change into biological entities that grow evermore complex entities that evolve sentient biological entities [among other things], some of which become egos—who perceive themselves terrified vagabonds and slaves as well as rightful masters of the universe—who seek refuge from death and suffering and failure by bonding together, growing stronger in numbers and exacting concessions from those they perceive as others coincidental to the initial conditions before their beginning so they can imagine themselves playing in ever-expanding fields.
We are the champions of the world. That’s zionism.
That virus becomes this germ, this germ becomes that cell, that cell becomes this organ, this organ becomes that body, from that body this mind emerges, from this mind emerges that terror which leads to our huddling together by the fire in the cave, which gets too crowded and so we spill out to conquer our terror, cities form from our desires, which bound from messiah seeking socializations to feudal arrangements to anarchic democracies seemingly all at once or at least as part of the same thing, coincidentally recurring in the imagined elsewheres we’re perceiving ourselves rubbing up against, others rubbing up against others which leads to war and chaos and interdestruction and new messiah clans and neo-feudal tribes and emergent democratic anarchies…all emerging from the desire to protect our precious bodily fluids.
It seems that inside the mind, that being this seaming eye It perceives my odd emergency from.
And then there is that clap of thunder again…that re-minder. God is killed and Nature dies. Nations disappear and, terrified, vagabonds and slaves, debtors and lenders all seek refuge from death and suffering and defeat by bonding together.
God is born. Nature lives. God is killed. Nature dies. God is born. Nature lives. God is killed; etc.
Maybe.
That seams life to death. Then death seams that to life.
What is That? Yes and No, perhaps. Then probably not.
Yet I desire to perceive my feelings simply. Whatever I survey has Its limits and all I can do is surround and inform them. They can’t be saved, but who or what can?
It’s in the stable covered in crusty, flaking shit. You can hear It sigh when you piss on it, and feel yourself in love for the first and perhaps last time considering the poison you’re playing with, that onanistic desire for dereliction rising up from the steaming puddle at your feet, annihilating everything but your imagined legacy, that shit we cultivate and trade among ourselves when you’re gone, obeying the necessities of your nausea, of your distressed bowels squirting your feces all over the map that the lovers of politics lick up like I scream, fire in our noisy faces burning It in a bottomless hell where Obama may or may not forgive those who were just following orders, preferring to audaciously chase his dreams instead…forgetting to re-instate habeas corpus.
Perhaps, then maybe not. Probably. Or no. Then yes. Sleepwalking all the way until our precious bodily fluids become something else, and or etc.,
I guess. You guess. We all guess for this time…
Samuel Beckett, Molloy
The greatest dangers we human beings now face seem to lie in our desire for accurate classifications. We think we need to know what we refer to as facts because we sense ourselves coping with the assumed necessities of moving mountains, juggling conflicting co-incidents, trying to harmonize with the inexorability of recurring evolutions on all scales—all in the effort to make sense of everything so we can control our fate and choose our destiny, knowing all the while that all we can ever do is dream up inadequate ideologies, selfish solutions and vainglorious hopes of practically extending ourselves for as long as humanly possible.
That’s dominion. God damns It. It damns God. God dams It. It dams god. god das it. it das god.
Gradually disappearing, It gives then takes away. Appearing again, it is.
Before the beginning there is something. It is moving relative to no-thing, presumably. So the beginning isn’t really a beginning. There is no-thing already there, an emptied imagination imagining Its emptiness as other. As in the others Cain is forced to wander among. No-thing is all ways some thing. Nothing.
Then when this nothing-something’s membrane rubs up against the membrane of something-nothing else before the non-existent beginning, that friction seaming free of its initial cause tries to exactly analogize this incidental emergency of co-incidences it’s referring to as a bolt of lightning, or clap of thunder, or some such observed phenomena in nature that’s seeming to resonate with our categorizing perceptions. But it’s all in our mind.
God is born. Nature lives. God is killed. Nature dies. God is born. Nature lives. God is killed; etc.
That seems It outside the mind, the other we seam, strangely attracted, to.
Terrorized by this molestive, apparently metaphysical cyclical force, chemical entities change into biological entities that grow evermore complex entities that evolve sentient biological entities [among other things], some of which become egos—who perceive themselves terrified vagabonds and slaves as well as rightful masters of the universe—who seek refuge from death and suffering and failure by bonding together, growing stronger in numbers and exacting concessions from those they perceive as others coincidental to the initial conditions before their beginning so they can imagine themselves playing in ever-expanding fields.
We are the champions of the world. That’s zionism.
That virus becomes this germ, this germ becomes that cell, that cell becomes this organ, this organ becomes that body, from that body this mind emerges, from this mind emerges that terror which leads to our huddling together by the fire in the cave, which gets too crowded and so we spill out to conquer our terror, cities form from our desires, which bound from messiah seeking socializations to feudal arrangements to anarchic democracies seemingly all at once or at least as part of the same thing, coincidentally recurring in the imagined elsewheres we’re perceiving ourselves rubbing up against, others rubbing up against others which leads to war and chaos and interdestruction and new messiah clans and neo-feudal tribes and emergent democratic anarchies…all emerging from the desire to protect our precious bodily fluids.
It seems that inside the mind, that being this seaming eye It perceives my odd emergency from.
And then there is that clap of thunder again…that re-minder. God is killed and Nature dies. Nations disappear and, terrified, vagabonds and slaves, debtors and lenders all seek refuge from death and suffering and defeat by bonding together.
God is born. Nature lives. God is killed. Nature dies. God is born. Nature lives. God is killed; etc.
Maybe.
That seams life to death. Then death seams that to life.
What is That? Yes and No, perhaps. Then probably not.
Yet I desire to perceive my feelings simply. Whatever I survey has Its limits and all I can do is surround and inform them. They can’t be saved, but who or what can?
It’s in the stable covered in crusty, flaking shit. You can hear It sigh when you piss on it, and feel yourself in love for the first and perhaps last time considering the poison you’re playing with, that onanistic desire for dereliction rising up from the steaming puddle at your feet, annihilating everything but your imagined legacy, that shit we cultivate and trade among ourselves when you’re gone, obeying the necessities of your nausea, of your distressed bowels squirting your feces all over the map that the lovers of politics lick up like I scream, fire in our noisy faces burning It in a bottomless hell where Obama may or may not forgive those who were just following orders, preferring to audaciously chase his dreams instead…forgetting to re-instate habeas corpus.
Perhaps, then maybe not. Probably. Or no. Then yes. Sleepwalking all the way until our precious bodily fluids become something else, and or etc.,
I guess. You guess. We all guess for this time…
There is an artistry to life, then, and what, then, are the functions of art?
ReplyDeleteOr, because I can speak to it most directly, poetry?
As someone remarked, when Prospero throws down the book, is it to say, ultimately, one must get beyond art?
Or, and etc, Grossman, is poetry (art) preservative, preserving the person (distinct from the self) in ways other preservative media/modes cannot (eg history)?
A death in one form of life to preserve that life, one form of life that was already its death?
If so, somehow--in this, is art a vain, futile pursuit, wanking all the way? And to the bank?
Or is it an obligation, manifest, to endure?
To bring into concord the self and the person (art's perpetual source, that anxiety), the self and its beloved, a moral and ethical act, in recognition of, in giving voice to, always, the Other?
js
To be YES then NO, yes? No? A kind of enthusiasm weaving the w[h]ole...?
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