oscillate my metallic sonatas. we run in circles don't we? or back
and forth. modernists: truth, knowledge are real; postmodernists
(read: onanists): truth, knowledge, ceux-la sont impossible. why
does it matter? do these words still refer? if so, what is the nature
of their referential power? objective? subjective? intersubjective?
ritualistic? postmodernist's words fail to refer because the postmodernist
has destroyed intention's agency. he deconstructed intention as
a biology and physics, hence he exposed its virtuality, like a toddler
riding a bicycle falls off when he becomes conscious of riding;
like breathing becoming difficult in an anxiety attack when the
victim assumes conscious responsibility for breathing. maybe the
most interesting aspect of the above is not the ideas but their
implausible juxtaposition; the reduction of the narrative into a
text, into a whirl of fiducial and aural sensations, like las vegas
read from a merry-go-round. when you read this you aren't reading
this, you are reading you, it is your activity which inspires text
and expires intention. this text is a manifesto. sure, it is incomplete,
without start or end, hence without middle also because middle requires
start and end to situate in between. we are always in between, when
we aren't we are dead. when we feel confusion, we should be grateful
for not being dead. not being dead is not the same as being alive.
a common misconception is that alive opposes dead or that rich opposes
poor. alive opposes nothing more than not alive, and dead opposes
nothing more than not dead. but see that this is not a closure,
for we know people who are not dead but not alive, and also those
who are dead and alive. these words, have again, failed to refer.
if words can't refer, how can we refer? how can our consciousness
of being alive refer to the world which purports to be real and
existent? how can our observation of a, then b refer to a causing
b, or that b happened after a? it is a miracle that we are such
an imaginative and deluded species. it is a travesty that the act
of being and imagining a world to exist in is not viewed as a miracle
by more selves. then it is a miraculous travesty that all these
brillant ideas, spilt in this text box, means nothing more to you
than yourself, your paltry reflection against this sexvigin-lithograph.
my thoughts to you is as possible as your thoughts to me. in writing,
as in being, these words, this world refers only to the writer.
in reading, as in being, these words, this world refers only to
the reader and to the writer that lives in the reader. but these
problems, these problems don't exist; having a concept, word like
'problem', we are as inevitable to exercise seeing problems as we
are to eventually eating the treat, that cookie that we are given.
so cast away this poisoned vernacular of concepts and words, throw
yourself back into nature, into unconsciousness, into the dionysiac
passion where you, nature, the unconscious, dionysos and passion
are indifferent to meaning. research your rapport and 'be in' instead
of 'refer to'. close your eyes to language and culture, harken to
your childhood unlearnedness anxiety and wonderment, and you will
open your eyes and awaken in dasein. Niagra, o roar again!
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