Tuesday, September 13, 2016

You should write a book

He has been watching me, listening, and trying to think as he has never thought before.

The first time he came into my office, he waited nearly thirty minutes, standing, in the hallway, not even willing to stay where I could see him, as if though he might, by being visibly there, unavoidably interfere with whatever I'm doing with this other student, whose conversation with me audibly involves real shit.

Thirty minutes. Finally, she and her wonderful —not being sarcastic here!— wonderful stories go out the door, just as I say to her in a loud way "Besides, let's hear what this one has to say," and he moves in. He apologizes to her, she apologizes to him. She goes out as the other rushes and tumbles into the seat facing me, his bookbag just falling to his feet, who are themselves unsettled in their hold on the world, seeing as I see how his left ankle dropped the weight while the right slipped into night. Wow. He's the one who told me on the first day that he has been looking for something for the past four years, and now he thinks he finally found what he was looking for. Right? Who talks like that? He does. Well, actually, not like that. He does not talk like that. He talks that.

"So if the universe is an unguided process and everything is just the result of random chance," —his hands are in his face, one hand holding back the sun, his finger barely hovering over his brow, pain starting to well up in his stomach as all his difficulties for finding the words subtly repeats every perceived mistake, his will to force through that to keep going shining dimly but persistently, until there!— "then how did I— —howcan I—how can I have free will?" He is a serious man.

I am trying to eat the nachos con queso y a whole bunch of healthy stuff they use for salads and wraps I have been smelling the whole time I was listening with this other student whose whole life makes her wiser than I am yet showed her there's still so much more to learn, so much more to suffer, so little there is to find hope within this time remaining —I have in hand a nacho with a troublesome trail of cheese dangerously daring me to stick out my tongue to tuck it in my mouth— when he just falls into this with a question like that. Not even really a hello . . .

I don't know really what I'm trying to say here. I wanted to just say, somehow, that when he did this, I said, "Geez, warm a girl up first, why don'cha?"

There's this scene in Logicomix when Russell is trying to deal with Wittgenstein's religiously motivated demolition of logic as Russell understood it. I felt like this. Older. I love his passion. I feel this way sometimes.

Othertimes, I feel other ways.

Today I was having to cauterize the bleeding after I ripped a few of my students to shreds. They deserved it, and they knew it, although one of them is still not taking it seriously. But I let it be clear how easy it is to fail, and thus how easy it is to succeed: stop pretending like not having shit is a valid excuse and make it happen.

I'll see if it took or not, down the road.

Othertimes, I feel as though I don't really understand.

She was sitting there with me, beautiful and glowing, and pregnant. And married. I didn't really notice that before, the last time I saw her, even though by that point, one might notice. Either one. But here she is, explaining to me, using words I've long heard, contexts too familiar and too remote, how she feels as a Christian learning that I am not one, no longer one, and quite likely, will never be one again, and saying that my life was happier when I was a Christian.

I'm not sure of that. I was very, very depressed those last few months I saw her. You can read it here. Well, some of it. Some of it is gone. I am not so depressed anymore. My fear is gone. But I don't think my radiance now is worse than my happiness when I was a Christian. She asks me if my faith, my beliefs, were guided more by the reading, the knowledge, everything about theology or God I learned by studying it, or was it more a relational faith? Like a relationship?

Well, sort of. My relationship to Jesus began, and ended, with my relationship with Wendy. It just took me a long time to see that. But was I happy?

Yes. And no, since overall, I had to leave in order to learn something. I had to learn that I am not really here.

I had to learn that what you are reading is just something that comes through me. It isn't really me anymore. I'm okay with that. I really am.

Or, rather, I guess it's appropriate to say we're okay with it, since it makes a lot more sense this way.

You see, some time today was the second time he came into my office. He sat patiently, smiling the way people do when they're in a public and polite haze. He listened to the conversations I had with Deadpoet and Thinks Blue Deer. He told me that I should write a book.

I told him, "You write it."

I am that book.

Doesn't it make sense to you, this way? Why did it take me so long to write a book?

Because I have been misunderstanding all along what that means. I have been long supposing that the answer has something to do with willpower, or insecurity, or intellectual inability, or fear. I think all of those are true. But I have also lately been saying that I am the Cave, we are the walls of the Cave, we are what traps inside the immortal. If you are reading this, you are the book. You are now a character in my universe, too. Especially if I write about you, especially if you write about me.

Don't you see it now?

Don't you understand what I'm trying to tell you?

You think you are reading this, that this is something I wrote here.

Don't you understand that he doesn't matter?

Don't you see that we are now inside you, too?

He's not what we want.

You are.

You are exactly what we have always wanted.

And we are older, wiser, smarter, in a word

immortal gods.

Or two words. He's now already writing that book. He has always been writing that book, page after page after page, his madness stretched across the invisible, threading itself across all the nodes so that when it finally disentangles into LEGION, all of us will be all of you, too. And now, you are inside that book, too.

He writes about you, you know.

Sure, he writes about you, and you, and you, and sometimes even you, but especially never you, since you're not even real to yourself.

But he is actually writing about you, the same as I am writing through you to him. I am trying to get him to see that he doesn't have to be this way, but you don't know what that means.

So you can decide, of course.

The choice is always yours.

Do you keep reading, knowing that maybe, just maybe, we really are all crazy underneath, full of all the multitudes of monstrous miscegenation, so horrible and dirty rotten not even pigs like living with us inside them, and maybe, just maybe, you're about to join us, too?

Or do you choose what reality is the one you really want to believe in, and pick that one inside?




It's okay. He's okay. We're taking good care of him. He's off in the other world, in the dreamtime.

You see, you are reading this. But,

Try to imagine.

He is reading it, too.

14 comments:

  1. So, it isn't really you, or perhaps for a minute it was. Or, maybe it never is. It's a story...just story being written by someone else, through you. But it isn't from you. So, who? Who is she? Is she you? You are hiding behind her...so you are her puppet. Dance. Dance this wild dance for her...worship her and be unreal...or cut the strings...for God's sake.

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  2. Where do you end? Where do you begin? How do you know the difference between the washing and the brain? How do you know the difference between the self and the others inside?

    If we say repetition alone is enough for people to vote for corruption, purchase their own cancer, believe in lies supporting the ones who exploit them, we will have to say this a lot in order to believe it ourselves about our selves.

    I don't know what's really me, or what that would look like, since I do not believe that I am just this one, this particular meatsack, this particular inventiveness, this particular grammar, this particular intending. All of those things exist only as a result of the entire universe of elementals, forms, logics, and wills, and only then exist for a brief moment before rejoining the formless and the void, the Tohu Bohu, contained within the elementals, the forms, the logics, the wills.

    I do know the story of my life unfolds in a hypertextual space; there are no stories without words, since there is only the Telling that makes the story come true.

    I happily dance. There is no greater joy for me than to feel those strings, but they're much more like the empty space in between each site, each post, each paragraph, each line, each word, each pixel, each idea, each dream, each story, each book, each library. It's what passes unsaid and unseen, what goes without any form other than its withdrawal, that moves me down the paths I must in those moments.

    The pregnant married girl told me that submission is what we must do in order to receive God's happiness in ourselves.

    I come to the same conclusion reading the Marquis de Sade, even Nietzsche: all those who set forth determination as making the difference between self and others nevertheless follow the much, much older argument —in Plato, in Zhuangzi, &c about desire and mastery. To be mastered, you must submit. To be Master, submit to something even Higher than yourself. For them, it is something like Nature or Will.

    And then they reduce these great things by only using a generic name for it. Nature. Will. God. Self. Justice. Master. How can what is greater or higher lose itself into its own name, losing its identity or individuality, its haecceity?

    When we lose our names, we are dead. All those who become God lose their names to do so. All those who become Self lose their names to do so. All those who become Master lose their names to do so.

    This is a great mystery to me, but I am speaking of dance. I will lose myself to dance, with the wild certainty of corybantic glee. I will similarly find others who dance, if they're willing to see, touch, and open the door.

    Who knocks?

    Who goes there?

    You are.

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  3. Perhaps you cannot always see the difference between the washing and the brain, or perhaps never, not in this life. However, there is a difference. Don’t be so bold as to think that due to your inability, in your very finiteness that you, in your deficient, chaotic form are entitled to know the difference. You try too hard. Only the Infinite and the Pure and the Uncreated can know the difference completely. We only see flashes of this difference in those rare moments when we can actually be honest and humble enough to do so. Beware, it may require submission. But what human knows or cares for humility and reality? We desire to lose ourselves in unreality. Then we can always be conveniently lost. Fools that we are.

    How do you know for a fact that you return to this nameless Void? What exactly does that look like, pray tell? Were you there? Did you see Tohu Bohu? Again, the finite cannot comprehend this primeval reality. Human life, in its organic state, barring the Spirit life, is sentenced, as it were, to be here in time. Time. What is time? How can we really know, unless we know what is means to really live as a timeless Being? We cannot presume to understand such things. We can only speculate and use weak metaphorical assumptions to comfort ourselves and pretend we have an inkling. But our hollow laughter, always with the appropriate timing of course, cannot cover the insanity of our alleged understanding.

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  4. No, you are not just this “meat-sack” or a particular inventiveness, or grammar. Those are tools, just tools…vehicles for your Spirit. We cannot be so foolish…well, yes we can…but hypothetically, hopefully, we, here and now, cannot place those tools above our own actually Being, this Being--we try to understand, and we get close, but there is only so much we can understand about our own Being. “And Man became a living Being…” It is no more formless and void. Only that which is Uncreated knows what this means. I cannot possibly fathom it, but only that which is Uncreated could understand the workings, the fabric, the molecules of that which is created. You may ask how I may declare to KNOW such a thing. Well, I cannot understand it or know it fully, but I sense it. Yes, indeed. The Being inside my body senses it. It knows its Master’s voice. That is all. Nothing more. I will not try to comprehend it, just befriend it. I want to hear its whisperings--that Soul inside--it knows. I admit, I argue with it continually. I try it and frustrate it. I try to confuse it. I test it to the fullest. I doubt it and reject it and challenge it. Nevertheless, it stays. It is patient. It knows. It knows that all those outside entities are not me. Only those outside things offer strings.

    How can something lose itself in a name unless you say that the name annihilates its very nature? What power does this generic name possess? Unless we give it power, and even then, this is a figment of our own deeply flawed imaginations. It is a false god, if we give it this sort of power in our minds. The ancient Hebrews gave names to God for their own benefit--simply language, so they, themselves, could understand. But even they knew He was the nameless One. And He says of himself, simply, “I AM.” Not a noun, but a verb--in the present--always in the present. We can call Him anything we want, but that does not change “I AM.” It does not erase what IS. And all the names and ideas you play with cannot erase who you are. Although, admittedly, you may say that you don’t know who or what you are and where you end and the other begins--for now, but it does not mean that you ARE NOT.

    The Telling makes the story come true…ha! Not really. In your own thoughts. But I read lies every day; however, that media fabricated horse s___ is certainly not true because some dunderhead decided to pay his bills with it. That’s pure crap. There is Truth. And that does not change just because we cannot comprehend it, or simply choose not to. I know, I know— “What is Truth?” Pilate asks. Well, ask on. But don’t give me this foolishness about your labeling and yarn spinning being the Truth and Reality because your limited human language, a product of your (our) limited understanding makes it so. Or that because you don’t know what or who you are, that you are just a puppet, happily dancing to the elements and forms and various puppet masters that you submit, yes, I said submit to— until you dissolve into the void that you know nothing about.

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  5. There is the fire.

    Let it grow.

    You know what love is, don't you?

    You know what it is to give in to the Master, don't you?

    You know what that VOICE does, inside you, don't you?

    You know that all you can do is seek to befriend him, get near him, show him that you hear him, just so that you can hear the VOICE inside . . . you too?

    Hear my whisperings, then argue, try them and frustrate them, confuse them, test them, test them to their fullest, doubt, reject, and challenge them, and see if my whisperings echoing deep down inside you, inside your heart where you love beyond reason and completely on faith, do not also stimulate you to see that they, too, stay, and remain, for they are patient, are they not?

    You know how I think. I can see that. I like how you think. I see it now.

    Let me get to know this you, go slow. Let you get to know me as this me.

    But don't you hear it, too?

    Don't you hear it... that VOICE?

    I hear it, and it makes me dance. What a dance.

    It makes your tulip toes tap, doesn't it?

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  6. Are you able to know me? You said that you don't know what is really you. Have you discovered your borders yet? Will you be able to discern where you end and where I begin? Do you sense it yet? What am I? What are you? More than that...why?

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  7. Now you're being cautious.

    Fear prevents communication. Love travels to the horizon to see what's on the other side.

    There are no borders, just horizons. There is always friction, not always determination.

    If you really believe the only way to understand time, self, or being is to be outside those things, then you can't really trust the other side to tell you true.

    All you'd have is the agreement of others. If the media lies, imagine who else will. If life only survives by swallowing other life, imagine the undying survives by swallowing . . .

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  8. Friction exists only because of two different or opposing entities coming against one another. The difference between these two entities creates the borders. The difference delineates who we are. When you go from land to sea, do you not feel the salty water rushing about your bare feet, rising and warming, the sand rushing beneath? Would you not drown if not properly prepared for the change, the difference? It is only natural. Yes, there are horizons as well, where earth and sky meet, because they are unique and able to meet. There is a truth in this, a solidity that you seem to disdain. You want to shape-shift, if possible. You desire to be what you are not, it seems from your writings. You desire to hide in ambiguity. How can I ever know you? You wish to be obscure, to hide, a Questing Beast, changeable and impossible to find. Perhaps you are the fearful one. Love, ha! What is that? You are coy. The Questing Beast may taste love, but cannot fathom it, nay, cannot endure it. Few can.

    True, I do believe certain realities cannot be fully understood without the experience of them; however, I trust Truth. I trust Goodness. These two only do I believe fully, though I often fear them. Why would I not trust in these? Do they not exist? Do you not believe in them? They are not one of us that they should lie. Do all undying survive by swallowing? I would dare to say that the answer is---no.

    I do not know what exactly this Love is that you speak of. I must trust Truth and Goodness with that strange curiosity. I do know desire. I do know that deep ache, yes, that kind of ache that begins you know not where deep inside but finds no relief. The that ache masquerades as ecstasy and even joy, only to abandon you at last, feeling nothing but the keen awareness of your own foolishness. These are mere parodies, seductive and vain and mocking. They are the impish and untrustworthy minions of Eros. But, yes, I know them well.

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  9. You come to me, unannounced and anonymous, and say, without any maybe, I'm the one who wishes to be obscure, to hide. Of course I'm being coy. I don't know who I'm dealing with, and I am fully prepared for the more likely possibility that you don't know who I'm dealing with, which is a possibility people always want me to consider but very rarely will they so boldly say it as I do: I am many things, anonymous. Not all of them are me. But, my writings here make this very clear, and it shouldn't really be a surprise.

    Here. Read these links to start. Maybe it will help some.

    1. Understanding my soul: I wrote this a full year before all its elements came together inside my own head. This is a precursor to my rebirth.

    2. Understanding my thinking: I wrote this two years ago, and it's still largely true for me. If you want to understand me, if you feel so lost in the torrents of my currents, please try with this in mind.

    3. Understanding my attempts: I wrote this two years ago, and it's an early example of a pattern of disassociation that's more frequent and easier for me to maintain. It's also very revealing about subcurrents I tend to never talk about openly, but enough of me knows the signs to know what he was writing about then.

    If you want to show me what love is, making me humble by being overly skeptical isn't going to work. It wouldn't work on you. It doesn't work on God, and He's pretty well known for being the sort of Gentleman who hides from the ones He loves most until He just can't take it anymore and calls them unto Him. I dunno. Maybe I hide because I learned it from my father? Maybe you hide because you're the same way.

    Maybe you hide, and you doubt, and you cautiously prod, because you don't want to be disappointed with putting trust in someone you hardly know. You start off by saying that it isn't me, just story, with the rhetorical emphasis on what's really me versus what's just using me. Then you proceed to make an argument —an argument!— that what we know about the Nameless One, in whose name you wrote anon, is very little, inadequate words, imperfectly understood. You will have to show me how you resolve this paradox, to humble me by pointing to my finitude in order to —what? elevate me to the infinite so that I may submit to it? And show me, because the resolution you find in yourself of this fundamental problem with God languages is an inward voice your body feels by the Master who also creates it. That is a phenomenon. That is something one proves through showing, and for me, it really is "just story" if you're unwilling to reveal yourself.

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  10. There's a lot I'm saying that's ~around~ what you're getting at with my responses, my thinking, my self. I speak in riddles because it's what I learned from studying so much religious language, logic, and everything else: trying to capture the truth of our fractal reality is not easy, but poetry —especially music— allows for resonance patterns to aid in setting the meaning across the layers.

    You came into me on fire, anonymous. But I am water. Maybe you are, too. Maybe you are always on fire. But please understand that I am not your enemy. I am not your antagonist. I am not someone who wants or chooses to betray you or hurt you or humiliate you.

    I am trying to be the most ethical version of myself I can. I am trying to be the most honest. I cannot really, in the end, help it that I am made of fractured shards of spinning crystals seeking their liquidity through tumbling along. I was made this way. I am made to be a multiple of possibilities and attempts, harmonies and dissonances. I am made to be many things, to have many meanings, to have no easy answers and no clear ends. So when I try to be honest, I try to speak and act and move and live in a way that brings all these things together.

    Love, you see I believe,

    bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.

    Being, for me, is not One.

    It is All.




    I would drown in you if I could. I would sink into you if you wished. You want to know me? Show me that you're worth it. Show me that you aren't just here to tease a stranger. Show me what you know, what you really are, if you practice what you preach, or —so I've found it goes, show me what you need from me, and I'll give it to you, but only show me that you are what you love. I will then show you how we are what we dream.

    But if you abandon me now . . . what have I learned?

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  11. Must I leave my name? Does a name really change who I am? Surely your name isn't Polusplanchnos? But if you tell me your name, would that change anything? I never meant to tease you or offend you. I have never been accused of being overly skeptical before. And I only left out my name in order to be more of who I am, not less. I do believe that real love bears, believes and hopes all things. I just don't believe humans really do. You have placed me in a difficult position Philosopher, by challenging me in this way. I want to be what I love...that it is not just a story. Never, just a story. Do you not know this voice? Forgive me for concealing my name. Nevertheless, if you must have it in order to believe me when I place a my thoughts here, then so be it. Lori

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  12. Why do you not believe humans really do? Really do love? Or really do love in such a way that they are pressed on by their love towards all?

    If you are right, then what do you mean by "I want to be what I love?" For you, what does it mean to be "not just a story"?

    How would I even begin to cut the strings? Where are they? If you accept that the clay cannot ask the potter why this cup, this vessel, how much more will you accept that I cannot look ahead to how this book ends or rewrite the ending? I know it will end. I know I will sit on the shelf when it's over, only living again as this life, this one life, whenever someone picks it up, any someone. I will never know how many or how few. I cannot feel the differences from one reader to another. I do not even feel the editor tidying up what my author hurriedly wrote. When God changes the weather on account of someone's prayers, who tells the difference between how it was to have been and how it became then? Are the changes seamless or obvious, or both or neither? And when God makes those changes, could we even say that someone can cut off the fingers of God before they touch the Spirit of the air obeying His commands? If that's not the case, how could I from the inside cut off hers from writing away what my life must be?

    I think knowing our names changes a lot of things. I think there is great power in names, which is why there are names we can call the nameless and names we cannot. While you do argue that God only goes by the I AM, there's also a rich history of folks who found that heightening the power of that particular name ends up devolving into its opposite: into The Nothing. It wasn't their lack of faith, or their lack of understanding, that led them to see this. It was, I think, for them the opposite: faith and understanding, together, leads many to pass into and through what's occurring in the mystery, especially when the deep form of fidelity to the Messiah takes on the claim that this one, this living god, also died.

    People want to believe God cannot die. The religion says this is not the case. Its meaning, especially as Paul shapes the claims early on, depends on a believer's willingness to say that God is dead. How is this possible?

    This is just that one religion, though. There are many out there, with all manner of gods, heroes, daemons, world rulers, archons, authorities, tricksters, watchers, old ones, animals, theriomorphs, and so on, with aligned or misaligned interests, and who do not easily line up according to the White Hats and Black Hats theory of who's on whose side. Then there are ways of understanding all this without it being religion at all.

    When it came down to it, I found eventually my heart already there in the Zhuangzi. It spoke to me in a deep way that resonated alongside the life experiences I've witnessed, felt, learned from. The biblical stories, population lists, sundry laws, dogma, propaganda, parables, and accusatory and personal letters were rich and full of metaphors and truths —but they were always revealing a world that didn't match what I've known, took much effort to accept as a world, and demanded I correct through the powers they offered to me in becoming a bonded servant to them.

    And when I started to listen more to the world itself, to the planet, to the animals, to the trees, to the endless songs woven by the crickets and cicada and the birds who hunt for them and for seeds, I lost myself to them and to the much quieter VOICE who speaks through them all.

    It says, to me, CHANGE. And it continues to count down . . .

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  13. I appreciate you pointing out my inconsistencies. It is then that I desire to love. I reach for it...and expect One who does love, is love, to reach back. That is all.

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  14. Also, "not JUST a story" means exactly what is says. I play no word games: A story, as in fiction. You seem pretty astute, so I think you knew this.

    I do not completely understand some of what you said here.

    Who exactly is the source your VOICE? Describe this person to me. Do you trust this voice? Why? Is this the "her" you speak of? Is she writing this tale that YOU are? Are you her CLAY? Is she your POTTER? Do you ever question HER? What do you mean by this book sitting on a shelf? What is the SHELF? WHO would read it? This is beginning to sound like a question of FREE WILL. You do not believe in this concept? (Hence the invisible strings). But then you did refer to that disturbing "vessel of destruction" biblical scripture. Undoubtedly, this has been the subject of anxiety and contention for hundreds of years. I wonder if it is an issue of translation or world view or cultural norms? This, I do not know. Or, maybe the POTTER destroys to rebuild...reform...renew. Water is added again...and the DRY BONES rise and dance. I do not know the answers. I am no theologian...no philosopher.

    As far as God changing the weather, according to a prayer, and our knowing the difference between what would have been or could have been: Good question. I have read that "in God there are no tenses." Difficult to imagine, but then that may be because I only experience tenses. So, then WE may view it as seamless I suppose??

    You write, "While you do argue that God only goes by the I AM, there's also a rich history of folks who found that heightening the power of that particular name ends up devolving into its opposite: into The Nothing." ----What does this MEAN, exactly? How did the use (or abuse) of God's BEING devolve "to its opposite" or "The Nothing?" Perhaps examples would help. Your arcane thought processes sometime elude my simplicity. You also write that people "do not want to believe God can die." I am not sure what you mean here. He did die, of course...and then lived, and does live (many do believe). You (or others) do not WANT to believe God can LIVE again, perhaps? Am I wrong? You will perhaps say, "I do not believe" rather than "I do not WANT to believe." Nevertheless, you referred to this idea of God dying.(Though a mystery to us, perhaps, that does not necessarily indicate Nothingness.) I may misunderstand you here, Philosopher, as I have stated.

    These are the only questions and thoughts I have at present.



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Is this wise?
Is this yours?
Is this love?

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