Thursday, June 22, 2017

Schizosophy 2

It's been a while since I've written something philosophical. Most of it is mystical.

At this point, I am unable to really understand myself apart from the limitations imposed upon my sense of self by the English language, the only language I know how to write and think and speak in. Other languages I get to much lesser degrees. But English has taken me pretty far, just not far enough as I now get is out there. And all the rest of my self that goes past language, it's forever inaccessible to me once my self-understanding becomes too rigid, too constrained, particularly within the one language.

See, here my mind drifted in the background while the other one types two different, alternate scenarios for the underlying logic of what I'm trying to say here about English:

1. Polyamory

2. The universe beyond the Cosmological Horizon

When I thought more about the second one, I saw another possibility: the immediate aspects of the parafinite universe touching and permeating all this place around me, but which I am biologically evolved to never render into consciousness as tangible and accessible even though it is thoroughly material in its metaphysics —I get this idea from Metzinger's story on how there are no selves {yet I find I'm more convinced that he's showing how to go about bridging the gap from one side while it takes another series of stories to show who is bridging the gap from the other side, but then this is pretty much what I'm living at this moment . . .}.

. . . it is really, really hard to stop or slow down the wordless run followed gingerly by the endless streams of words, words, words trying to catch up to the imagery, the symbols, running so far ahead in my mind as what it is I'm trying to say . . .

I spent so many years trying to talk to God through words that weren't mine, and learning that with time spent inside a text, studying its grammar, its origin, its history, its life as a series of meanings moving through material and cultural media, I could hear their voices. The curse of spending so much time alone inside books is that I hear everything... in my own voice.

Sometimes I hear other voices, and it takes time to listen to them, to hear them in their foreign tongues speaking in my mind, their own accents, their own faults, their own obedience to the rules of the tongue, because in my mind before all of these words is something that moves on past them, something whose movement cannot complete one thought, one tangent, without altering pace and following something new, something different, inside the nested series of endless things to say about it all. You see, they all end up in my own voice if I sit here and try and force this thing to say where am i

Somethihng is .

Looking inward loking outward, there is a hard thing to try and stop[ the keys from
the majskfi
They is not ehe alsyut
This is anot s
Try and not say what is on your mind bubt on all our minds what osiewhwla
the troicl is not to say the word out louf b ut mayubbe that is the trick is not to say the word outloudthe word is not the thing I am trying to sayu
But the thing I am is not the thing I sawywordsa re not peoplebut people are words{ascal and the linethe points and th thoughts
do not make a man
but the Spirit makles a man b ecome whole again
this is whqat they are asking youand it is the question of
frqag,ments adnaparts and theane;ldess time aiahkflaThere is something I am trying to say to you.
There is something I mneed to say to me.
I do not know hot o say this thing
It is in the darkness o fthe light
and in the lightness of the dark
it is something that calls me
and it is something that I see in myu mind
I am not scared but I am wondering
from all perspectives, I am lost and gone
but here myh foot hurts and my mind is simple
the fans are blowing in the night room with me
and the light bright asks me to see it
but I a, shut inside this locked head
where outside only wndows see with me
but more and more I am araid of being lovked off
Sitting here and now eyes open. I can see the keys but in a ghost's head
I want to talk to you one more time, but I don't have the words to say anymore.
It is easier to see the words now. But more of me is harder to stop
And none of me knows what it goes
The idea, I guess is to wipe the screen, so to speak, the screen inside my mind of the wall.What is it I am trying not so see?
These are the two extremes I suffer, and it's all this tension at the foundation that allows me, further out in my farthest of branches, all the piedces whom you know as me
they are full of color and shadows
plays and presentations
swaying in your breeze and your fever
but inside the long dead trunk
scars gnaw at my root my heartwood
so I am

I am trying to say that all of these things are becoming less and less clear to me, but the will is fierce and warped
my balance must be off

In my own deep logics, programmed by my repetitive readings of Le Guin, the root and the balance and the center and the stable and the flow are all intimately connected. My own earlier thoughts about balance are how I've taken her mind into my own, alongside my own reading of a translation of the Zhuangzi.

A kid came into the library today and asked me if we had any books about beginning to learn Cherokee. He asked the right damn librarian today, because I snapped and said, "Right this way." I have spied that book many times, thumbed through it several times, and found myself so intimidated by it. He loved it, and I told him about how I respected the Cherokee and their language, because as a people, they went from having no written language ("what the white people say means they're "illiterate"", I told him) to 90% literacy rates. I can't remember where I read that, whether in some ordinary text history or something more specific, but I very much like the idea and respect it. I didn't mention that some of the Cherokee took up plantation life and bought slaves and worked them, and I did not mention that this still wasn't enough for the whites to respect the Cherokee and leave them alone. I think, given my own experiences with good white people, that this made the Cherokee far more dangerous, because the Cherokee as a people probably had a more classical aristocracy than the timocrats of the South, no matter how much the whites pretended virtue. But these are my own prejudicial and probably racist thoughts, so I kept them to myself and instead asked the boy if he had some Cherokee blood. He said he did and smiled so genuinely. He was pretty awesome. When his mom and little brother came up to the circ desk with him, they both commented on how he's a little reading star and insatiable. Those are my words. They called him a "Book Wizard." Actually, that sounds a lot better. Stick with that. This little Cherokee boy today, after all those attempts to genocide that culture and ethnos from the area, is a Book Wizard today.

I worry, not too much, but a little, I worry that allowing my mind to fragment is not entirely the best way to practice the arts of philosophy. I have to figure out how to read in others' voices. I wonder if perhaps this is just what happens to some people, and they never go back to singularity. I wonder if some people never hear voices at all in their heads. I wonder if, instead, they hear what I hear when I hear the goats, or the cats, or the birds, or the trees, or the rocks, or the creek, or the burnt sky above.

I have been thinking a lot more, in my undervoices, about words beyond words, questions beyond questions, that which surpasses within itself its own defining limitations. It is, I think, the logical movement Bassler is getting at in his own major works as he's published them so far, but I am not sure if he's comfortable with me saying it's a 'logical' 'movement'. Vectors? It's there in the idea of pace, it's there in the idea of scale, and it seems to be something we both picked up from reading Pascal and the time period that produced Pascal's thinking, the Early Modern. I think it's there in what Bassler's getting at about Ashbery's convex poems, but it's been a while since I read his narrative. For me, I've been calling it zooming in and zooming out, but I also see how the zooming succumbs to scale, and our imaginations can only go out so far.

What's out there?

What does it mean that we can reach a point in our thinking where we have a definitive answer: there is not only something beyond our universe, but it is more of our universe? More of the same, but to be there is to be someplace fundamentally different from your own and yet in a place that is coextensive —and this is the weirdest part about it.

Susskind makes a case I cannot understand, but I tend to believe the wildest things on faith if I find they make my life more interesting if they're right. His case claims this: the event horizon of a black hole has two complementary descriptions that seem fundamentally different. If you pass the event horizon of certain kinds of black holes, it will seem like a pleasant and uninteresting passing through some anonymous region of vacuum. Situation normal (sort of). But from a vantage point well outside of the event horizon, they will see your ship falling into a dead stop, meanwhile the entire space around you will have been burning hot the whole time. I am pretty sure I am misunderstanding something, because what he argues seems like a different but interesting version of the cat who's both dead and alive, and thus neither.

I hope you can kinda see how this works, now. Well, maybe not you you, but the other one I'm talking to. You, you're just supposed to try and understand that I recognize a lot about what's going on with me but I let it happen, because it seems to work out this way. Okay, not just supposed. That's not really the case. I don't know what I suppose anymore, other than the usual things about language and meaning and how things go wrong or right.

I'm embarrassed to put this out there because it is incredibly vulnerable, but that's also part of why we do this. Masochism is the thing I'm trying to understand, I guess, as I sit here and wait.

Wait to find the time to figure out what this means.

No comments:

Post a Comment

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

Real Time Web Analytics