Things-in-themselves

It's a beautiful, understandable world - all things small connected through the letters they send to the senses. That's what I gathered today - the smell of a rose is a poem she writes in the book of the days. It's her essence, the fragrant transcription of her soul, the way she would like to be understood, to be remembered. 



 

Here and There

Started dreaming again after a long, long dry dream spell. Where do we go at night, in our sleep? It doesn’t matter, as long as it is somewhere else, not here, not here. We need to roam through this dreamscape of ours in order to return to reality, to enter wakefulness as a warm, longed for home.

The idea of “home” can not exist outside the dichotomies “here and there”, “inside and outside”. Outside the notion of  “inside-outside” there is no outside, there is no inside, there is only a place which isn’t there. A paradox. An empty signifier. A signifier without a signified. A “no-where”. A “no-place”. In other words - placelessness, “u-topia”*. A total and unthinkable abstraction, complete abolition of reality. 

Without dreams, confined to this permanent home of a “here” without a “there”, I am homeless - drifting into the unreality of non-existence.

I am, because from the “there” of the dream I can dream that I am not here.

Thanksgiving

Thank you, Lord, for springs and summers, falls and winters, for sunsets, for the beauty of those falling autumn leaves, for our children, for the wisdom of their bodies, knowing how to grow up, for the fortresses of blood veins, bones and breathing, in which your soul dwells - a monstrous, beautiful DNA code, spreading like an incurable virus of existence through the desert of nothingness, of non-being.

Thank you for the infection of life, for the growing pains, for this sickness of beauty and wonder and pain, through which we walk, ceaselessly,  in bewilderment and revolt.

Being-In-Itself

Walked today the long corridors of the streets with their yellow, leafy ceilings, stepped into the warm rooms of this house of autumn, that we never want to leave, never, not even to see the luminous, sunbathed  castles of spring. If we can just stay here, forever, on the verge of  this last homecoming, becoming, in which the long Fall, in its beauty, finally begins to make sense. 

***

Just learned how to insert hearts with the keyboard. There they are, all three of them, standing for the three units of the Wholly Trinity :

<3 <3 <3

If God is Love, that would be the signifier of  a love three times bigger. Could this be possible?  Love, as God, as the all encompassing signified, is the only thing besides Nothingness that can not be modified by multiplication. Love is the ultimate modifier itself.

Glorious Body

"In truth, the body of God was the body of man himself: man's flesh was the body God gave himself. (Man is the body, absolutely, or he's not: the body of God, or the world of bodies, but nothing else. Which is why the "man" of "humanism", dedicated to signifying, oversignifying, unsignifying his body, has slowly dissolved this body along with himself.) God had made himself body, he had been extended and molded ex limon terrae: out of the fat, smooth, deformable extension of clay, the raw matter, consisting entirely of modalizing, or modification, rather than substance. That God created limon, and that he made the body out of limon, means that God modalized or modified himself, but that his self in itself is only the extension and indefinite expansion of modes. This means that "creation" isn't the production of a world from some unknown matter or nothingness but consists in the fact that the matter (only that which there is) essentially modifies itself: it's not a substance, it's the extension and expansion of "modes" or, to put it more precisely, the exposition of what there is. Bodies are the exposition of God, and there is no other - to the extend that God exposes himself."

Jean-Luc Nancy,

Corpus

Fog

The air is taken over by water. Small capsules of the fourth element, in which earth, air and fire disappear. This morning we lost the faraway trees, then the garden next door, then the backyard. We could never loose the house though, as long as the doors are closed and our minds are sound.

Water is the house-soul that devours and dissolves the world of matter and ideas.      

Задух

Твърд въздух, по-плътен е от диаманта. Двама размазани на улицата днес, трима загинали от астма – как се вдишват изпарения, по-твърди от кристали? Материята не отстои вече от самата себе си, пространството се прибира, разстоянията се сгъстяват и втърдяват. Атавистичният ужас от задуха е най-автентичния страх от смъртта – страхът от поглъщането на това втвърдено пространство, тази вече не-празност, вече не-другост, не-не-аз-ност, в чието белодробно нахлуване разпознаваме една крайна, финална себестност. Една плътност и липса на отстояние, която е началото на анихилацията на субекта. Субектът е този, който отстои от себе си, вдишвайки празнотата на своите разстояния.

За свободата: свободна воля и безотговорност

На днешния ден, сред целия брътвеж за свобода, седя и си мисля - не страдаме ли, в нашия странен 21 век, от прекомерната си алчност за свобода? Не си ли извоювахме повече права, отколкото ни се полагат? Или биха били здравословни за съществуването ни? Свободната воля едно време значеше това - имаш право да избираш как да постъпиш, доколкото след това би имал достойнството да понесеш последствията от действията си. Днес под свобода разбираме пълната си безотговорност към решенията, с които сме се ангажирали. 

Lens Flare: Shooting Against the Bleaching Light *

Light is the blind spot, from which spurs the desire to see. I see those trees, this table, this chair, because I am irrevocably, irreparably, blind. Light is the medium, through which I see what I desire, except desire itself. Light is desire – that, which can never see itself and can never be seen. Light sees nothing. Nothing is the pulsating heart that can never be seen.

On airy spring days, pointing the camera toward the heart of the blinding light, I can see it – this desire, this passion, that, which can never be seen. Lingering  in the air's shadow , clinging like a ghost mold to the floors and the chairs, it decomposes and swallows the objects it has expulsated in its desire to see, to be seen.

* Dedicated to Starn Brothers

 

The Ontology of Evil

Quantum Physics + Voluntarism + Buddhism + Dialectics = Evil Love

Love is Evil! - Zizek on Love and Existence :)))

Damage

"It takes a remarkably short time to withdraw from the world. I traveled, until I arrived at the life of my own. What really makes us is beyond grasping, it is way beyond knowing. We give in to love, because it gives us some sense of what is unknowable. Nothing else matters. Not at the end.

I saw her once more only. I saw her by accident, at an airport, changing planes. She didn’t see me, she was with Peter. She was holding a child. She was no different from anyone else."


David Hare
Louis Malle


Nothing else matters, not at the end.

Poetry and eroticism

"Poetry leads us to the same place as all forms of eroticism – to the blending and fusion of separate objects. It leads us to eternity, it leads us to death and through death to continuity. Poetry is eternity; the sun matched with the sea."

Georges Bataille