Saturday, May 16, 2015

short : intuitive

Just finished reading Henri Bergson's Introduction to Metaphysics paper…it feels like a confirmation of some thoughts I've had as well as being not quite enough…though it surely is the first thing I have read by him, so I shouldn't jump the gun….

“To exist is to change, to change is to mature, to mature is to go on creating oneself endlessly.” 

One thing that struck me is the seemingly appropriateness of Timothy Morton's concept of the mesh to separate these concepts of unity and multiplicity, which would retain a plausibility from a physics standpoint and join the two into a unified state wherein they simply APPEAR to be multiple because of our privative viewpoint.

By intuition is meant the kind of intellectual sympathy by which one places oneself within an object in order to coincide with what is unique in it and consequently inexpressible. Analysis, on the contrary, is the operation which reduces the object to elements already known, that is, to elements common both to it and other objects. To analyze, therefore, is to express a thing as a function of something other than itself. All analysis is thus a translation, a development into symbols, a representation taken from successive points of view from which we note as many resemblances as possible between the new object which we are studying and others which we believe we know already. 

In its eternally unsatisfied desire to embrace the object around which it is compelled to turn, analysis multiplies without end the number of its points of view in order to complete its always incomplete representation, and ceaselessly varies its symbols that it may perfect the always imperfect translation. It goes on, therefore, to infinity. But intuition, if intuition is possible, is a simple act.

I do not feel "at home" in the biosphere. Yet it surrounds me and penetrates me…The more I discover about evolution, the more I realize how my entire physical being is caught up in this meshwork.
A strange masochistic dimension of aesthetic experience opens up underneath the one in which the "art object" and I appear to be held in a perfect Kantian mind meld. Prior to this appearance of the beautiful, there must already be a sticky mesh of viscosity in which I find myself tuned by the object, an aesthetic uterus that subtends even my supposed acts of transcendence.
TM Hyperobjects

To think of each possible layer of abstraction out/away from whatever shared reality is as a cognitive mesh through which other concepts or substances or what have you are filtered through would transform this difference between unity and multiplicity into a 'separating-out' of NOWs in order to abstract FROM them….you get something remarkably like quantum physics' 'every measurement is really only a probability' bit….I see no convincing reason to think that just because I have a powder that came from a grain, that there is no connection back at all…just because an operation splits them doesn't mean it can't be recombined, or that there is any loss of atomic unity in the powder. The math involved is just several orders of magnitude more complex to recombine a multiplicity than to split a unity. Destruction has always been easier than creation.

There is a succession of states, each of which announces that which follows and contains that which precedes it. They can, properly speaking, only be said to form multiple states when I have already passed them and turn back to observe their track. Whilst I was experiencing them they were so solidly organized, so profoundly animated with a common life, that I could not have said where any one of them finished or where another commenced. In reality no one of them begins or ends, but all extend into each other.
This inner life may be compared to the unrolling of a coil, for there is no living being who does not feel himself gradually to the end of his role; and to live is to grow old. But it may just as well be compared to a continual rolling up, like that of a thread on a ball, for our past follows us, it swells incessantly with the present that it picks up on its way; and consciousness means memory.
But actually it is neither an unrolling nor a rolling up, for these two similes evoke the idea of lines and surfaces whose parts are homogeneous and superposable on one another. Now, there are no two identical moments in the life of the same conscious being. 

Very zen thoughts, that life is never this-or-that, but always and never both, all the time, but he insists on the existence of a hard separation, the impossible gap, for so much of the paper that it sincerely caught me off guard when he expresses his thoughts that science AND metaphysics miss the same point, that it is the academic and science worlds that are failing to answer the metaphysical questions because THEY insist on the gap…and it was really only then that I realized he is in favor of the unification of these supposed opposites and the paper suddenly made a lot more sense, not to mention that I felt rather foolish…now I re-read it as an attempt at the beginning of a diagonal lemma that could be built up into a sort of science of intuition, a philosophy of the myriad ways in which the absolute breaks down and is reconstructed. Deconstruction circles round and builds a thing again. The bridge over the gap is revealed as merely a bridge, and not the space within or around the gap. But the utility of the bridge is not underestimated either, not to mention that visual of being able to feel the gap from way out on the middle of a bridge over it, rather than from either side.

If the Outside is to get through our mental filtration system it has to flood the mesh or retract from it until we are "butchered open from within" by its presence or abject loss. Intuition happens on its own all the time, but science has us well trained to ignore what we feel and see in exchange for a normative average of how everyone feels or sees….lots of other thoughts. Must percolate.

babble babble….on another not entirely unrelated note, blog I discovered today that is worth a read: Alexander Dunst on PKD

Thursday, May 7, 2015


he kept me-ing.
his Be-ing transected I.
I could feel me he-ing.
he eyed I.
I could feel his meal coursing deathward downhard.
I eyed he being me.
we shuttered uplike, he was gone from me.

he re-eyed me.
we tweed, reconvulsions twracked we in me-space.
I stepped outward topside - he me'd towardside in he-space.
I recracked and we we'd innardly, immediately.
torsioning and torsoing we-ing our being apart - heights, sepa-ratios separate us from us-ing but knot our we-ing.
I, staring and sunning, blinding, stunning he and we.
he eyed his me in the mirror, facing I.
twe twinned our twosome, grew some, spanning and spinning.
we-and-himming three more we-spore spawning yawning mouths to feed.

I-seed re-canted our eye-speed.
turtled and hurtled into one-space, g(h)lossed(t) to us.
the mirror refracted the free-est three-us.
I caught an eyeful as men-y we-ings afrayed of rapture (capture?) un-I'd afore hours eyes.

I stepped inwarding off the spellings of our worldings.
we me'd again as I eyed he silencing my plying of me-space within he-space.
we-spaced outwarding our us-ing and twinned again, and trined a binding we-ing into be-ing.

It un-eyed my me-ing.
Breathing, freething
It! an un-me, not-he, how did we?
how could we?
why would we?

eye should see I, but only - lonely- see we.
see me he-ing
see we three-ing
see thee me-ing.

no eyes noising nosing into being I-ing.
boiling a spoiling us-ing into tweeing.
I re-eyed me catastrophically
anesthetizing anastrophizing he and me all three
into I and I
and eye.

where am we?
who are I?
is I we?

Wednesday, May 6, 2015

low-level ritualizations

1: updated version of Mycelegium paper added
2: 8:30pm May 18th at Tavern of Fine Arts in St Louis, a Void Front event:
         secret graves: a spoken-drone seance
come watch us drone on and on…..about Nothing.

There will be no record of this event if I can help it.

Sunday, May 3, 2015

part 12 of 2

 intent terror. They scared him
we conjectured
 They were Praying
unusual Linguistics
suspicion faced This Machine
time.  tongue and  tangent
the one spot, examining the answers far down inside him.
they began assembling offerings, to escape the flooding remnants of advanced vision and threat breakdown
magnifying reverent awe
reveals the fragility
of mere flesh to be of no consequence
disturbing oscillations become invisible but the city presented a starker question
and was effectively abandoned
as the Good Lord went dead
He was changing them
overcome with an evolving religion
a real religion
He turned your daily pilgrimage to the warping Machine
into a strange defect
a badly constructed continuum
fury shrieked in insane geography
Voice and Spirit and Word contains it
constructs it constrains it
the magnetic throne In a trance grovels before
proposed posttrauma Rule
The mind constructs reality
common reality, a common dream, hopelessly
frigid and bleak
a dismal echo warped
declared legally dead
Faith negation corrosive coherence
takes itself on the form forward
reconstruction petrified
within the prison
redesign signaled what appears to be a relay column of waste
They were developing about a rather attractive structure built to give blood a place of worship
dignified reliable rational
potentially not a philosopher but a saint as dangerous and explicitly metamorphic as indestructible
cowardice infectious confirms
gnawed by doubt
am I just programmed to believe I am human?
This astonished me, and continues to astonish me
I am perhaps a madman
come to replace torment with
a circular wind accepted as the Deity
Army of the Voice evokes a Word
never named
Made it real, How odd
we manipulate themselves
need control over he that doesn't exist
Of course, there was sometimes only fear, reverence, and hope.
The exclusion disaster-look made him feel good.
establish control over the raw interwoven animal changes
It is the eternal simulation
the tortured mechanism already falling
Of course, we're refusing, system fingers traced the web deathly silent
fission and fissure retrograde ceaseless
void Spirit out of Spirit servants of sparks
Some kind of temple
occult virtue signification designed yet imperfect
Heavy, isn't it?
now, if you'll excuse me, I really should be getting back to my work.