manhouse

peeling

slabs

titled

village?

Despite

Despite my best efforts of protest this piece has been heavily censored.

Subject

A subject – ah there I am already. Where am I already? A subject I was going to, or probably going to say, I am in need of a subject. You can’t just start writing without a subject. But done to death you might and even maybe should be thinking; writing about the lack of a subject - spare us. If I had set out to be a lackey of the modern . . . accepting the unlikeliness, and stupidity of the phrase, ‘lackey of the modern’, who the hell says that? . . . but if I had set out to be a lackey of the modern – letting it stand – that’s exactly the kind of thing I’d have done, started writing about the lack of a subject and that’s my subject.

But anyway the gist of all or most of the above must have very early on flashed through your mind, but if it did and was accepted as the uncriticised unquestioned truth then I'd be wronged for that it is not the direction at all I was going in, the writing about the lack of a subject, or even if it was where I was traveling then I would surely have tailed off, ashamed at having gone to the well and turning out those dried-up slops, though perhaps slops shouldn’t be dried-up, but in any case muck and not even original muck, instead well-trodden muck, the kind of muck others step around scornfully, and if in company pointing and commenting with a sneer at the muck, prompting laughter.

But as said that’s not where I was going, the lack of a subject being my subject, at least not if something came to mind saving me the going and subsequent abandoning of the ongoing. If somebody else was to head off there, and in his innocence is amazed and delighted with himself and the frontiers he’s opening up in the heading, imagines himself a trailblazer . . . well off with him, I hope he enjoys himself. I’d not begrudge him his happiness . . . admittedly his most likely short-lived happiness - for in the near future when he presents his writings to whoever these things are presented, restraining his pride and still smouldering excitement, strangely - to him-  he meets with derision, perhaps a civilized cool derision at first but still enough for him to know it’s derision, and as if that isn't enough the derision doesn’t stop there but spreads and goes on spreading until finally he’s even being laughed at openly by strangers out on the uneducated street. Or at least he thinks he is, he hears laughter, he's grown so sensitive he thinks it's directed at him. He decides, he's bound to, the early intoxications are far outweighed, and certainly outlived, by this later shame.

But enough of this wandering hypothesis - though it’s easy to say ‘enough of this’ when I’m after exhausting my interest in it in any case – but to try and put a bit of a lid on the wandering otherwise I’ll never get remotely near where I was trying to get to. Not that I'll pretend to be much in the way of confident about the getting there - for the thought was in my head so amusing, subtle, and clever, but it often turns out that this very subtlety is itself the very difficulty. These such thoughts are so delicate that when you try to take hold of one, bring it out to the public world, it crumbles to dust. Instead of subtlety and delicacy you’ve got a little grey heap of drabness.

Though who knows, maybe it was really just drabness all along. You have to be wary of these philosophies, they end up justifying anything, even lack of talent. ‘My failure to produce great art is not failure at all. It is instead a triumph . . .’ - followed by the reason, no doubt embodying some great truth.

But a subject so, I was saying, in spite of the warning above. Ah, but which subject? Yes, yes, I know you think in spite of everything this it turns out is exactly that well-trodden etc I was on about earlier, but no, give me a chance . . . what subject? There’s more than one subject. There’s all kinds of subjects, and this could all just be one of them . . . but no, that’s not it either, or not just it. There could be a human subject and that’s our subject, no not the subject of the human but specifically a human subject, the one beneath a monarch and that subject could be our subject. . . .

But this is even worse than I thought . . . drab, endlessly drab. But I swear, in my head it was brilliant.

Can Be

Whatever can be remembered fades.

Early

It was early somewhere. Somwhere else it was late. Somewhere else again in-between.

charcoal

negativ

villagenight?

String

A man opened his mouth and out began to usher forth a length of string. Whenever he would close his mouth the ushering forth would come to a halt, but once his mouth open again the string extends off on its way.

After a time he became curious and decided he would follow this string to see where it led, and so he took it by his hands and began to pull himself forward - his legs glad of the help from his arms. It was surprisingly taut, as if tied to something at the other end. And after a further time of movement after the string he stopped and said, “The string is finite, has not been endlessly extending, and so I must be nearing its end.”
However, with such uttered thoughts the string poured forth again, and so the end receded.
“Yes, self-defeating this uttering, but I can hardly be expected to stay quiet all this length of time. And in any case, if it wasn’t for opening my mouth in the first place there wouldn’t be any string to follow. So this is just as well. And with this extending of the length of the string, the destination is becoming more distant but also more grand, more worthy of reaching. So I’ll talk on. I am enriching the whole.”

So on he continued, keeping himself company philosophising about such things as the great glory of his destination, the longest possible length of the journey, what kind of welcome he'll receive, and other similar matters. At times he shows signs of tiredness, but thoughts of the end are ever enough to raise his spirits and push him onwards.

Bubbles

Bubbles, floating, blown this way, that way, the other way, and within each a person, or persons, for when two bubbles meet the two sometimes become one, merge, and so within the one bubble two people. This bubble could in turn meet and merge with another bubble containing one or more people, and so on till the grandest imaginable bubble is floating around.


Sometimes though, and not all that rarely, two bubbles collide and rather than a merging a bursting, of one or both, and down everyone tumbles - a great mass of limbs, torsos, heads.
Is it better to be in a well-populated bubble that bursts or a less-populated one that bursts or even a solitary one that bursts?
I suppose if you were to fall on someone else – cushioning your fall- you might say it’s better to have been in a well-populated one, but if you were the one doing the cushioning, then you might think otherwise.

But why not in a bubble – solitary or otherwise - that doesn’t burst? They don’t have to burst, do they, these bubbles?
 I’m afraid it’s most likely they do. Admittedly one can’t say with certainty what future lies in store for all current bubbles – floating around happily, contented faces peering out – but there has been a great tradition, a pattern, of bubbles floating and bursting – whether after an unpropitious colliding with some other bubble or object, perhaps sharp, against which it had the misfortune to meet, including of course perhaps the very ground - or simply suddenly and without warning in the midst of the harmless air, bursting, a little splash of liquid, and down go all concerned.

And so - calamity? Well, calamity, yes, perhaps. That is calamity, yes obviously for the bubble, but for any occupants of the bubble, calamity yes perhaps also: if the depth of the fall and nature of the landing are sufficient to induce calamity, or excess of fear during the falling enough likewise; but otherwise - some bruising sustained may be, a sprain, even broken bones, maybe a consequent fear of heights, a resentment towards bubbles and their perilous nature, or, or maybe and, resentment towards causes of bubbles bursting, a yearning for return to habitation within a bubble: all possible symptoms, but on the other hand why not relief or pleasure at release from confinement within the bubble? Is life in a bubble so extraordinary that one should wish to remain confined forever within?

So one such a person, cast from a burst bubble, lands, spends some time immobile in shock, then awareness coalesces, some kind of comprehension of circumstances ensues, he or she raises him or her self gingerly, ponders presence or absence of injuries - in this particular case absence, stretches atrophied limbs a bit, and begins walking, and what comes to suffuse this being but a surprised delight at liberation from the bubble; and so ends all desires for habitation within bubbles, for a while at least.

One could subsequent to departure from bubbles find some grounded souls flinging projectiles at other air-borne bubbles, intending to bring them down too, releasing any who dwell within from confinement, but such activities are far from recommended or even encouraged. From within any imperilled bubbles peer out terrified faces, uncomprehending, irate – and understandably. They might sustain injury from the projectile or the falling. It might be found that they come, even without injury, to be not at all pleased with departure from life within the bubble.

And so it might well be that the projectile flinging was not half as well-intentioned as the flingers might claim - more a case of envy towards those floating inhabitants than any strong reasons of brotherhood and liberation of brothers. Life on the ground, propelled solely by their own limbs, not at all to their liking, they grow bitter, envious, and so the flinging.

But anyway, that’s it; a brief look at life within and without floating, ephemeral bubbles - I confess, a bit late in the day, to not liking the word much.

Story

Beginning

Middle

End.

It Was

It was his own fault.
Hold on a minute now. Who is this he?
Just he.
Just he what?
Just he.
We have to make do with he?
Afraid so.
He is as good as it gets?
Yes.
All right so, lets get on with it. What was his own fault?
It.
And it is?
Was.
Was?
It was his own fault, not is.
And what is it that it was?
Just it.
Just it again? No more than it?
No.
And why was it his fault?
Because it was.
Any more?
No.
You have the gift.

I A Dog

I am a dog – four legs, a tail, I do this, I do that, get into fights, sniff the ground and so on, I’ll spare you the details. . . . But maybe you like all the details, the more the merrier you find them convincing, like to pronounce generously how you’ve been amply convinced by all the details . . . but I’m afraid whatever your liking for them you won’t find too many here. It might be yes myself more I’m the sparing than yourself.

But I suppose I can’t just ignore all of them, the details, and what kind of dog am I, I’m a mongrel a stray, live born die on the street. You might think I’m apologetic, half-ashamed, looking for pity. More anything the other way round. Pure-breeds are less alive, smugly nestled within the confines of their breed, stupidly proud of these confines, they enter shows, they’re obedient . . . but a mongrel’s free of all that.

And you believe all this so or willing to believe it – I a dog? Well I’m not the first dog in print, never mind children’s literature there’s been first-person dog narratives in Bulgakov, not to mention Kafka. In not mentioning Kafka I did mention him. Vulgar, but what you expect from a dog? We’ve different standards, you could hardly call me civilized. But I’ve acquired language you protest, and so yes civilized, extraordinarily civilized, especially for a mongrel. And then there’s the company I’m in - Bulgakov, Kafka - and so yes civilized, even maybe touching on genius.

But we better see what I come up with before implying a dog narrator not aimed at a children’s audience must equal genius - as with Kafka, Bulgakov, so myself. To write anything is to be in dog terms a dog of genius but that’s hardly enough to make you a genius in genius terms: ‘Yes it’s awful rubbish, but you must remember it was written by a dog.’ I’ve no interest in that kind of acclaim.

But maybe a dog in print is regression for a dog, a movement downwards . . . there's a thought.

That last time I put Kafka before Bulgakov, I changed the order. Symbolic? No, I’m a dog, I’m interested in hard facts, I’ve no use for, no interest in symbols. That’s where I’ve problems with your civilization - there’s no end to symbols, things that aren’t themselves, like say money. But even money come to think of it’s old-fashioned now, plastic’s the new gold. I’m spraying thoughts all over the place.

Anyway you’re fierce abstracted, who knows what kind of world half you imagine yourselves live in. But who am I to talk, amn’t I on the same road now myself? What kind of dog is it acquires language? Look at your man say the other dogs, who’s he think he is? Not that they say it, but if they could say it, had the language to, they would. Or no they probably wouldn’t since with the language themselves the point would be a pyrrhic one. Pyrrhic - not bad for a dog. You were probably expecting more in the way of Woofs! than pyrrhic.

But they do give me looks, those dogs. Contempt mixed with fear is how I’d describe the looks. That’s unfair, they’re deeper than that. That's a sign of the abstracting, my worsening. And even if there is contempt amongst their looks it’s probably only a show of contempt, answering what they imagines my own contempt. And my own? Probably only a show too - in defence against their incoming contempt. And maybe their contempt is something else entirely in my abstracting head I’m turning into contempt.

What the hell kind of dog am I growing all subtle like this? A Jesuit of a dog. Verbalising our looks, analysing them. . . .

Anyway back to what I said earlier and you believe all this – I a dog, acquiring language, writing all this down? Why not? Because I’m a bloody dog, that’s why not. And if I am a dog then how’d I get the language? Well however I got it also figurerd how to write, and type - with these paws! And not only that I got it published! I a dog!

And if you believe all that you’ll believe anything.

But you might say, a dog with a completed manuscript, his own – of course you’d get it published. What publisher would pass that up? Better again if you were a bit less maybe a mongrel but still. . . .

Good point. Maybe it is really I am a dog so.

Previous Post in Shorter Form

To talk of a finite universe or existence is to attempt to talk of existence bracketed by non-existence. Since non-existence tautologically doesn't exist, this surrounding of existence by non-existence is meaningless.
To talk of a finite world is to say there is an end to existence. There can be no end to existence since existence is all there is, and so what is is without end.

Kant's First Antinomy: The World Has a Beginning in Time

The world has a beginning in time.

I said I'd have a reluctant look at the particular antinomies and so here we are. This is part of Kant’s first antinomy which according to my intermediary of Bertrand Russell is a position which “can apparently be proved,” along with the counter-claim that the world has no beginning in time which can also apparently be proved; and so language inferentially falls apart as a truth tool.

Each language statement can be treated existentially, that is to stand alone as a sensible language statement. So for example if someone produces fifty pages of argument that end in the ‘proven conclusion’ that 2+2=5, then one can and should with full justification ignore or not bother to read the arguments since 2+2=4, and 2+2=5 being simply wrong, then the arguments are blatantly useless. Even if the whole world but oneself declared the arguments to be sound, one still knows they are imaginary and cannot possibly prove a false language statement. The ‘proofs’ can only be as erroneous as the conclusion. Anyone claiming that the ‘proofs’ have disturbing implications regarding language is merely wallowing in an intellectual hallucination; instead of realizing the argument must be false, jumping to the unsustainable notion of language itself being false. To even attempt to state this position of language being false requires the starting point of language being true so as to state it as a meaningful proposition.

And so back to Kant’s first antinomy regarding the world having a beginning in time. Kant also brings space into this affair but it is enough here to merely deal with time. Firstly it is no surprise the intellectual issue is a very abstract one, where unlike for example the 2+2 case, there is no possible observable data to compare with one’s logic; instead it is a matter where one could very easily go wrong with one’s abstract, perhaps convoluted, perhaps very convoluted, thought; and immersed in this language, lose all sight of whether one’s language is sensible or wholly gone astray. The language of mathematics is by contrast a far clearer and simpler logical tool, with one’s errors presumably blatant to any competent colleague in the discipline. This ‘ordinary’ language of words though is a far more elusive affair. So once again:

The world has a beginning in time.

So as said earlier this statement must be able to stand existentially as a sensible language statement. Any ‘arguments’ or ‘proofs’ are beside the point, and ultimately superfluous.
Taking the world to be the universe and the universe is all that is, then all that is includes time, and  it is meaningless to try and talk of ‘the world’ and ‘time’ as though they were separate phenomena. To do so is akin to trying to talk of water as distinct from the hydrogen and oxygen which comprise it. So since time and the universe absolutely coincide, are inseparable, then it makes no sense to talk of the universe having a beginning in time. This is to try and suggest that there is a field of time and then the universe is introduced at some point into this field – to talk of the universe or world, and time as distinct phenomena. ‘The world’ is used here in the sense of what is. Time cannot exist as an autonomous element outside of what is. If one removes what is or the world, then along with it goes time.

Another point in tandem is that since time and the world are inseparable then any point within the field of existence is simply another point within this field. One cannot talk of any such point as the beginning, it is instead a point like any other (though the reality of any ‘point’as distinct from the field as a whole is illusory).

To talk of a finite length to some system is necessarily to require a point of observation outside of that system to observe its finitude. Since in the case of life or the universe this ‘external’ point must be part of what is or the world, then such a point cannot after all be an external point. There can only be what is, in other words: ‘the world’.

To try and argue otherwise someone might say if one pictures oneself walking along a timber plank with nothing else in view, then from one’s point of observation on the plank one can come to a clear end to itself, and similarly if one traverses the plank’s length in the other direction,; thus observing the finite nature of the plank. Since this is the only object, then this is comparable to the absolute system of ‘the world’ from within which one can speak of it being finite.
However, for the plank to come to an observable end is for the plank to exist within something extending beyond itself, namely space, and so the plank is not ‘the world’ but merely an aspect of a broader world. And so the plank is not an absolute system but merely dwells within a greater one. Similarly to talk of a beginning in time is to set limits to an absolute system.

It is obviously quite a difficult matter to convey and understand but to extend it further, treating it again as a matter of language. To say there is a beginning in time is also to necessarily say or imply that ‘Before this point nothing was.’ Again this is to talk of a point of observation external to the system from which one can observe the finite length. From all necessary points of observation within what is – the world – such an observation point cannot exist. However we can also now look at the logic of the language statement:

Before this point nothing was.

The very notion of there being no time before creation is self-contradictory. "Before" is a word dependent on things existing within some sequential order, and here that order is time. It then makes no sense to place a word whose specific context is within time, and inseparably the world, in a context you declare to be before existence. "Before" can only have its rightful place within the world of time.
In the very same way this translates to the world as a spatial structure. To talk of this world as being finite is to try and say that beyond certain points there is nothing. Beyond's necessary context is within space and so it nakes no sense to try and talk of nothing beyond a certain point. The only thing that can be beyond is more space.

Not only that but it is logically impossible to talk of the existence of nothing, as in ‘Nothing was’. To do so is to talk of the existence of non-existence, which is nonsense. To talk of a finite universe or existence is to attempt to talk of existence bracketed by non-existence. Since non-existence tautologically doesn't exist, this 'framing of existence by non-existence' is meaningless. There can be no end to existence since existence is all there is, and so what is is infinite.

So all in all, as stated previously, the ‘truth’ of this antinomy is merely an intellectual hallucination, and to say that life is finite and has a beginning in time is a matter of meaningless language. If I were to delve into the alleged proof for this illogical language statement of the world having a beginning in time, then these proofs would of course be no such thing, identically to the illusory nature of proofs for 2+2=5.

One last point which might be necessary is that someone might dispute my use of ‘What is’ and ‘The World.’ Someone might talk of for example the existence of Heaven as a realm distinct from ‘the world,’ or as might be qualified: ‘this world ‘ Such use of language is as above to try and set limits on what is. ‘What is’ includes all of what is, and again just as water cannot be treated as it were distinct from hydrogen and oxygen, any labels like ‘heaven’ and ‘this world’ are false divisions of reality or what is. This would again be to try and talk of an absolute system, ‘the world’, as dwelling within something beyond itself, and so in other words, as with the plank in space, not as an absolute system.

Later edit: I said I'd look at the antinomies, meaning all of them, but having glanced at the others, they're so inane I don’t see any point. There’s no substance there to get your teeth into!

Kant Again: Antinomies, Noumena

I wrote a couple of posts on Kant's Antinomies, which antinomies are essentially paradoxes or logical inconsistencies, and I stated that language producing a meaningless conclusion or result can only be the result of meaningless language. Just as with mathematics, if language is used correctly or meaningfully in the given situation then it cannot but produce a meaningful conclusion. Here it says that Kant "resolved the four antinomies by drawing a distinction between phenomena (things as they are known or experienced by the senses) and noumena (things in themselves; see noumenon). Kant insisted that we can never know the noumena, for we can never get beyond phenomena." So in short, Kant attempted to resolve the illogicality of the antinomies by insisting that there are areas of reality to which language has no access, and thus is error produced when language steps into the illegitimate territories. So Kant claims to produce sensible intellectual arguments which yield illogical, contradictory conclusions and then invents a further unifying theory to explain the by definition intellectual nonsense he has produced. Thus, I would say, an intellectual hallucination grows.

Firstly to look at the unifying theory of the noumena: if we can never know this noumena, then how can Kant possibly know he can never know the noumena? By his own definition since he has no access to the alleged phenomenon, then in the absence of information emanating from this wholly inaccessible region, we can only take it that he is just making the noumena up out of thin air. The thing-in-itself or noumena are merely words which are entirely self-referential; they are words with reference to nothing to which one can point or state anything. So the thing-in-itself truly is 'the thing-in-itself' - that is to say it consists of those very words and nothing else.

Logic has been abandoned in favour of what one might call magical linguistics. One permits oneself to introduce phenomena without proof of their existence and about which one can say nothing. That which suggests their existence one declares unreal. This is all little other than a restating of the negative gnostic position of Plato where the world of the senses is declared to be a fallen shadow world, and the truth some region with absolutely nothing to do with this world of the senses declared to be as said fallen, spiritually corrupt. It is the result of the individual shrinking from life in fear of its perceived awful depths and resorting to a spiritual world that is by contrast undefiled and perfect.
As in this post on Plato and the notion of the void http://wwwinabstentia-andrewk.blogspot.com/2009/08/greek-void.html,

the world of the senses has been decided to be unreal, and so what is most real should partake least of all of the sensory world, and what partakes least of all being apparently an idea. Ideas are stated to be the purest of substances, and the most pure of these substances is an idea which is utterly self-referential and distinct from the debased world of external reality. And so the void: a pure self-contained idea without reference to the debased world of sense perception. Hence through the ages, and still, the exaltation of the imagined holy landscape of Pure Reason.

Kant, as a manifestation of the same inner turmoil and fleeing from reality but further along the historical path, has to try and deal a little deeper with the perceived fallen world of matter and in a more convoluted comprehensive fashion declare matter's and sense-perceptions ultimate non-existence; thus the phenomena are delcared unreal and the noumena, just like Plato's Void and World of Ideal Forms, real, but again inaccessible to us, except, it is declared, to our intellectual senses. In the historical interval matter has been raised a little in value compared to Plato's version- the thing-in-itself being allegedly matter in its true form - but just as with Plato this is a substitution of life for an idea of it,  for both the noumena and the world of idea forms are both purely language constructs with reference to nothing beyond themselves. And the identical point is made that since the existence of the void or noumena can only be inferred by the intellect - since there is by definition nothing to suggest its being, sensory experience having been declared unreal and it being wholly absent from this reality - then there is no basis to make the inference even if the substance made intellectual sense.

It is also clear that while Kant has had to engage himself more comprehensively than Plato with the fallen world of matter in order to dismiss it, he also has in tandem moved further from the spiritual reality to which Plato clings. The spiritual inner world has become less of an inner reality and more of an unexperienced idea of itself - which is the inevitable process once ideas like Plato's work their faulty logic out in the world of time. The reality becomes ever more lost and one is ever more left with merely an idea of it, and in turn the very idea of it will also fade, and one is left with atheism. 

Reluctant as I've been to have to devote some time to the tedium of looking at the actual antinomies themselves, having merely declaring or showing them to be false simply on principle, I'll have a closer look soon. Here as it transpires

Digging

I came to a field where, scattered around, were quite a few men digging holes, all observed by greater or lesser populated groups of onlookers, though there seemed to be a process of shifting favour: one digging man, extravagant of movement, would lose observers to another, perhaps equally extravagant, if not more so, or maybe less so; the faces of the deserters expressing disappointed hopes or, in the more extreme cases, even scorn: "That I could have ever expected anything from that old fool."

One workman, noticeably less extravagant of movement than the others, though no less busy, was all the time gaining more observers than he was losing, and from among the gathered group was one offering something of a running commentary. "See how he digs. Such refinement of movement. All is focused on the task. Nothing is superfluous, not an ounce wasted."

He received an occasional withering look from the digger, though this seemed to, if anything, please him. An acknowledgement of his existence, I suppose.
"Such remorselessness in his seeking."
"What is he seeking?" I asked. This statement of ignorance met with general puzzled surprise, though the faithful commentator condescended to inform: "He is looking for the light."
"He won't find it down there."

And this was met with such disdainful and pitying looks- though I felt there was far more disdain than pity, and not much truth in the pity. It got no spoken response; it evidently too stupid to deserve anything more than it got.
After much time the digging man, deep down now in his dark hole, ceased in his work, raised his bent back, and matter-of-factly, somewhat morosely, and yet with only the faintest hint of actual disappointment, uttered: "There is no light." The underlying tone, I felt, was that this had merely confirmed his expectations- though even that is too humble- the foreknowledge rather, that this absence of light would of course be so. It was, no doubt, a mark of his humility, his lack of presumption, that he had dug so far.

A deep and solemn silence followed. The truth sunk deep into their hearts, but a truth which they, like the digger, had always really known.

And then . . . he resumed his digging. "I'd better not ask," I thought.

Out

He cut a hole in the sack and out tumbled so many words, spilling all over the bare floor. These are a few I managed to pick up while noone was looking. And if I was seen? Well, noone said anything. Maybe they were secretly glad to be rid of them.