Repetition is effective in matters of discourse but not in matters of art so much, unless used as an incisive chisel — for the former, the recursion of arguments is a method well-suited to easing the mind’s defenses to new and strange propositions, and for the latter, the recurrent toll of the bell is useful to burn, suffocate, but often not to please.
Purple mysticism is more devoted to the thrill of the adventure than the sobriety of the facts of life — not an accusation, rather merely an epistemological distinction: the seekers are enraptured by the sweat of their practice, whilst those upon whom encrushment is delivered treat the mystical as the light of the Lord made a bearable-unbearable gray — God may be met at both ends, or at neither.
Technology is an awful-blessing in that it reveals the corruption the ancients travailed so ardently in concealing, now made a public commodity for all to gaze upon — it is almost incumbent upon Adam now to bare himself, invigorated by the wine of the times — a vulgar jest previously a concern for the three in a walled enclosure, now a burden on millions.
Sensibilities shift quickly, or else very slowly — for grand ideas, the change is rather snail-paced, but for personal quirks, it can be rather quick, prone to rapid transmutation through flickers in individual experience — for broad sweeping ideas, the time taken for transformation is pegged to the rate of contagion spread: from man to man, child to child, woman to woman — a web of electric disruption, that turns and twists a settled conviction on any topic, runs it past the centrifuge of time fueled by the sobriety — caprice carried on the backs of the mind, body, and fate.
Dicing onions is not similar to crafting propositions on the line, the first peels and carves towards the truth, the second pulls towards it.
Men get rowdy when the perceived cost of grace is too high.
When language is embodied as a site of violence, a dwelling to settle historical grievances, one merely deracinates it and often oneself, one forgets that the language that one believes oppressed one had also oppressed its own inhabitants — hence, that oppression was not a specifically unique function of language itself, and although the type of oppression does differ in degree and kind depending on its object, the inventory of possible responses is limited to particular possibilities for both groups, and while it is true that strictures imposed by the externality of what is considered a foreign language are palpable and tactile, it is not entirely clear whether this sort of imprisonment is an essential feature of language’s externality or just language’s universal structure — there is a case to be made for both, but for reasons of care, one may prefer to lean towards the latter in a partial way, and it must be made clear that this is not mere practicality or casuistic scaffolding to further a particular brand of ethics, but rather an admission that man has a duty of self-care that is entirely rational, even if its exact specifics are contingent in time: in fact, there is to be found great joy in the knowledge of a universal oppression despite its contingent asymmetric hammering in the now, and this is not merely convenience, because there is no convenience in matters this sober, but rather it arrives as a rebuke of a metaphysics that demands totality in its abnegation and its refusal, wears it as a uniform for unearned superiority in the wake of destruction, so if superiority is to be earned in the tradition we claim here, it is through precise, partial touches, this is not meant as an essential universality of a claim towards ontological truth, but rather a spatial historical universality, less a position for truth, and more a historical philosophizing in nodal time, not celestial time — in any case, for the bereaved, while mutilating the language that carved him open is a possibility of imagined freedom, and it may very well be in some partial sense, it is not any total liberation he imagines, for once the dagger is struck, the scar remains even after sutures of time and his resistance, and it may be best if one begins to love what was perceived as an imposed impress of syntactical savagery for if one is to be humble and modest in his grasp at liberty, he must not be move forth with the weight of resentment, which reduces man’s relation to the built-world by expending energy violently and inefficiently, but rather through a mode of clemency wherein all words are merely a family estranged, with residual capacity to reunite at the juncture of the single point of emanation, a family not of linguistic roots or historical convergences or origins — not at all, that would be a historical absurdity, but rather a family of proximal creation, and in that dwelling one shall learn to love the spear that he had thought an impaler of his future possibilities, and if one objects to being asked too much in being the better man in the wake of his recent destruction, let him rejoice in his blessings of the excessive labor fate demands from him, let him feel select, let him count what other options he possesses before he decides, and even when the choir spurs him to become a master in the master’s image — that is not the way of ours, and if one is burdened by the flattening of their tribulations into the broader marrow of humanity, then that is welcome and agreeable, for grievance as balm and grievance as mode of being are not similar because the former assumes a contingent curative orientation and the latter assumes an ontological virtue, but even the balm may not heal fully, and further, if one is wary of being rendered meek for an eternity on the basis of advice, then that is a fear unwarranted for this clemency enacts a power unbearable for the oppressors, it is both temporal and eternal — a lance of light that also tears but leaves in its wake wisps of stitches, and if one still remains at unease with the apparent coercive funneling into either clemency or resentment, then indifference, silence, irony, and a whole set of heuristics remain at his disposal, and he may make of them what he desires, but the clash of the clement and the resentful is logically inevitable, even if they rest on opposite ends of the horizontal spectrum, or even if they do so on incongruent vertical planes, the tether remains, a line from point to point and it cannot be denied, it is a first-order phenomenological fact, and hence, singing about the wound sewn on one’s back is not mere aesthetic posture, not a floundering reconciliation with one’s nemesis, it is a higher restoration of equilibrium — the oppressed remains under no ethical obligation, however, to alert the oppressor of his moral reasoning, in fact, unless the oppressor kneels to beg forgiveness, the oppressed may feel at ease to forgive only in the heart, in their epistemic interior, all the while turning the shoulder from the oppressor, denying the latter any pleasure or satisfaction of the crimes wrought through the trust of language they wielded unjustly, the becoming towards clemency is less a moral demand on the broken and more an invitation into curiosity — all this is ex post facto orientation, posterior to the original crimes because the interregnum between the initial position and the conclusive act is a duration marked by intense duress, conditions under which philosophical activity is constrained and riven by bursts of a reactive madness crying for justice.
Sewing weaves of pride into religious identity is akin to purchasing a parcel of land through an unpayable loan.
Schubert — sleep.
Faith is set at naught when it only tips a civilizational spear.