“I matter insofar as I am in the world, not as a stranger in closure and self-isolation, but as a particle of energy blending into light. Thus I see that if I am to live, it is on the following tragic condition: that, relinquishing this life of mine, I give myself to that which knows nothing of me, to that which is exterior to myself. At the same time, though, I feel a loss which, considered from my position of inevitable solitude, amounts to the annihilation of the entire universe.”
— Georges Bataille, Sacrifice
I am inflamed by the frequency of pauses that seem to thicken the caesura of every breath. This need to begin at the end of each lapse. I can’t perceive the rhizome beyond the first 3 lines - “I matter insofar” - & my guile reprimands that should I matter, I must do so only as an absence ; mute harmonics, a blank encyclopedia construct of tabula rasa. The Absolute is tangible, graphic only in that it is not here. Therefore we have a famine where lack is definition and the wrinkles in the terra incognita slither in impenetrable helix of universal hunger.
This shall be a vagrant’s treatise with no preamble nor precision ; both those are simulacra I am content to slay.
I believe humanism is constructed like a protocol stack - le chatelier principle; this makes it so much easier for the pans narrans to reluctantly, & somewhat artfully, manifest birr of humility and this is inherently tied to the need we have of creating Gods. If this Suprasoul was not manufactured, the audacity of being alive would demand our instant death. My God is the number 13 : prime & fibonacci. It sidesteps ubiquity & demands to slug the golden ratio frostbitten in every flake of snow. My God is a rupture in the Möbius strip. My God is an interstellar burst of plasma and dust, the same spectra thrust into my bloodstream. My God is the air before fajr.
: It is an illusion that we were ever alive (W Stevens)
And I append to it by saying that it is equally an illusion that we will ever die. Therefore it becomes a stupendous conceit to admit that God is of any need. Mostly an entity that stands to deprive, to test, to debase, to wrestle. Christ on the crucifix : we take pride in worshiping putrefaction of will. We device mechanics of idolatry that are singularly built around torture. We seem to invest epic proportion of time in catalyzing deterioration. We can rise till we fall which is absurd if you are standing in the unplumbed plane and there are no altitudes so to speak.
: I is another (Rimbaud)
If so, then God is I. God is another. Not me but the paraphrasing of me. My reduction. My forged signature. Not my typology but my topology. The iteration at which the nomad turns into monad.
Do you know what Celan says of Hölderlin’s madness? - “Nothing is happening to me”.
Nothing happens in the center of this madness and therefore I have decided that Schizophrenia is not madness since psychosis has the same churn as the kernel about to flux the birth of a Universe. What then is this madness? - maybe, it is the consistency of living; the boredom of having to relent; to be ratified like grain or to be shepherded like cattle. At the crux of this madness is the consummate God - a goose egg.
The cliche then; we add the God in Godot. Or even in Gödel, Escher, Bach. God as umlaut. Some babel thus designed to rescue the divine. The deus ex machina that graphs the sine.
This, evidently, will remain incomplete –
( The conversation is all axis and no edge : wires coasted in neutral)
- Saint Just
ps : the catalan words for God & Dude are homonyms.