Approaching Entropy

Postmodern pastiches; Heretical hyperrealities.

[bassiumortis]

Hermes Trismegistus

[the-former-anarcho-animeism]

We will say of pure immanence that it is A LIFE, and nothing else. It is not immanence to life, but the immanent that is in nothing is itself a life. A life is the immanence of immanence, absolute immanence: it is complete power, complete bliss. It is to the degree that he goes beyond the aporias of the subject and the object that Johann Fichte, in his last philosophy, presents the transcendental field as a life, no longer dependent on a Being or submitted to an Act - it is an absolute immediate consciousness whose very activity no longer refers to a being but is ceaselessly posed in a life.

Deleuze, Pure Immanence (via anarcho-animeism)

[magictransistor]

Max Bucaille

[mythologyofblue]

The self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities.

Gilles Deleuze & Félix Guattari, A Thousand Plateaus, Capitalism and Schizophrenia (via nomorethanhome)

[magictransistor]

Badli Angeli Abbatii, De Admirabili Viperae Natura, 1589.

[sexistentialisms]

What then is truth? A movable host of metaphors, metonymies, and; anthropomorphisms: in short, a sum of human relations which have been poetically and rhetorically intensified, transferred, and embellished, and which, after long usage, seem to a people to be fixed, canonical, and binding. Truths are illusions which we have forgotten are illusions- they are metaphors that have become worn out and have been drained of sensuous force, coins which have lost their embossing and are now considered as metal and no longer as coins.

Nietzsche, “On Truth and Lies in a Nonmoral Sense” (via queertheoryissexy)

[akrvean-deactivated20240329]

[wordsnquotes]

I’m almost never serious, and I’m always too serious. Too deep, too shallow. Too sensitive, too cold hearted. I’m like a collection of paradoxes.

Ferdinand de Saussure (via wordsnquotes)

[heteroglossia]

On Deleuze's Suicide: Death & Deadness

"Today is Deleuze’s 19th deathday. Two years ago we were blogging several posts about his suicide: Line of flight: which reflects on his decision to effectuate it by means of a jump into the void; The crack & the jump: which reminds us how the porcelain of life means also a process of demolition and an intimate hammering; ‘Birding’on a plane of immanence: which exposes the ontological joy and the boldness of being thrown; C’est quoi, un monde sans Gilles?: which shows us the convergence of two sensible articles that reinforce the consistency of Deleuze’s presence; Immanence: A Life…: which confirms his suicide as a matter of life and not as matter of death; and Deleuze’s suicide: death by defenestration?: which explains why the idea of defenestration is not adequate to qualify the philosophical implications of Deleuze’s death. More recently we also posted Deleuze’s ‘Sept dessins’: ‘Chambre de malade’: which presents a brief analysis of an intriguing drawing made by Deleuze in 1994. However, there is still a lot to say about Deleuze’s suicide: it seems that killing oneself would imply the act of effectuating a definitive death, but with Deleuze we can see how death is an event that happens long before its actualization: death is not only something which life ensures us to happen, it is also something that has been continuously happening during our lives. So we may ask in which sense is it that suicide is committed then, if death was already happening to us, if it actually does not really stop to happen while we live? Almost 20 years after his death, we can apply to death the same implications that young Deleuze considered for his tiredness: For my deadness is not mine; I am not the one who is dead. ‘There is something deading’. My deadness is part of the world in the form of an objective consistency. Deadness, oldness and tiredness: they always come from without. But in which sense this very deadness that we do not own, is not already an operator of transformation, a line that we already ride while we exist, towards an absolute affirmation of life? In which sense this deadness is not already anticipating our death, a fact of affirmation which has taken us, that has torn us apart, that we cannot bear, that has presented itself to our experience as unquestionable, but that we no longer speak about as it speaks for itself through us? We cannot do great things against it: indeed, such deadness becomes a point of subjectivation in which the negativity of death, of tiredness, of oldness, turn out to be on the service of the greater affirmativity of life: a vital line that does not stop to come out from our bodily-experience: a continuous folding the line of the outside through which we always ride towards death, or in the case of Deleuze: towards suicide as ‘an art which costs the whole life’. Within this fact, its nearest end is always negative: we fold it and refold it ‘inside’; but its farthest end is always an affirmative ‘outside’: it pulls us out, it unfolds deadness to a critical point of rupture. We have to live so as to let its pure form of affirmation come to us. But with Deleuze we learn that the two aspects of death are inseparable: on the one hand, the first death –which unfolds the line from its nearest end– fulminates the interiority of our selfish death, of the ‘I die’: it can happen while we live, but it surely comes about when we die; on the other hand, the second death –which folds and refolds the line from its farthest end– affirms the event of death as an extrinsic necessity of death itself, of deadness as the ‘it dies’: it always resides beyond the threshold of our own death, but this does not mean that we were not already performing it while we lived. In Deleuze these two aspects of death come together: his suicide brings the encounter of the second death with the first one, suppressing the prominence of his ‘I die’ through a definitory ‘it dies’, reinforcing their own inseparability towards an absolute and continued unfolding of his own subjectivating line: killing himself through an endless death: the liberation of his thought gets rid of him and comes to be the affirmation of thought itself.”

[dan-barrett]

[approachingentropy]

It was through me the Creator himself gained liberating knowledge, I am being, consciousness, bliss, eternal freedom: unsullied, unlimited, unending. My perfect consciousness shines your world, like a beautiful face in a soiled mirror, Seeing that reflection I wish myself you, an individual soul, as if I could be finite! A finite soul, an infinite Goddess - these are false concepts, in the minds of those unacquainted with truth, No space, my loving devotee, exists between your self and my self, Know this and you are free. This is the secret wisdom.

Sarasvati Rahasya Upanishad, Translated by Linda Johnsen

[whatiremembered]

[netdream]

All of us have a fairly extensive collection of such figures and inscriptions in our head; and we have the illusion that we are “thinking” the loftiest scientific and philosophical thoughts when, by chance, several of these cards are grouped in a way that is somewhat unusual but not excessively so. This can be an effect of air currents or simply by constant agitation, like the Brownian movement that agitates particles suspended in liquid. Here, all this material was visibly outside of us; we could not confuse it with ourselves. Like a garland strung from nails, we suspended our conversation from these little images, and each of us saw the mechanisms of the other’s mind and of his own with equal clarity.

René Daumal, Mount Analogue (1952)

[lepanierdejanis]

[emanationsoftheyellowsign]

There are many books in the impersonal library, and the walls, when they are perpendicular to the gaze, are of writing-paper, cross-ruled with high rectangles. Vulpian says to the Proletarian with the hexagonal face inscribed with the circles of two yellow eyes (I would like those eyes in my hand, to hear the strangled cry of sulphur): “There are so many books in my library, that…” And in the conversation this word ‘books’, which is of capital importance to my hero at this moment—at this moment only he knows why—this word ‘books’ is pulled about in all directions. While he too turns this sentence over in all directions, he makes out in the middle of the room the presence of a not unfamiliar figure.

Alfred Jarry, The Paraliponema (1894). (via emanationsoftheyellowsign)

[spatescatalog]

[deaths-feather-blog]

'What is a hole?' a clown asked his partner in a ring at the Circus Medrano. Having thus quite confused the fellow, he wasted no time in lording it over him: “a hole,” he said, “is an absence surrounded by a presence.” For me, this is an example of a perfect definition, and I will use it to define the object of my interest. A ghost is indeed a hole; but a hole to which are attributed intentions, a sensibility, morals; a hole, that is, an absence–surrounded by presence–by the presence of one or several. A ghost is an absent being amidst present beings. And as it is the pierced substance that determines the shape of the hole and not the absence which that presence surrounds–for it is only in jest that some tell of cannons of bygone days that foundry workers made by taking holes and pouring bronze around them–when we endow ghosts with intentions, a sensibility, and morals, these attributes reside not in the absent beings, but in the present one that surround the ghost.

René Daumal on the pataphysics of ghosts (via deaths-feather)