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im ready 2 see this tall 17 year old who looks like he finished the entire whey protein shake factory for breakfast get hurt for 6 minutes

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I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough to make every hour holy. I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough just to stand before you like a thing, dark and shrewd. I want my will, and I want to be with my will as it moves towards deed; and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times, when something is approaching, I want to be with those who are wise or else alone. I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being, and never to be too blind or too old to hold your heavy, swaying image. I want to unfold. Nowhere do I want to remain folded, because where I am bent and folded, there I am lie. And I want my meaning true for you. I want to describe myself like a painting that I studied closely for a long, long time, like a word I finally understood, like the pitcher of water I use every day , like the face of my mother, like a ship that carried me through the deadliest storm of all.

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Man is this Night, this empty nothing that, in its simplicity, contains everything: an unending wealth of illusions and images which he remains unaware of—or which no longer exist. It is this Night, Nature’s interior, that exists here—pure self—in phantasmagorical imagery, where it is night everywhere… where, here, shoots a bloody head and, there, suddenly, another white shape—only to disappear all the same. We see this Night whenever we look into another’s eye—into a night that becomes utterly terrifying—wherein, truly, we find the Night of the World suspended.

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Milan, I am heartened by your doggedly experimental approach to making these things, and I think your insticts are great in that domain - you seem drawn to genuinely new and interesting experiences - but I am going to keep pushing you to experiment *towards* some particular idea, rather than experimenting for its own sake. Your work will benefit from getting a clearer idea of what you want it to do, and from evaluating it as you go, to make sure you're getting closer to your aims.

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Healing and Freedom come from non-proliferation of our thoughts. Non-proliferation means we have the wisdom in our lives to pause and re-arrive in the present moment. We then can respond with intelligence instead of a kind of fear-based reaction. 

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The world was spinning like the most delicately tinted of bubbles, all light It was the mind of humanity that I saw, but this was not at all to be separated from the animal mind which married and fused with it everywhere. Nor was it a question of higher or lower… I watched a pulsing swirl of all being, continually changing, moving, dancing, a controlled impelled dance, held within its limits by its nature, and part of this necessity was the locking together of the inner pattern in light with me other world of stone, leaf, flesh and ordinary light…

And on this map or plan that showed how myriads of ridiculously self-important identities were reduced to a few, was another, different, but, in some places, matching pattern, of a stronger, rarer light (or sound) that varied and pulsed and changed like the rest but connected direct, made a link and a bridge, a feeding channel, between the outer (or inner, according to how one looked at it) web of thought or feeling, the pulsating bubble of subtle surrounding color, and the solid earthy watery globe of Man. Not only a link or a bridge merely, since this strand of humanity was open like so many vessels open to the rain, but part of the shimmering web of fluid joyful being, which was why the scurrying, hurrying, scrabbling, fighting, restless, hating, wanting little patches of humanity, the crusts of lichen or fungi growing here and mere on the globe, the sea’s children, were, in spite of their distance from the outer shimmering web, nevertheless linked with it always, since at every moment the glittering tension of singing light flooded into them, into the earthy globe, beating on its own delicious pulse of joy and creation.

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When human beings found out about death

They sent the dog to Chukwu with a message:

They wanted to be let back to the house of life.

They didn't want to end up lost forever

Like burnt wood disappearing into smoke

And ashes that get blown away to nothing.

Instead, they saw their souls in a flock at twilight

Cawing and headed back for the same old roosts

(The dog was meant to tell all this to Chukwu).

But death and human beings took second place

When he trotted off the path and started barking

At another dog in broad daylight just barking

Back at him from the far bank of a river.

And that was how the toad reached Chukwu first,

The toad who'd overheard in the beginning

What the dog was meant to tell. 'Human beings' he said,

(And here the toad was trusted absolutely),

'Human beings want death to last forever.'

Then Chukwu saw the people's souls in birds

Coming towards him like black spots off the sunset

To where there were no roosts or nests or trees

And his mind reddened and darkened all at once

And nothing that the dog would tell him later

Could change that vision. Great chiefs and great loves

Obliterating light, the toad in mud,

The dog crying out all night behind the corpse house.

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Had I not been awake I would have missed it, A wind that rose and whirled until the roof Pattered with quick leaves off the sycamore And got me up, the whole of me a-patter, Alive and ticking like an electric fence: Had I not been awake I would have missed it It came and went too unexpectedly And almost it seemed dangerously, Returning like an animal at the house, A courier blast that there and then Lapsed ordinary. But not ever After. And not now.

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I always knew this would happen. If we should replace grand, universal narratives with small, local narratives, as Lyotard says, why shouldn't these metanarratives be about Hyperborean Aryans from Atlantis?

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Lo! I am come to autumn, When all the leaves are gold; Grey hairs and golden leaves cry out The year and I are old.

In youth I sought the prince of men, Captain in cosmic wars, Our Titan, even the weeds would show Defiant, to the stars.

But now a great thing in the street Seems any human nod, Where shift in strange democracy The million masks of God.

In youth I sought the golden flower Hidden in wood or wold, But I am come to autumn, When all the leaves are gold.

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I live my life in growing circles which ring out over the things around me. Perhaps I'll never finish the last, but that's what I'm going to try. I am too alone in the world, and yet not alone enough to make every hour holy. I am too small in the world, and yet not tiny enough just to stand before you like a thing, dark and shrewd. I want my will, and I want to be with my will as it moves towards deed; and in those quiet, somehow hesitating times, when something is approaching, I want to be with those who are wise or else alone. I want always to be a mirror that reflects your whole being, and never to be too blind or too old to hold your heavy, swaying image. I want to unfold. Nowhere do I want to remain folded, because where I am bent and folded, there I am lie. And I want my meaning true for you. I want to describe myself like a painting that I studied closely for a long, long time, like a word I finally understood, like the pitcher of water I use every day , like the face of my mother, like a ship that carried me through the deadliest storm of all.

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process vs OOO

Heidegger considered that language, everyday curiosity, logical systems, and common beliefs obscure Dasein's nature from itself. Authentic choice means turning away from the collective world of Them, to face Dasein, one's individuality, one's own limited life-span, one's own being.

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rilke on the spectrum

Letters To a Young Poet >My dear Mr Kappus, >You shall not go without greetings from me at Christmas time, when you are perhaps finding your solitude harder than usual to bear among all the festivities. But if you notice that it is great, then be glad of it; for what (you must ask yourself) would a solitude be that was not great? There is only one solitude, and it is vast and not easy to bear and almost everyone has moments when they would happily exchange it for some form of company, be it ever so banal or trivial, for the illusion of some slight correspondence with whoever one happens to come across, however unworthy … But perhaps those are precisely the hours when solitude grows, for its growth is painful like the growth of boys and sad like the beginning of spring. But that must not put you off. What is needed is this, and this alone: solitude, great inner loneliness. Going into oneself and not meeting anyone for hours – that is what one must arrive at. Loneliness of the kind one knew as a child, when the grown-ups went back and forth bound up in things which seemed grave and weighty because they looked so busy, and because one had no idea what they were up to. >And when one day you realize that their preoccupations are meagre, their professions barren and no longer connected to life, why not continue to look on them like a child, as if on something alien, drawing on the depths of your own world, on the expanse of your own solitude, which itself is work and achievement and a vocation? Why wish to exchange a child’s wise incomprehension for rejection and contempt, when incomprehension is solitude, whereas rejection and contempt are ways of participating in what, by precisely these means, you want to sever yourself from? >Think, dear Mr Kappus, of the world that you carry within you, and call this thinking whatever you like. Whether it is memory of your own childhood or longing for your own future – just be attentive towards what rises up inside you, and place it above everything that you notice round about. What goes on in your innermost being is worth all your love, this is what you must work on however you can and not waste too much time and too much energy on clarifying your attitude to other people. Who says you have such an attitude at all? – I know, your profession is hard and goes against you, and I had foreseen your complaints and knew they would come. Now that they have come I cannot assuage them; I can only advise you to consider whether all professions are not like that, full of demands, full of hostility for the individual, steeped as it were in the hatred of those who with sullen resentment have settled for a life of sober duty.

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Contrary to what Levi Bryant and Graham Harman have sometimes argued, however, there’s no inherent reason why a well articulated, materially and socially grounded relationalism*, one that focuses on processes of emergence and actualization, with their various conditions, effects, and so on, should result in an ontology that cannot account for action or change. An ontology that focused only on relations, or on change, or for that matter only on objects (and I’m not suggesting that Graham’s or Levi’s philosophies do that), would be one-sided. But the point is to bring objects — more or less stable and persistent entities (assemblages, actors/actants, or whatever else a given ontological account takes them to be) — and relational processes together in a way that accounts for both stability and change, persistence and transformation, structure and agency, stubborn fact and creative advance (to use Whitehead’s terms).

Our consumptive, commodity-captivated and spectacle-enraptured society, has privileged the object over the process, the thing at the center of our attention over the relations that constitute it. This thing-centeredness isn’t surprising: it’s an effect of the human perceptual apparatus, with its heavy reliance on vision, a sensory modality that shows clear edges to objects and that facilitates distanced observation and predation. (That argument can be taken too far — eyes, after all, are also the communicative soul of intersubjectivity — but there is something to it.) Where traditional cultures tended to de-emphasize the visual in favor of the auditory/multisensorial, the narrative, and the relational, societies like ours — ecologically and historically disembedded (in the sense that Polanyi describes the effects of capitalism), fragmented/individualized, and intensely visually mediated — push the ontological objectivism, literally the “thing-ism,” about as far as it can go.

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Bridge Over Troubled Water It’s 1967, 2015, 2515, 10000 AD. Simon and Garfunkel are travelling through time. Seeking an answer to their growing sadness and anxiety, brought on in part by the slowly overwhelming presence of climate change, they head to the coast, are incarcerated, visit the botanical garden in Turku, and watch Jake Gyllenhaal in Deep Impact in a darkened room. Above the tree line and into the Arctic Circle our protagonists find themselves in Kilpisjärvi, at the most northwestern point of Finland where they are - perhaps more than usual - alone together. Seeking an alternative pastoral narrative, the duo take pause in 1969. Here is the Simon and Garfunkel we know and love, playing guitar and watching the drift in matching cream rollnecks. They are together, free from the kibble of the present day (Dr Oetker, Club Mate, sadness). Is this a scene that we will one day return to again? If they travel forward far enough, will they find our current state of rabid fossil fuel consumption was just a moment in time and in fact 10000 AD is much the same as 10000 BC? This post-human future is not apocalyptic, but something comforting: a love story about people, a romantic shipping of folk-rock’s most powerful couple. Exhausted by constant travelling through time, the duo find moments of respite from their doomed quest to save the world from global warming but - as in their real-time mythology - cracks in the relationship begin to show. Where Simon and Garfunkel recline together, two specks amid a vast tundra, checking their phones in a silent camaraderie, technology is omnipresent, yet peripheral, and while the duo's unfriendly drone Neil flies as instructed for the time being, we are warned that he is developing a will of his own. No longer content to fulfil the desires of humans, Neil is forming his own ideas about how to live in this world. Cruel maybe, but carefree, Neil cruises at altitudes beyond the physical and emotional baggage of humanity. Are we all Neils, who look back nostalgically to our Garfunkel days, unable anymore to see what they meant? Bridge Over Troubled Water is a film by MSL and Jaakko Pallasvuo.

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That struts and frets his hour upon the stage

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The chant against vanity springs both from the presence of the eyes and from the demonstration that the finest poetry is produced through loss of oneself in tradition (though paradoxically, as Eliot intended, the libretto is a brilliant display of individual talent). The opening pages of the canto, by contrast, are ingenious modernism.