letting things be
It is an empty idea, meaning without any clear guidlines or obligations for practice. Is it love? Writing? Thinking? Not thinking - too many structural necessities. Nor writing either, too much strain between words and things, like pinpointing and mapping some surface point of a riverrunning. I think somewhere that it must be living, but then whence such anxiety? Committed, now, to the light, while fostering no hopes for anything beyond, anything relegated to time reserved for oblivion, one must always see things according to how the light bounces off and away from some noumenal beast innocent of any artifice.
I suppose that's the romantic/existential urge: to be innocent of any artifice and gesture back towards the primordial Ursprung, a complicity to autonomy, allowing one's language-use to be made with a clean, discerning palate. Is it a dream? One does feel, for example, having deposited a cigarette in an ash-tray, an apocalypse in thinking that all of one's authenticity or owned-ness (eigentlich), like all forms of life, will go towards what it has always been: an irremediable alien presence left on an earth which has never been understood or communicated any direction, never inhabited, left only with some trace that we ought to embattle the translation of something that only partially resembles language, more like the preaching/prophecy of an autochthonous holy-wild-man before his execution (accidentally gendered, pardon) by our doings. Some confusion in a fact/value distinction.
I think my credo now consists of only one word: endurance. There must be something to our life, something that allows for the initiation into the meaningful/less practice, that cannot be bought or said. There must be suffering, some period unanaesthetized and terrible, a purgatory offer proffered to all but not always accepted. There is the promise of wonder, and only of wonder - no dissatisfaction or anything resembling despair - which may obtain only if we endure.
And so little more nostalgia, much more suffering, yes, but only with endurance. A laughter as well, in spite of the master-names of existence, like the laughter of ascetics at their desert world. One day, one solitary, perduring moment fit for artistic redescription, will be uncovered and reveal itself, if not for the emptiness of the concept of letting things be, if not for the strangeness of language-use - a strangeness that creates tension between us, our actions and our words.
I suppose that's the romantic/existential urge: to be innocent of any artifice and gesture back towards the primordial Ursprung, a complicity to autonomy, allowing one's language-use to be made with a clean, discerning palate. Is it a dream? One does feel, for example, having deposited a cigarette in an ash-tray, an apocalypse in thinking that all of one's authenticity or owned-ness (eigentlich), like all forms of life, will go towards what it has always been: an irremediable alien presence left on an earth which has never been understood or communicated any direction, never inhabited, left only with some trace that we ought to embattle the translation of something that only partially resembles language, more like the preaching/prophecy of an autochthonous holy-wild-man before his execution (accidentally gendered, pardon) by our doings. Some confusion in a fact/value distinction.
I think my credo now consists of only one word: endurance. There must be something to our life, something that allows for the initiation into the meaningful/less practice, that cannot be bought or said. There must be suffering, some period unanaesthetized and terrible, a purgatory offer proffered to all but not always accepted. There is the promise of wonder, and only of wonder - no dissatisfaction or anything resembling despair - which may obtain only if we endure.
And so little more nostalgia, much more suffering, yes, but only with endurance. A laughter as well, in spite of the master-names of existence, like the laughter of ascetics at their desert world. One day, one solitary, perduring moment fit for artistic redescription, will be uncovered and reveal itself, if not for the emptiness of the concept of letting things be, if not for the strangeness of language-use - a strangeness that creates tension between us, our actions and our words.