ART:
The Parent Thesis
(A Musical Composition by Bob
Hoernel)
All Rights
Reserved
Draft Only: Not for
Citation
January 6, 2011
Musical Thought
My
premise is simple: I place art before all else. This applies to
this present composition; as well as to that larger work I call my
life.
Somehow, we have come to look upon art as a curio that, perhaps, exists
as a reminder,
however it (and our curiosity about it) is relegated to a mere aside
(and
placed well behind all of our more serious and pragmatic
endeavors). For
myself, art remains a curio . . . however it serves to remind me of all
that is
essential; I bring it to the fore-front, and place it prior to all in
the order
of 'things.' This is not to say that I disregard what we might call
pragmatic
concern, however all does not turn upon thought directed and ordered
about a
desire to secure or engineer some specific future (or even to sustain
my tenure
in this life).
When musing, I tend to look about laterally upon fields of
orientation;
however I also tend to muse upon another very different level. What
makes these
levels of amusement so different is not so much a function of their
elevation
or depression, as it is a function of 'finding' myself contained within
an
interior space, or (by contrast) standing upon a lateral plain or
exterior
surface. These two situations, and their respective modes, are as a
generation
apart: the 'above deck' mode is masculine in gender, and characterized
by
relations that are seen as a planet is seen . . . in contextual
relations
between particular and multiple facets, as well as their nets of
textual
relations and the hard lines that separate one 'plan' from the
next. The
'below decks' mode is feminine, and characterized by composite
relationships
between contours and shapes. Although each mode has its appeal, I would
not
compare the two: the 'above deck' or planetary mode is that of
understanding;
the 'below deck' mode is the more comprehensive, however comprehension
requires
a capacity to fit both modes together in a cognitive process based upon
fitting
placement and positioning (in a cognition that is very similar to the
fitting
together of a jig-saw puzzle). I cannot recommend that others attempt
such
'musical' thought, as (although it cannot be taught) it requires a
great deal
of training. Those who would be most familiar with it (and most likely
to have
some of the necessary training) would be persons who have been to sea
in boats
or in ships.
When seamen approach a port after long passages they require a pilot
(even if the
crew is very familiar with the port they seek to enter). In cabotage,
when sailing
along coasts or between capes, having a pilot is not so necessary; it
is necessary
after long passages because crews (having spent so long within their
ships)
begin to think in a manner that is decidedly more feminine than is the
norm for
people ashore. This is as true of the skipper as it is of any other
crewman;
they tend to become more subjective and less attentive to the detailed
and abstract
requirements of plotting and piloting whilst inshore. Our normal civil,
masucline
and formal mode is primarily pensive, whilst the naval, feminine and
voluminous
mode is mainly cognitive (and, whilst pensive is relative to mass and
weights,
cognition is based in relationships of fit . . . and that which is, or
is not,
good).
Comprehension is not figurative . . . and nor can it be 'figured out.'
Neither
is comprehension arcane; in truth, it is our automatic application of
the
formal and civil code that serves to hide the fullness of all that art
. . .
the proverbial 'fig leaf.' There is no implication that either mode
(the
pensive or the cognitive) is any better or worse than the other; what I
would
emphasize is that they are as the dynamic of gender . . . and
that to
recognize either one of the two, in isolation of the other, is errant
and
misleading. Knowledge without comprehension may produce pragmatic
results and
technological marvels, however it will soon become self-destructive.
Art,
however, is not only creative: it is beatific, and generic . . . art
embraces
both aspects of the dynamic. For people, for most of us that are civil,
all
that we find about, above and below us must be what Ortega y Gasset
referred to
as 'thingified' . . . in order to be understood and known as things,
they must
be stripped of all that they essentially are (to become but shadows of
what
they were before being 'thingified'). Furthermore, this application of
our
intellectual code serves to separate all things from their substantive
relationships. We are all very familiar with this . . . indeed, so
familiar
that we cease to be aware of what we are doing (as we quickly learn to
do it
automatically, as well as reflexively).
Definition,
for
civilized
people,
has
to do with arrangement (and
the laws of classification and arrangement, or taxonomy). Most of you
would be
familiar with how we 'file' the various life forms into vertebrate or
non-vertebrate, and so on (from the most general to the most specific
sub-species). We think within exclusive sets and subsets whenever we
attempt to
'put' something into a nominated file across and a categorical rank.
The rank
is categorical in that it lists things in a descending order of
importance, of
power, or of scale. Our interest here is focused upon the exclusiveness
of each
specific file, and each ordering of rank: upon the need to find a
pigeon-hole
for all things on the basis of whether or not the traits or
characteristics of
each 'thing' fits (with respect to all the 'pigeon-holes' constructed
in accord
with any scheme of classification and taxis). Words, however, are
defined in
quite another manner.
A category, in its prime sense, is as a crowd of citizens in a
marketplace or agora:
that is, a gregarious herd or gathering of others of one's own kind
(with the implication
of a descending order). The way we define words changes over time,
however all
words are symbols: like names, words began as spoken symbols . . .
although
symbolic of such characteristics as gender, magnitude, valor, and
value, all
spoken words were sonic: they possessed a fullness (with regard to
sounded
timbres, pitchs, and lengths that were both composed and composite).
Written
presentations were as compositions of musical notes represented within
a
graphic and taxonomic scheme that served to literate (to flatten) each
of these
'notes' into symbolic structures that were not
composite: speech
came to resemble writing . . . reflective of
formal articulated
constructions (and that came to lack the beatific, rhythmic, and tonal
form of
spoken words). Written words depend upon a scheme of arrangement
and of
abstraction 'in order' to isolate a 'meaning' more or less consistent
with that
of the spoken work. Where graphic language seeks to replicate the
spoken word
we once noted it as scripture (and all writing that did not seek this
composite
goal, was called description).
This is ironic in the extreme. Almost all things came to be known and
noted, reduced
to flattened informational and historical facts, until it appeared that
we knew
almost everything. The more we thought we knew, the more we came to
feel a need
to expose or uncover those few 'things' that remained hidden, arcane or
enshrouded.
The irony, of course, is that (in our questing for knowledge) we have
stripped
the figurative bark off of almost every tree, and peeled almost every
'apple' .
. . and, after rendering almost all 'things' pared and particulate, we
must
inevitably come to find that what we had failed to see was hidden not
by some
skin or cloak . . . but by the manner in which we came to prepare
all
that came to our attention. It was not our formal systems that
served to
hide the essentials; it was our failure to remember that what we
saw in our
optimized and abstract vision was a function of our having drawn them
from a
fuller and composite reality.
Shortly after we came to comprehend the dynamic and organic essence of
art and
architecture, be began planning and building the first city. Little
doubt we
would have sought to both preserve and to secret away the 'recipe' that
enabled
such productive organisms that civil structures made possible. Critical
aspects
of this 'formula' (or diminutive and formal scheme), I would wager,
were hidden
as insignia . . . and especially that of what came to be called
military (from
soldiers, or people paid to become soldered or welded into a group that
would
act as one). We soon came to automatically encode and encrypt all that
we saw
immediately (or on the fly), and so what we saw, was seen within the
scheme (as
experiential, informational and interpretative). Moreover, as all that
was
civil came to be representative of the common place, we soon came to
forget
that all became 'seen' in the abstract context of the civil code.
Having
effectively forgotten the 'recipe' as a result of seeing all in terms
of civil
measures and ingredients, we (unknowingly') ceased to comprehend that
all that
was now civil and commonplace was a product of that which
we had
created from the recipe. Following the discovery of
abstract and
formal articulated systems (especially those of written language and
numeration),
people proceeded to reiterate all in generative degrees. The
comprehensive relationships
that had been obvious when the city was founded, soon became compressed
and
expanded in generational progressions and digressions that rendered
these
earlier comprehensions as complicated (folded over) and confused
(consolidated)
relativities expressed in formal terms and symbols. There
remained a
sense, however, that much of what had been was now missing or hidden;
this memory
of a fuller sense of past has come to be assessed as the Cadmean cost.
Ever
since,
we
have
sought
to find some magical 'key' to a cryptic
code that might serve to reveal all . . . to remove the veil, shroud,
or cod
that contained. Of course the code of revelation would never be found
(as it
was too well hidden amongst the commonplace). The code of civilization,
of
creation, of language, iteration, abstraction and of quantitative
number was
none other than the descriptive and intellectual encryption wherein we
rendered
all we encountered in our environments understandable and intelligible as
known
things. Our formal and ironic systems serve to iron all that we
find
about us out flat . . . to literate form into shape (hence, we call
them
'formal').
Thesis
is
a
Greek
word
that originally meant a position; what it
means today is an intellectual proposition. We can see how these
meanings
relate, and why when we hold up an intellectual proposition we are
positing.
What we may not see is that all that is posited 'speaks' to a realm
that
possesses space (or is characteristic of what we now call 'three
dimensions');
were we to locate, rather than posit, we would be speaking of a point
upon a
flat plane or surface. Before Pythagoras transformed the word
'theory' it
meant simply to envision or to behold. These definitional
distinctions
are very basic and determinant with regard to all of our attempts to
'make
sense' (of ourselves and all that we find about us). I often look
within and
about an intellectual 'circus' that is quite distinct from what has
come to be
the norm.
This distinction has much to do with whether or not we are thinking
within the
literal and contextual relations of our formal schemes and their
systems, or
within a full-bodied realm wherein things 'take up' space. From within
such a
realm I can posit and think in composite relationships (whereas from
within the
confines of our formal systems, I must confine myself to thinking
within a
fabric of woven relativities, and a context of shapes without form).
From my
observation, our common, and almost universal preference, is to shape
our intellectual
images as framed pictures 'painted' upon the flat canvass of our
respective and
collective cerebral screens. The 'frame' about a canvass exists as a
felt need
to remind us of what is 'lost' in abstraction and formal
'thingification.'
All three of our formal systems (language, logic and mathematics) have
very
strict rules; when we demand a strict interpretation of these
regulatory laws,
we express the formal case in language (and when we interpret these
laws more
loosely, we express the informal case). Although we speak of
perspective and
composition with respect to the canvasses we 'paint' or the images we
draw upon
this medium or that, in graphic representation we often, in effect,
pretend a
fullness of form: ancient Egyptians (I would wager) did not fail to
'discover'
the means by which to express an illusion of depth in their graphic
representations (a 'discovery' of later Minoan culture) –– they
prohibited such
depiction because of the danger implied. That danger, I would suggest,
was, in
effect, that of becoming caught or trapped in the nets of our own
cleverness.
So long as there remained a clear differentiation between what is
observed 'in
the round' and what is formally located within a web of relativities in
graphic
and intellectual representation (or notes), the 'trap' was
avoidable.
What I am trying to carry over to others is the very likely probability
that,
if we are 'imprisoned by the chains of our thought,' it is because
we have
become so ensnared. In antithesis we, in effect, turned the thesis
back
upon itself in countless iterations and reiterations . . . and came to
find
ourselves (and all 'its') caught up in degrees of confounded and
complicated
folds of complication and complexity.
There
are
things,
many
and
essential things, that cannot be
explained or 'known' in the sense that one might come to know how or
why a
machine 'works' or fails to work. Whosoever may be reading this would
acknowledge
that all literature, fiction and non-fiction, is (of necessity)
expressed in a
code: the ideas and correspondences offered in any story (whether
fictional or
not) can only be shared in a representational, graphic, explicit and
abstracted
mode of exchange. Much is lost in the abstract reduction and literate
representation
of observed phenomena: whenever we note or notate something observed in
our
circumstance, we compound and compress that which had been full of form
into a
formal and symbolic representation (a representation that lacks both
stance and
substance). We 'thingify' all that we literate and iterate. Perhaps
most
importantly, we continue to pay the price for having forgotten the
essential
dynamic (and confusing gender with sex).
A very important aide to remembering and comprehending spoken (and
musical) systems of symbolic representation exists in etymology
(in the
histories of linguistic forms, or word origins). I have found this to
be very
helpful, however, in tracing the evolution of a word, one must remain
mindful
that words are often derived from names (and, as with all naming, the
symbolic
name seeks to 'capture' something of an essential or distinguishing
quality of
character). Words express both an aspect of logos (or a
portional and
rhythmic relativity), as well as a quality of mythos (which is
to say,
an essential, if often symbolic, 'flavouring'). In attempting to get
back to
the spoken word, we are also moving back into a distinct and
compositional
mode: a mode that is more akin to that associated with generic and
comprehensive relationships. This is why both words and myth can be so
helpful.
Where I have (in earlier efforts) written that life, as civilized
humans
experience it, is equivalent to drama, the characterization rests upon
a
similarity between conscious life and what we might call ‘virtual’ (or
synthesized)
reality. ‘Consciousness’ refers to an ability to establish a sense of
knowledge
through a process of interpretation that may be thought of as the
‘decoding’ of
information: ‘data’ must be transmitted, received, and sorted into
meaningful
and intelligible relationships and relativities (and how we sort
through data
in our brains is not unlike how a computer’s processor sorts through
information). What I would stress in this procedural capacity for
interpretation, is the very essential dynamic established between what
is held
within (or insulated) and what is exterior to the ‘shell’ or hull, and
kept
without.
The notion of ‘houses’ (or of vessels) is representative of what I have
called
the essential dynamic: of gender. You might think of the cargo hold of
a vessel
as the thesis, and the antithesis as that which the thesis is insulated
from.
The synthesis, then, is thought of as a momentary satisfaction of
two
differentiated impressions or expressions. What is intellectual, I
would offer,
is all that is instantly transmitted: is all that is immediate
and lacks
magnitude. Bits of information may require some tiny space in order to
be
stored as bytes, however every bit possesses only a character (and is
characterized only with regard to location). This location is
non-specific: the
location may only be plotted upon a matrix (a ‘table’ of similarly
plotted
relativities wherein relativities are established on the basis of some
or
another graphic scheme wherein every point of location has no
magnitude, and is
thought of as a point upon a flat surface). All that we ‘make’ sense of
is (or
becomes what we interpret it as) but a function of how we process such
informational
bits upon the matrix of our mental panes.
This brings up what may be the most essential question of all: is the
movement
from a 'full-bodied' and feminine realm, to an abstracted schematic and
formal
'virtual' (and informational) reality? Or, is the movement from an
intellectual
and virtual reality to one of composite forms seen 'in the round'? My
own sense
is that perhaps the more essential question is not one of sequence
. . .
not one of 'antis' that may come before or after, but one of
complements and
their reciprocation –– between revolution and evolution (and their
momentary
resolutions). That is, the relationship is, perhaps, more properly
thought of
as that between a vessel's hold, and that which forms the hold
(the hull, shell, or outline). In effect, the twin visions
are seen to be
generic and general (rather than in a specific and temporal relativity
between
'befores' and 'afters'). Their complementary flips of
reciprocity may be
posed within a dialectic framework (wherein the movement is across
a referential
'table or 'frame,' however is seen in complementary, rather than
in oppositional,
terms). The same may be thought of with regard to a diameter . . .
rather than
an oppositional relativity, the 'flip' is as verse and obverse (rather
than
verse and reverse). In other words, we would view the transition as one
of multiple
precessions (rather than as transgressions): when viewed in the
fullness of
form, the movement is from one side (as of a coin or of a cube) to that
a
quarter revolution removed. Oppositional relativity is intellectually
'read' as
a movement that transgresses a line (either a mathematical line, a line
etched
in the sand, or a line of written text). The difference is between
obverse and
reverse –– and the difference is of great significance (even if the
difference
is not obvious from within our formal and platitudinous constructs).
The
very basis of reasoned knowledge is syllogistic reasoning. You
would, reasonably, accept that such reasoning is essentially
intellectual. We
begin with an argument between two independent (or, mutually exclusive)
propositions and a function (that, at least momentarily) puts the
argument to
rest. In arithmetic 'terms' the argument of a syllogism is as a number,
whilst
the function (that satisfies the argument) is as the logarithm of the
number
(and, as such, is a mathematical 'power' or a generational degree of
magnitude
advanced or retarded from the co-efficient number). There is always a
degree or
generation between the two argumentative choices and the function that
flows
between them.
Dialectics have much in common with both, however the movement is
somewhat
distinct. The movement is across and between two choices, or two
elected actors
(their interests, or their agents) . . . in a sense then, it considers
the
dynamics of an active system of exchange. Dialectics would seem to
focus upon
the evolution and devolution of dynamic systems, whereas the syllogism
and the
synthesis are concerned with the dissipation of tensions relating to
dissimilar
'charges' (in much the same manner in which electrical potential is
temporarily
relieved of its dynamic electromotive force). A thesis, I would posit,
expresses a theme (as distinct from a scheme) . . . a thematic capacity
to behold
both the temporal, horozontal, and chronological character of literal
and
linear schemes, and the durational, vertical, and horological schemes.
Although
it would appear that the horizontal would better relate to horology,
the
horizontal axis is named for the manner in which units upon that axis
indicate unitary
divisions of a vertical range or tide. Where we insist upon testing
a
thesis with an antithesis, and then seek to resolve the two in
synthesis we --
in effect -- insist upon a needless confusion (that serves only to
artificially
reiterate the sufficient thesis). If the thesis is thought of as
articulating a
theory, than our prime sense of 'beholding' is pronounced (in a
lectural or
sonic relationship) as our thesis. In other words, a thesis must be
offered
through the medium of spoken words; when written (even as
scripture) its
reiteration serves to put it in a formal context that becomes
interpretative
and argumentative (consistent with syllogistic relations and
regenerations).
This -- believe it or not -- is also consistent with our oppositional
convictions
relating to creation and evolution.
.
Musical
Instruments
and
Their
Cases
Since
gender
is
the
adhesive
sizing that will hold our composition
together, we should not loose sight of its central role in all that we
envelop
and develop. Every body, whether celestial or terrestrial, is corpulent
and
corporeal: is as a corpus (as a cellular or insular encased body). Both
gender
and relative size are a function of some relationship
that
'turns' about a core in insular degrees of revolution and volition, and
the
effective or efficient correspondent tension between that which covers
and that
which is covered. This correspondance is as a constant 'dance' of
reciprocation
between our coefficient partners (that function as one). It is this
'dancing'
that is representative of unitary systems (systems based in
evolutionary and
revolutionary degrees, each of which is both generative and
generational).
Integrity (for which I have always held in great regard) is
oppositional: that
is, it is as an immediate media that lacks 'cases' or enclosures of any
sort .
. . is indefinite. In essence, integrity is as the play of the genders
between
two extremes: that which is situational or passive, and another that is
active.
There is no expression or word for degrees of integrity: here we have
an
'either or' condition, wherein either the twins of gender are seated
together
or they are not.
All words and numbers are connected to other words and numbers: we can
consider
them in endless consequences, or we can follow them back to some set of
incipient parents. Creativity is, in essence, a procession of
growth that
generously evolves (if only to reach some fullness of satisfaction
before
devolving). This process is recipient –– it both evolves and devolves
simultaniously
(although, in awareness, we always 'see' it as one or the other).
There is a very thin edge between that which is virtue, and such that
is
virtual; as there is also between that which is formed, and such that
is
formal. In each generation it would appear that we tend toward one side
of that
edge, and in the next (or in that prior) we tend toward the other. I
would not
seek to value the one side (or the visions of the one side) relative to
that of
the other . . . as without the one there would be no other. This
comprehension
is not wisdom, as it has little to do with visions or revisions; to
behold (or,
for that matter, to believe) requires a sensibility that transcends
phenomena
and all that is phenomenal . . . what enables comprehension is the
whole pack
of our most primal feelings, emotions, and sensibilities (along with an
integral and genuine honesty that cannot be feigned). Faith is born of
intuition, and physical life -- nativity -- offers ample opportunities
for
passion, and for the relief of such that we passionately suffer. All
accretive
systems are instrumental and arranged in some order or another, however
for
every generative degree of expansion there is also a reciprocal degree
of compression.
And, for every moment of consolidation, there is a reciprocal moment of
particularization. Without passion there can be no joy. Agony, however,
eliminates
all articulate junctures. All elbows, all art, and all that art ceases
to be as
such systems approach the perfection of their terms . . . in an
expression of absolute
rectitude and/or absolute circularity (as the generative members of our
'dynamic duo' become at once consumed and fulfilled) . . . in a return
to the status
quo anti (to the chaos that both precedes and follows). Chaos may
be thought
of as total confusion, or as a total and ordered particularization; it
has little
to do with order, and much to do with integrity (and the incontinent
and
bi-polar 'sea,' as well as with the consolidated cube from which all
began).
The
intent of dialectics is similar to that of logic, as a
mediated resolution of opposed notions is sought through reasoned
dialogue or
discussion. This is best known in western cultures through the example
of
Plato's Socratic dialogues; in eastern cultures it goes further back in
time .
. . to the Vedic tradition. Both the active cause and the passive
nature are
thought to bring all into existence, as both follow a universal law of
nature
(of Dharma). Creation is thought of in terms of three phases in
concert: they
have to do with a system of arrangement, a force fostering ordered
arrangement,
and a force that works to diminish such order (in disarray). As
with any
syllogism, there is an argument and a resolution; dialectic discussion
(and
thought) acknowledges the transient nature of all such resolved, but
partially
satisfied, products. All of these constructs are, it would be agreed,
formal
and intellectual in nature. They speak to such that is toric
and historic
in formal relations that are formal and relative (and, essentially,
envisioned
and considered related). They are relative to such that is begotten
(and, as in
birth, one of those begotten must be dismissed or disposed).
Whenever we
legate any thing within such constructs, we are bequeathing . .
. saying
it within the connective relations of a constructed system. The elusive
and
illustrious objective of all such syllogistic operations is thought of
as Truth
or Virtue. Such an objective must also be 'thrown out' or outward.
Truth (the
'whole' truth) is but an idealized vision of some formal purity or
perfection .
. . it is as chaos, as an intuitive sense of generic integrity.
As with the
twin aspects of a poetic or musical beat, and the dissimilar aspects of
a
number (or syllables of a syllogism), when these are brought to their
ultimate
and exhaustive perfection values, they express two extreme cases:
religion (the
word) seeks to re-legate or re-legislate in what is presumably a more
'perfect'
expression of these component syllables . . . and comes to focus upon
'the
word' (or the wording). The thesis of being, however, seeks to
join the
embryonic aspects of all dialectic (and all spoken dialects) into a
comprehensive
and beatific symbiosis that acknowledges both genders (and of
the 'son'
born able, as well as the placental 'son' that served to insulate and
protect
during the gestation of both). In effect, 'Cain did not slay 'Able' . .
. Cain
was sacrificed so that the full-bodied 'Able' might live (however, if
Able is
able to truly be, such being must include the sacrificial sibling). To
live
with a 'bewareness' of this beatific and composite self, is -- in
essence -- to
believe.
The
'Universal Law' (not the natural law) is thought to be serious and
serial: expressive
of weights and all that is naturally massive (of grams). This, the
pensive law
of grammar, is expressive of cases that must be 'framed' or
'set up.' In
a real sense, therefore, all of our efforts aimed at revealing
a 'truth'
that is expressed in the contextual relations of the subjective and the
objective (or in the sequential tenses of before and after) are
rigged and
set up . . . and the function of all syllogistic thought is seen to
be
determined with respect to how we set up or set down our
argumentative
'independents.' These are factual and virtual, however the 'objective'
of
religion – as well as of science – is impossible . . . the 'veal'
cannot be
revealed (and the dialectic aspects of personification cannot be
re-legated,
its law legislated, or its true relationships expressed in formal
speech or
thought). If truth is, truth cannot be 'thingified' . . . and neither
may we
'find' truth through experience or through expectative explanation or
exploration. Truth cannot be 'uncovered' from thinking within such
schemes that
we call formal because we see only visions that are
already
exposed (and see them as naked, stripped of stance and substance,
and expressed
in partial and particular depictions . . . as sketches of
the
composite relationships that were together at birth . . . and so
gestated and
begotten). These visions, our formal visions, are unitary . . .
and our
collections and recollections of them are Unitarian, however they are
also formal,
capital, qualified and quantified (rigged and framed in arrangements
that are
not rations of one with the others). If we fail to beware, no
amount of
informed awareness will serve to render our self-imposed complications
and
re-iterations comprehensible . . . an awareness may offer us only
shadows
(as thrown by some body that appears to hide this illusive 'truth' we
seek and
quest for).
Instruments
are,
above
all,
instructive
(especially
with regard to structural building); more informally, they
express
things that assist us in the attainment of some end. Some musical
instruments
are instrumental in our efforts to make sounds, and others (such as
words and
myths) are instrumental in our efforts to muse thoughtfully.
Instruments also
assist us in measuring or gauging. The most elemental of musical
instruments
are those that are struck or beaten (as bells or as drums). These
help us to
gauge the space between beats. Percussion instruments (such as the
sistrum
and the drum) have been with us from very early in our history, and the
role
that they have played is quite more important than we might be consider
on the
surface.
We tend to
look upon, and think of, levels of cultural development in association
with the
artifacts that civilizations have 'left behind' . . . in a largely
linear and superficial
context related to degrees of technical sophistication. In truth, most
of our
modern thinking is associated with relativities that are similarly
evaluated
(and ranked with regard to practical or constructive building). When we
seek to
think more deeply, soundings (and the ability to gauge between their
marked
strata) become more important than they are in our more mundane and
plenary
scheme. These early instruments not only assisted persons in their
efforts to
think deeply, but also to beware. Although modern thought seeks to
'think' in
terms of great complexity and complication, our mode remains that of
our cosmetic
and facial schemes of abstraction. When we attempt to think in
stratified
relations, we (in effect) simply turn our superficial grids or nets 'on
end' .
. . we rotate them through a quarter rotation. As a function of this,
depth of
thought becomes relative to a multiplicity of what we have come to call
dimensions (that is, measured 'spaces' between strata as spans). For
earlier
peoples, thinking 'in depth' remained beatific and tectonic . . . they
thought
and they comprehended in a manner that did not disregard or disrespect
the
standing or the seating of 'things' . . . their thought was musical.
Were every
sapient and conscience being upon the face of this globe to look about
them (or
upon their circumstance), what the great majority of us would see would
be
largely the produce of technical building; such building is as the
constructions
and artifacts of carpentry (technos). Our constructions have
greatly altered
our circumstantial environment: what most of us see about our
respective
environments is synthetic . . . is synthesized or built up as in a
series of
articulated constructions. What we see greatly influences how and
what we
think, and how we think serves to largely determine both what and how
we see.
We attempt to 'make sense' of what we find about us (and of how what we
find
about us 'works'). For most of us, 'life' becomes defined amid a web of
synthetic relativities that are either reflections of our thoughtful
abstract
schemes, or as shadows of our earlier and more natural surroundings:
this is
what I have intended to share when I have suggested that (for us) life
has
become a drama.
What has
become 'real' to us is largely understood as
essentially
factorial (and all that happens in understanding becomes seen in the
contextual
and contractual relations of commercial (and physical) factors
and
factories. Each scene is experienced as a generational iteration in
productions
that are staged (and evaluated in the relations of 'feedback' between
the
agents of the company and the agents of an audience that no longer
listens).
All commerce requires exchanges and a medium of exchange. This 'medium'
(or the
media upon which we store information) is as a background or surface,
and is
(essentially) integral . . . and lacks a nature of its own.
Relativity
and religion are associated with lineage and things linear; both are to
be
followed, or to be retraced. Relationships, on the other hand, may be
both entered
into and exited; they, as all ships, are navicular. Early cultures
sounded the
depths, as well as they sensed all that appeared upon the surface,
however they
did not evaluate the two from within a single exclusive scheme; their
thought
was musical (and very much concerned with the metrics of beats). They
thought
more deeply and more widely . . . within relationships what
were (in
essence) spiritual. It is significant that modern people have ceased to
comprehend
what it is to be a person.
Persons
comprehend, and their visions are comprehensive. Modern people tend
only to see
what is eventual in nature: we tend to see all as events are seen
(hence, all
becomes eventual and unavoidable) . . . there must always be an
evening. In
spite of this, we continue to play the odds. In the historical writing
of
science it has been noted (by Professor Whitehead, if I am not
mistaken) that
the vision of science is quite like that of classical drama: an event
issues forth,
and must inevitably and inexorably proceed to its ultimate conclusion
(or
result). There is here a confusion between events and happenings.
Events are
celebrated and are predictably anticipated; happenings, however, are
more exuberant
. . . they are related to the utter (or the 'lowerings' of a cow).
Happenings
are what we would call accidental or chance occurrences that are not
usually anticipated
(however, they are always explicable in retrospect . . . they and their
results
are never contrary to the laws of nature).
What we
fail to see is unseen in our dramas as a function of our failure to
acknowledge
our stance (as we see only our interpretative circumstance) –– all becomes constant and
instant when
viewed within our superficial and connective webs of interpretative
relativities.
Without taking note of the stance, we may play with the odds (and
constantly
seek to load the dice), however we will also tend to view happenstance
only
with respect to what might happen accidentally (and, thereby, to
frustrate our
plans . . . as well as the continuity they, and we, tend to assume).
Gender in
language is reduced to the association we equate with drama (to
exchanges
between actors and those passively seated in the audience), and, in
number, the
'twins of dynamic' are seen only in terms of those units that
are active
and odd, and those that appear passive and even.
For
Our
Next
Number
.
. .
Whereas
all actors perform on a stage, numbers must be performed upon a base
(that is
also numbered, or named for a number). 'One' might think in terms of
laps and
gaps: numbers are 'numb' as a function of our seeing them as pared (as
distinct
from paired). When we compare one number with the next
or with
that which came before, we are thinking in a partial and particulate
context.
When we pare an apple, we remove its skin or peel . . . and when we
compare
such cores, we 'work' numerical values that are gaped. This is a
function of
what we call quantification. When we forget what we do in
quantification, we
come to view numbers in relation to values that appear to flow
seamlessly from
one value to the next (and cease to have regard for their lapped or
gaped
terms). Such numbers (quantified in a manner that neglects such laps or
gaps)
are seen as temporal spans that lack a standing (as are
consistent with our abstract nets and their superficial schemes). The
base is
essential, as well as determinant: what the base serves to determine is
the
extent of our symbolic, parabolic, and hyperbolic numerical and
arrhythmic
terms (inclusive or their coverings).
In musical
notation we associate measures that are based upon the duration of
specific and
discrete sounds. What serves to distinguish one sound from others in a
series
is a 'matter' of their pitch, however what we numerate is not these
discrete
notes: what we numerate is completed beats of a designated duration.
Time (in
musical notation) is relative to a signature that designates now many
beats are
to be found within each measure. A conductor, whose function is to
regulate the
tempo, however, governs the effective ‘velocity’ of time. These
measured beats
are not unlike days: that is, quite like the days defined in Genesis
(wherein 'the morning and the evening' constitute a day) . . . there is
a
rising component and an evening component to each beat. What each measure
seeks to identify is a term that is dependent upon how many
beats (or
days) are to be held within the span of a measure: a musical span is
measured
with regard to the phases of beats that rise and fall (as tides that
possess a
magnitude of duration, within a specific range). The quantity of 'days'
within
each measure is a function of how we define the durational magnitude of
each
whole note, and of the tonal phases expressed by each (as well as the
conducted
tempo). With regard to our analogical relationship with days, a
complete cycle,
thought of as a measure, would behold a quantity of 'meals' (or 'whole'
notes)
required to precisely complete a fully phased cycle . . . a month. As
with any
cyclical wave form, the metered or metrical relationship is between a
vertical
amplitude and a lateral wave length (and the term, or temporal
magnitude, of
each cyclical wave) is a measure that relates to peaks and troughs, however
is
guaged
with
regard
to
the completion of a phased series (that
culminates
in a reiteration that is representative of a generative degree, or an
order of
magnitude). As the notated waveform (beheld with regard to
amplitude and
latitudinal length) may also be indicated or noted in a rectified
saw-toothed
'wave,' we are able to express the same relationship with only the
punctual
points of these 'teeth' in a representation of relativities.
In these
formal representations, we do not 'see' in phases: we 'see'
only in contextual
relativities that relate to them . . . but are expressed in
relativities of
pitch. Hence, the question: 'how are your tents pitched?' What is
lost in
this shortcut is more than the very basis of a measure: we lose
also the
sense of what we are measuring or guaging.
We
call
this
'shortcut'
rectification
because
whenever we cut a section of arc with a chord, all of these chords -- except
those
that
are
true
and
axial (or oriented upon two of the four cardinal
points as in north-south or east-west) -- we can construct a rectangle
that conforms
to the endpoints of such a straight line (as the line becomes the
diagonal of
the rectangle). In this manner, such a pitched line also can serve as a
notational shortcut for expressing the magnitude of a square (or of any
rectangle). In musical notation we maintain the sense of phases and of
arcs and
of arks, as well as a sense of what a measured unit is in a
relationship with:
the number is relative to the quantity of beats within a measure; and
every
note is distinguished by virtue of its pitch and its magnitude of
duration . .
. this duration is given as a rational division based upon a
system of
progressive halving (as in half notes, quarter notes, eighth
notes, et
cetera).
Quantified
numbers
are
expressions
of
the
lengths of chords: they are numb, and they are funny (or funicular,
rather than
musical and navicular). Were 'one' to strike one's funny bone, one
would
simulate what it is to strike a vibrant chord (in 'string' theory). The
problem
is, just what is it that 'one' relates to? An arithmetic 'one' can
begin to
numerate just about anything . . . even degrees of infinity, or
fractional
parts of anything particular or non-particular. Perhaps that is why
numbers are
so useful, as well as so misleading.
In
some
cultures
persons
either
cannot or do
not numerate beyond three or four: there is a kind of transcendent
barrier or
threshold between the number three and the number four. Once we
transcend that
barrier, we may carry on counting units until we reach the next barrier
(however, having already transcended the first, we find it less
difficult to
move beyond the second, and so on). Each of these barriers are
characterized by
a base: each, that is, beyond that between three and four. Although
this is
very essential, and prior to all that is natural, we are able to 'see'
the
reason why this 'space' between three and four is so difficult and
critical.
The numerical 'space' between three and four is as a reciprocal of that
between
three-quarters and a unity of one.
From within
the formal scheme of mathematics we do not distinguish between units
and
integers, however integers (and integrity) are not the same as units
(and
unity). Unity is mathematically expressed by the number one (in any
base). An
integer is not relative to such bases or their symbolic
representations: an integer
is an expression of a bit, and there are but three integral bits to any
integrity.
This Trinity is prior to all creatures . . . to all in Creation; as
well as to
all in any creation . . . the triad is associative only with what would
serve
to define it (were it to be defined as art).
We might
think of this as emblematic of chaos, or we might think of it
numerically as
the saturation of a set of three in base four.
I
would
hesitate
to
call
this 'space' a
realm: there is nothing royal about it, and yet it is incipient (a
beginning)
and, although it lacks a nature, it is insinuative (it insinuates as
gestures
do). The integrity is prior to all things, and yet we must refer to
either an
integer, or to the integrity, as an 'it' . . . however, an it that
cannot be
iterated. It is not bounded or otherwise contained, and therefore
is not
quantifiable. This is not unlike what some of us might equate with
the
un-carved block of Tao, and yet it is the very personification of
generic dynamics.
There is a bit that is masculine, as well as a reciprocal two-bit
section that
is feminine. What I am attempting to put into linguistic terms is, in
effect,
the essence of chaos theory: a branch of science that is grounded in
the
mathematical notion of feedback. Numbers are expressions of the lengths
of
chords: they are numb, and they are funny (or funicular, rather than
musical
and navicular). Were 'one' to strike one's funny bone, one would
simulate what
it is to strike a vibrant chord (in 'string' theory).
One of the
immutable laws of mathematics states that multiplication is to addition
as
subtraction is to division. Whenever we add values, we get a larger
value (and
whenever we subtract one value from another, we get either a smaller
value or a
negative value). Very well, however when we multiply fractional values
we always
get a lesser value (and this, it would appear, is inconsistent with a
repeated
process of addition). Why the multiplication of fractional numbers
results in a
value less than that of the multiplier is a function of how we define
our
units: if our unit is one discrete thing (as it is in the realm of
number above
one), the resultant product could not be less than the multiplier; yet
if (when
'dealing' with the division or multiplication of numbers between zero
and one)
our unit were changed to express the value of one as an expression of
Unity
(or, of all things universal), rather than of the smallest possible
fractions
or fractals of one, the currently accepted products of any two
fractional
values would be as they are. Were we to accept this, we would also have
to
accept that there is a more significant separation between numbers
greater than
a unit and those below (that is, the number one would have to be seen
as a
'deck' between those values above and those below) or . . . we
would have
to assume that our unit immediately becomes expressive of unity the
moment we
enter the realm expressed by values that are less than one (as
well as
the observation that 'mixed' numbers are indeed very, and
inappropriately,
mixed). If we are interested in the relations between chaos and
feedback (a
multiplicative and additive operation), this question of just what our
unit is
representing (it would seem) is central to whatever the application of
feedback
(or, the inverse of feedback) would lead us to conclude.
Feedback is
commonly thought of with respect to the amplification of sound; the
microphone
'picks up' sound at a certain volume and amplifies it by degrees
(thought of as
gain), and the amplified sound that comes out of 'speakers' is far
greater in
loudness or amplitude of volume; there is, however, a threshold wherein
either
the loudness of the input or the degree of amplification transgresses
the limit
imposed by the threshold: the resultant output becomes as a scream (of
feedback). The formula for feedback (that is the diminutive formal
representation
of feedback) is expressed as (x2 plus x) where x is
representative
of the sound 'put in,' and x squared is representative of each degree
of amplification.
The inverse of feedback would be expressed as such that is
representative of
root of x, minus x. You might want to play with different fractional
valuations
of x in reverse feedback; and you may well find another unanticipated
threshold. Should you get to a value of 1/4 for x, the square root of x
would
be 1/2, and 1/2 minus a quarter is a quarter . . . the series simply
repeats,
and cannot digress beyond a bit or a quarter (expressed as a fraction
of a
unit).
Hiding
within that 'space' between one and zero is another 'whole' that is not
unitary,
however its magnitude is but three quarters that of Unity. This we
might remember
as integrity, however we numerically represent it as the endlessly
irrational
perfection of the proportion: of pi or of phi. How we abstract our
realm, as
well as how we effectively define the 'undefined terms' of mathematics,
has a
great effect upon how we come to view both integrity and chaos.
Chaos is the name we
have given to
the status quo anti: to the status of that which both preceded
and would
presumably follow our Unitarian Realm. We now think of chaos as a state
of
absolute confusion (and assume that such a state would lack order). We
typically think of this lack of order as the opposite: as a realm of
perfected
order . . . and we call such a realm Cosmos. Order has to do with
taxis; with
an order of arrangements, and to ordain is to organize into a
prescribed
arrangement, or to join such an arranged order. Hence, the new science
of Chaos
is especially concerned with ordered arrangements (or repeated patterns
of
distribution) and the lack of such arrangements. Chaos scientists are
very much
interested in the arrangement of things on the micro level: minute
fractals (on
the diminutive extreme). Whereas ancient peoples might think of
pixies,
these scientists think of pixels.
In a sense, Gottfried Leibniz (in his study of monads) was an
early
pioneer of chaos science and its mathematical approach. Yet, what was
originally symbolized by chaos had as much to do with intuition and
gender as
with confusion. The two states of chaos were once seen as representing
a total
confusion . . . with all things fused together into two perfectly
rational
proportions: one being half the volume of the larger. There was but one
situation wherein all was ordered: when these portions were so seated,
they
expressed the form of a perfect cube (ka, or the Kabba); when not so
seated,
each member (the smaller masculine member, and a feminine member twice
its
magnitude) 'floated' about in all possible attitudes within an
undefined space.
When seated together, and coupled in a perfect fit, chaos expresses a
state of
absolute rectitude and order. Confusion literally refers to a state in
which
all is fused or welded together; in the fluid state, our two members
are as
particles floating within a fluid (and lacking all order) . . .
suggestive of a
'sea' without containment or definition.
I am
reminded of our musical system of notation. With respect to tones, we
think of
their pitch in a base of eight . . . in generational octaves. Here we
are
looking at a base of four (or a gamut of one more than gamma). In the
prime
base, we have Gamma plus 'Ut' expressed rationally as one further unit.
This
is
an
expression
equivalent
to a visible spectrum of our three basic
colours: red, yellow, and blue (plus an unseen sector represented by
'Ut.' The
definitional zone is of the utmost significance (even when unseen). I
do not
wish to appear pugilistic, pungent or pugnacious, however this has to
do with
boxing and boxing rings.
Here we have a sense of
perspective
depth. Each successive square and each successive circle is twice the
area of
that immediately 'below' or within. The diameter of each circle is
equivalent
in length to the diagonal of the square 'beneath,' and the length of a
side of
every square is equivalent to the length of the diameter of every
circle
beneath. The next image that comes to mind is one of sessions of spin:
each
following the first is preceded by a precession: a change of attitude,
that
serves to produce another plane of spin . . . our spinning square card
or den
begins to spin on a different plane, and it does this in a series of
moments.
Between each moment is a brief transitional recess (that in which a
precession
'takes place'). This progressive process is generational, and, with the
completion
of each generational series, the duration of these recesses diminishes
relative
to that of each moment. In the prime series, each of four moments is
segregated
by a recess equivalent in duration to a quarter of a moment.
Rationality is maintained,
as the sum of all recessive rests is equal to an active moment. There
is no
division, and each moment (whilst rendered discreet in accord with law)
is neither
divorced nor cut-off from that which preceeds or that which follows.
This qualifies
as an appreciative system.
Like
our musical composition, we now have a scale . . . a diatonic scale. If
diatonic,
our focus is upon the pitch of sounds; that focus moves across 'the
grain' of
each discrete tonal sound: that is, it moves in levels, whilst the
'flow' of
these discrete tones is relative to a lateral movement (upon the
various planes
or levels) from left to right or right to left. The effect is vectoral;
each
tone is noted with regard to its pitch (in the same manner in which a
ladder --
also called a scale -- may be 'set' at an angle between a point upon
one level
and another upon the plane or level of a different strata). When
climbing up
our pitched ladder we are moving in the direction of our vector's arrow
(or,
when descending, the arrow is shifted to the level upon which our
ladder is
set).
When a sailor gauges the span between the surface of a body of water
and the
bottom, he is also sounding (if not making audible sounds). He seeks
also to
set a scale, however this scale is set erect (or without an
inclination). The
sailor is measuring the distance between strata . . . between that of
the
surface, and that of the bottom: all such gaps are gauged rather than
measured,
as the focus is not upon the strata (but rather upon the relative
distance
between strata). When we measure the relative height or depth of tones,
we
must assume that our measures (our units of measure) are in a
relationship with
either the linear depth of the strata . . . or with the linear
separations (the
spans) between each level or strata. Each step of our scale
or ladder
is as a degree: a degree that expresses a relationship between the
thickness
of our strata and the distant spans between such levels.
In musical notation our ladder or scale is also graduated (and, as with
the
rungs of a ladder, each rung corresponds rationally with the
'thickness' of a
sound and a space between discrete sounds). The factor that governs
that which
distinguishes one sound from another is that of pitch, and we 'read'
our stepped
scale with regard to its angular set. When the vector is as a ladder
laid upon
a plane, we regard that posture as flat in the absolute (and when
standing on
end, we would regard it as sharp in the extreme). There is a useful
correlation
to be made with the 'sounding' of primal colours with regard to their
spectrum.
There are but three primary colours: red, yellow, and blue. From within
the spectrum
it appears that all colours are confused . . . one flows into the next,
and any
one hue is impossible to segregate from those to either side. If
chromatic hues
were thought of with regard to the pitch of their wave-length, and
within a
gamut, we could distinguish one from the others. This is of the utmost
significance: as in the 'case' above, the gamut is such that
informs us with
regard to the relationship between the thickness of our rungs and the
spans or
spaces between them. These are expressive of degrees.
With regard to the spaces between strata (or between rungs), the sum of
the
spaces between is equivalent to the 'thickness' of each distinct
chromatic
sound or hue. Where gamma is three units, the tote of all the rungs is
a
'further' unit. In quantification, however, the tote is as the quant
that holds
all that is categorized within a collection of discrete units. This is
(literally, as well as vertically) fundamental, critical, and basic:
the base
of every scale is always as the 'sol' of the diatonic scale . . . and
the 'doe,
ray, me' is as the primary trinity contained within the 'quant' of
quantification. These phonetic elements are essential, however are also
hopelessly
confused when we fail to comprehend that all 'things' quantified are
unitary only
when we remain cognizant -- when we remember -- how we have
encoded or
encased them. When we judge things, we try only their cases
(however, in
trying them, we also render them hollow: no matter how we decide a
case, it is
always dispensed).
When you think about how much and how often we quantify (without a
comprehension
of what we encode), the ramifications are all pervasive. As expressed
in
Minerva's tapestry, the colours of the rainbow are all slurred together
(one
into that before and that after) . . . so also are all of the tones of
sonic
vibrations.
The significant relationship is that between the thickness
of our
skins, and that of the cores revealed and appealed. What we typically
do (when
peeling grapefruit, apples, tomatoes or grapes) is to put all the peals
into a
bin, and keep only the cores. These we put into piles. In
quantification we
take what would be in the bin (be they the peals of apples or of
oranges) and
form them into one large hide; we then gather up our pile of apple
cores or
skinless oranges and put them in a sack made of our hide. When so
contained and
hidden, we have quantified all of our units (be they apples or
oranges). Each
apple or orange is particular: that is, each has been either pared or
was
prepared before hand. The base we count in is a function of how many
units we
have pared, and one further that is as our quant or containing bag.
Where we
count in base ten, we have but nine units in the bag (and a
further unit
made up of the bag). There is always one unit less in the bag .
. . and,
when we add up all the parts of our numerical 'whole' we always find
that we
are one unit 'short of a quid.'
Further: when we slice and dice any of our unitary apples, we find that
the sum
of all the severed parts is equal to the 'whole' . . . that 'whole'
however, is
not the 'whole' that we sliced and diced. A unit is quite distinct from
an
integer. A formal and arrhythmic 'whole' is partial or pared: it lacks
insulation,
and, therefore it also lacks finite limits (or a boundary that
possesses
magnitude). Cities were once envisioned within a composite and integral
theme,
wherein the central core was exemplified by a plaza or square, and
every city
was bounded by a peripheral area from which bounty was taken inward.
Nowadays,
cities are considered more as arithmetic units, defined only by
abstract
mathematical bounds . . . and they often grow to a point wherein one
grows into
the next. They come to be seen as (it would seem) most things in this
age are
seen: characterized by numerical values, and in terms that are
exclusively
instant and distant . . . 'standings' without stances, and points
without
positions.
We could go on extensively, and expand upon this thesis that I have
here put
and placed, however I (somehow) do not feel that it is either necessary
or appropriate
to do so. I am not so inclined. This should be sufficient, should
any of
you wish to regain or remember your composure (and your integral
capacity for bewaring
and beholding). I would close with an observation that we tend too
often not to
see.
There remains in this whirling world a very significant composite
residual, and
especially upon the periphery and within the central plaza. Not all is
eventual, and the serendipity of happenstance remains (to bring
miraculous
smiles to our faces). There remain composed 'sons' (of both sexes), in
contrast
with the multitude of suns that are stellar. Our 'mother ship' Earth
remains an
artful composition of core, crust and atmosphere. Surely there is the
light of
Unitarian starts or stars to assist our vision, however our seeing need
not be
so optimal as to foreclose those visions that are complementary and
composed in
radiant hues. The 'true' meaning of a miracle is a surprise -- a
happening --
that was not expected or anticipated . . . and a good outcome that
brings a
smile. 'Good' is indicative of a snug fit, and of intuitional and
integral situations.
Where we not to comprehend the artful and composite nature of our
surroundings,
as well as the more integral and informational dynamic of creative
gender, our
lives would be quite barren (and eventually come to turn is terms of
polar extremes)
. . . and so (whilst there remains a hesitation between beats) either
we leave
ourselves receptive to panic and despair, or we come to accept all that
might
or might not happen, and all that must eventuate in comprehension. For
myself,
I try not to expect; I am open to all that may come along, and content
to
accept such that does come along as possibly the best of all outcomes.
I might
pretend to know much, however I am sufficiently able to beware that I
also know
that what is most fitting must remain unknown until each 'surprise' is
beheld.
If we cannot know that, what then can we possibly know with regard to
what
would be good for us collectively?
What is hallowed is as the beaten path about a millstone. It would
appear that
the grain we now grind has the quality of powder, and that the twin
stones (the
top one, and that beneath) are almost touching each other. The
'grinding' is
getting increasingly laborious, and the powder is beginning to blow
away with
the winding winds. I have for some time felt that we are again
approaching a
threshold . . . a threshold that signifies more than a change in the
relative
coarseness or fineness of our ground grain. And yet, there is no
advantage to
be gained through preparation. What -- I feel -- can make
all the
difference is a confidence that flows from our memories (and a strength
borne,
not in conception or conviction, or through judgment, but born of
our
confident faith that flows from a comprehension that fits together as
do the myriad
of pieces in a jig-saw puzzle.
Where the process comes nearer to that point wherein all the pieces are
snugly
and firmly put together, it becomes increasingly easy to 'explain' the
questions of 'hows' and of 'naus' . . . and, as the surface
image slowly
takes shape, those remaining pieces are more easily found. Where all is
fit
snuggly 'put' together, there is no need to judge or to demonstrate.
Our faith,
as well as our confidence, is (essentially) an intuitive sense that all
will
come together and ‘work out’ as it should and must . . . and that 'the
show'
will always go on. Belief is composite, and (as artists all) we should
greet
whatever is before us with the composure that only comprehension is
capable of
enabling . . . such genuine and authentic smiles as we wear upon our
countenance
cannot be feigned.
Beyond the finality of the most minute particle, there are mass less
'shells' . . . mere quirks that we have given the name 'quarks.'
These
would be quite indistinguishable were it not for their colours, and it
is most
interesting that we can classify them only with respect to their
perspectives.
They are not particulate (and are not a part of physics . . .
they are
apart from the natural discipline of physics, as well as from
what we
understand as knowledge). With regard to what matters, what has
always
mattered to me is the voyages and stories of our lives. We shall always
manage
to compose and create vessels with which to navigate uncharted waters,
and once
again (as now) all that will really matter is as simple as getting our
vessels
to the next port. That has always been satisfying in the fullest sense.
It is,
however, getting our vessel back to her homeport that will be our most
fulfilling destination, our destiny, and a good beginning for all
future
sorties.
Speaking of returns and reunion, none could be as fulfilling as that
between
one's full-bodied self and one's placental self. It is reminiscent of
the time
we spent in our providential 'paradise' of gestation. The composite
pleasure of
getting to 'truly' know your composite and comprehensive self is such
that it
fully restores one's composure. It is this that brings the only smile
that is
fully genuine and sincere. As with any story, the ending that becomes a
new
beginning must be as a return to one's 'home port.' Once the
final
passage is conducted and the voyage of both 'sons' concluded, a
'fitting'
finale (that is 'good') is fully satisfactory. In the meantime, simply
the
satisfaction of getting ourselves from one port to the next (completing
each
successive passage) is extraordinary and fulfilling enough.
José Ortega y Gasset
nevergot to write his intended essay on limitation, and nor did he
manage to finally think together the the relationship between life and
reason; he did, however, set a challenge at the end of History As A System:
He would have seen this as his 'vital life-project,' and (as it appeared that he would not be able to manage it fully) he sought to (in effect) pass the firurative baton on to another. For whatever reason, I saw fit to attempt to 'pick it up and run with it.' I know only that it felt appropriate. He died without knowing if his efforts were to be completed. As I near the end of my circuit, I also wonder much the same . . . and even whether or not I will get to 'pass it along.' But no matter . . . I have managed to get my vessel to the next port. I -- we -- are never sure if the harbour we sail into is our home (as the home that we left may well have changed as we have) ___ yet we can surely get a sense of whether or not it feels 'good' to call it 'home.'
I stress that what I have placed before you is not a gift to be
unwrapped . . .
and neither is reciprocation expected. If it should happen that others
come to
comprehend as a function of this offering, I would be quite satisfied.
If that
should happen, it is not to be seen as a function of my intellect or of
naus.
I have sought only to be honest with myself (with my continent self),
and all
that I have managed is but a strenuous effort to remember . . . and
effort that
required decent and assent that is not dissimilar to my moving through
the
companionway of Intuition (that is, between the feminine
interior and
the masculine exterior of my vessel . . . 'tween the deck that was as a
strata:
betwixt the horizontal deck that pitched and rolled, as well as between
the
expansive space above and the insular space below). It did, however,
require a
great deal of persistence. Now, at least, I feel that it is time that I
get on
with whatever comes up or along. Do with this as you please, however do
not get
yourselves all wrapped up in the particulars.
Although we live in a natural and whirling world of forces and mass,
this is
but a function of some ill-advised recreation that served to complicate
and confuse
. . . an attempted re-creation that failed to acknowledge the essential
cod or
the code. The world, our universe, is one of consolidation and
dispersion. Yet
one need but look above or look below to confirm that there remain
stratifications and insular cores within their peripheral hulls. For
myself, I
have no argument with science (with knowledge) or with method and
ideological
instruction. It is, however, its characteristic movement toward
specialization
and particularization that, ironically, leads away from our inborn
potential
for comprehension. Perhaps knowledge without comprehension is
sufficient for
others, however (again, for myself) such knowledge impresses me as
ingenuous
and insufficient. Perhaps I am mistaken, however I feel that what all
of us
yearn for is an all-embracing comprehension that both fits and
satisfies. I am
not inclined to intervene, or to feel that I either need to or should
attempt
to engineer some or another outcome . . . I feel only (yet strongly)
that I
need do naught but to get to know my character, and to play my part as
faithfully as is possible. In a sense, this is not distinct from what
Joseph
Campbell left with us . . . although I, perhaps, would not have chosen
the word
'bliss.' Perhaps the result is happenings that are happy, however
'bliss'
implies an extreme . . . a paradise. My own choice is to follow that
which intuitively
fits my character, and the destination of my voyage is the 'home' that
brings
fulfillment.
May your smiles be sincere and genuine.
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