by
Bob Hoernel
I do not write many essays, as essays express judgments: all essays weigh what inevitably are seen as ‘pros’ and ‘cons.’ My usual preference is such that I seek to avoid judgments and judgmental expression. As I begin this exercise in judgment there are two points of clarification that must be made: that the self is just but not singular nor unitary; and that awareness is not knowledge. In stating this I do judge, as my judgment is that should anyone look deeply into either of these words it should be clear that the self is expressive of a dynamic integrity (and that knowledge expresses but a capacity to decipher such that has been noted). What does relate to judgment (and what is being tested here relative to the weight of pros and cons) is whether or not it is worth my while to attempt sharing this awareness of self with others . . . whether or not it is possible for me to carry over such that is offered through the medium of graphic expression and conversion.
That I am attempting such is good evidence that my assessment relative to such a capacity for sharing is that it is both possible, and within my capacity to do so. In a real sense, therefore, the prime judgment relative to this essay is that which enabled it. We can never be certain about judgments, or about the expectations that tend to flow from them, however should the desire be sufficiently genuine and strong they are surely within one’s potential. Essays are attempted because we (for whatever reason) are determined to both persevere in such efforts, as well as to accept the possibility that they may turn out to be either inappropriate or beyond our capacity. In other words, before we even undertake such a venture we must feel a certain confidence that is borne of our awareness that it is both genuine and appropriate to us at this moment. Such (I suggest to you) is also the case with all endeavours___ and the luck that we encounter in such adventures is also governed by the same two factors (as well as the acceptance that to achieve such that the endeavour seeks may very well turn out to be inappropriate). We must be prepared to accept that whatever the outcome – and whatever we encounter along the way – will ultimately be most appropriate (whether we are aware of this at the onset or not). What is important is what we learn, and that we become more self aware, as the journey unfolds).
This particular journey has a very long history, and such cannot be related within these pages. Readers will become quickly aware that my use of words is not conventional; for example, I would not think of using the word ‘issue’ to signify a problem (although, in current usage we commonly hear it misused in that manner). Yet words are far fuller than their denotations imply, and I tend to choose them with a regard to their history and their specificity. As an example, a location is not the same as a position; if we are considering relativities of space, I would use position (whereas where we are speaking of place, I would choose location). For some, this may seem laborious; yet I submit that, in order to carry what I am attempting to get across, such specificity is necessary. I opened this essay with an observation suggesting that the self is not singular or unitary; much of what I intend to get across is that we fail to comprehend what integrity is largely because we do not distinguish between such words as a unit and an integer (or between many pairs of apparent synonyms). But the journey has been a long one, and should a reader find this essay difficult to follow, it is very likely due to a lack of familiarity with my previous work. This is unfortunate, however should you find yourself in need of further context you might consider first reading this brief history of the awareness that underlies all my recent efforts in sharing: Tisket Tasket
Any student would be familiar with what a term is, however when we treat words as terms, and express ourselves through linguistic terms, we are less confident that we know what they are. A term is essentially a period of time. This, few would be aware, is the basic sense of what is solemn and solitary. The period of time we associate with solemn (in Latin, sollemnis; annual) is a year. What we consider solemn is such because of the religious rites associated with the winter solstice or the terminus of one year (and the beginning of another). Solitude is something I am familiar with: it is the state of (or a term of) being alone. There is an association established between singularity and individuality. Whilst I was experiencing solitude at sea I did not feel alone . . . and was slow to comprehend why. Who am I? Who is any one? I am me, and am individually me. We tend to think of an individual as one who is particular, separate and singular . . . however an individual is neither particular, separate, nor singular. An individual is indivisible. There are two of us, and whilst in solitude we tend to talk together in soliloquy. Together we are an integral self: myself is neither a unit nor a unity. Some would say that this self possesses a strong constitution, however this integrity is not constituent . . . it is not held together by a compact, by a constitution, or even by a solemn vow or covenant. What is integral is such, not by virtue of what binds parts or partners together, but by that which members are bounded by (and encapsulated within). Such an integrity is not divisible: an integrity is individual, and even when cut by a scepter will soon restore such bounds as all that is integral must possess.
Although this may stretch your sense of credulity, (in a manner of speaking) there is the ‘me’ and there is the ‘I’ . . . and there is the integrity of self. Me and I work well together; ‘i’ is the objective, mercurial and spirited member; or, me may be the subjective measurer who is the more handy, practical and emotive of the pair. Although 'me' is usually used as the objective case of 'I,' 'me may also express the integral self in the reflexive case. when we speak of such as intuition, we are acknowledging this reflexive capacity in the context of 'self' (or as 'myself,' as in 'I wash myself'). Some of us are familiar with the constellation of only two stars (the Dioscuri). The integrity of the Dioscuri is not unlike that of each and every self . . . and too often the full bodied ‘son’ overlooks, or fails to maintain regard for, the desiccated and flattened ‘son.’ Castor and Pollux are as Cain and Able, and as every self born of a mother.
What I am attempting to ‘carry across’ to you is that every male or female child is separated from their twin at the moment of umbilical severance. This cannot be proven, and neither can it be demonstrated, yet it is only through such integral living that ‘one’ might begin to truly behold, beware, and believe. Of all the terms we are familiar with, it is that of death that is most feared, least comprehended, and thought terminal. Determination (I suggest to you) is not a means of avoiding termination___ it exists as a comprehension that it is but a term (or a solemn duration of a completed circuit) that we encounter upon death. Of all that we think we understand and know, it is life and being (as well as birth and death) that we least comprehend. For us, nothing is more confusing: at both ends there is a scream of pain and a sigh of deliverance (and, in the end, we sense that the initial and the ultimate are not that distinct, and that such is true of all generational thresholds of transcendence).
We all, each and every integral person, has a destiny; a destiny and a destination that we cannot – indeed, we may not – know. We can but vaguely sense such that is implied by our destiny (as a partially formed awareness). Those amongst us who feel our way toward an uncertain future maintain a sense of such destination that is appropriate . . . and a reflection of who we essentially are; those who look upon themselves exclusively as ‘me’ tend to be more inclined toward plans, have more expectations, and are more judgmental. Their judgments are often relevant to what they should do, or what is ‘best’ for them, and these ‘determinations’ tend to be based upon information. The assumption is that those who are better informed are better able to navigate within uncertainties toward some expected or desired destination. The information (and how it is read) serves to largely determine what (and ‘who’) they become (whether such navigation is successful or not, the information and the manner in which it is read is determinant). For those who feel their way toward less defined goals (and with less expectation) outcomes may be less predictable, however this is largely because the realm of possibility is far more extensive (and where one gets to is less important than whether or not such that they might become is appropriate to their character and their destiny). The destiny is the destination, however it needn’t be thought of as terminal and final.
All of this is not an expression of believe: truly, it is a function of believing. True believers do not believe in things; true believers have either remembered their selves, or have always been aware of their integrity. For myself, this essential integrity was, at long last, remembered. Such persons are rarely found in civil society, yet those who have always possessed such awareness live within groups isolated from, or little influenced by, civilization. Such groups are not tribes, insomuch as they are not tributaries of some or another polis or city. Yet some possess culture, and a knowledge of agricultural technique. An example of such a people is found in the Colombian Andes: descendants of past Tairona culture, known as Kogui. What the Kogui believe is not our focus; their belief is such that it permeates all aspects of their culture and the lives of all members. At the core of their culture is something they call Aluna (an inner ‘world’ of cognitive and musical thought and spirituality). The prime reason they have managed to retain such integral awareness is because their children are not taught knowledge (but comprehension), and all language is oral (yet non-verbal). They refer to all outsiders (who are, without exception, citizens or people participating in civil and civic institutions), as ‘Little Brothers.’ There is no desire to imply that we should (or could) imitate them . . . what I express and emphasize is that it is far more difficult to remember such integral visions than to be initiated within such an integral and comprehensive awareness of self and of all that is integral and natural (that is, relative to birth).
We emphasize the effect of verbal language in literate societies, and especially of verb forms and the adverbial character of nouns. Should you look up the definition of ‘verb’ in a dictionary, you will find that it is a means of expressing a word. Verbal words fit our generally accepted notion of what a word is (as well as our common notion of what meaning is). Verbal words are civil words . . . denominated words that render meaning in a context of polar relationships (such as up/down, true/false, or is/is not). Non-verbal (yet oral) language remains largely nominative, and reflective of names; it is no less dynamic than civil or formal language, however maintains much of the comprehensive character of older words (and their associations with names). Such correspondence as is achieved in pre-civil language enables an improved capacity for comprehension (as distinct from knowledge), and, since they are not denoted, have no denotation. You will (or must, if you wish to comprehend) see that civil and formal language serves to encode a fuller awareness (and each word carrys but a fraction of the significance of poetic or pre-civil words). Verbal expressions must be decoded or de-notated, and even when faithfully translated lack the fullness and rationality of the words that they have almost universally replaced (that is, poetic words that retain both their sense of logos, as rational portions, and their mythos, as their rhythmn and gender). The cost of such loss is Cadmean.
With regard to meaning, the mean may be interpreted as the core, or it may be thought of as the average perimeter or parameter of an expression (that which is expressed, or thrown outward). When we attempt to interpret meaning, what we (in effect) do is to interpolate and extrapolate polar expressions of lexicographic or civic words in context with other such words . . . meaning is therefore both textually and contextually located within a fabric of potential and perceived intention (that is, to reclaim the intent of the speaker or writer). In pre-civil language there is no interpolation or extrapolation . . . the logos and mythos of such words is gleaned from their signature marks and barks. A log that is stripped of its bark (or an animal that is stripped of its hide and fur) is analogous with lexicographic words, and their meaning becomes relative to their shape, or to that of their flattened perimeters). When we attempt to interpret literal meaning, we do such based upon our references of graphic notation, and within a net of what appear to us as perspective probabilities. Such ‘perspective’ is not true perspective, but rather one that sees only an interpolated image of a fuller logos and a rhythmic mythos . . . a log without its signature bark. In spite of this, our thought (and speech) is considered potentially logical. Where I have stated that I am not interested in meaning, I intend to convey that I do not care about such clinical shadows and such significance that lacks so much as a signature.
Our language is encoded as surely as semaphore is a codified method of encryption and decryption (however, with respect to semaphore, we are constantly reminded that it expresses but an encoded message as is noted and knowable). All knowledge is built upon such notations that are formal (drawn from forms, yet lacking form) and supported by informational data. It is a poor substitute for comprehension. You will begin to appreciate how difficult it is to carry across an integral comprehension wherein the only vehicle is that of civil and formal language (along with such analogies as remain comprehensible). In attempting this I repeatedly emphasize the central importance of generations, of analogues between them, and of the essential dynamic.
A dynamic – the dynamic – is (as the word suggests) that which is relative to twin names, and what transpires or respires between them. With respect and regard to the integrity of self, these ‘twin’ names are beheld within the arms of The Dioscuri (or, individually and in the context of a person, those of Self). One of the pair is sharp of taste and pungent of odor, and the complementary member is salty of taste, and bland of odor). We may also refer to them as pointed or acidic, or as basic and alkaline, however they are most familiar to us as blunt (or dry) and whetted (or wet). The dynamic is most active when humid or (as humus and humourous) human. I suggest to readers that the prime relativity with regard to our health is that surrounding our temper and temperament. This is also the prime consideration with regard to both chemistry and alchemy. The curiosity is this: where the objective is determinined (and we are determined to achieve it), we are inviting a termination and punctuation. Such points of punctuation as are terminal are thought to be final. It is curious because we (in effect) invite our own ends and endings whenever we become determined in our pursuit of goals. Such a curious mix of apparent opposites is not confined to punctuation, as it is also visible in our usage of words.
Words – the words we know and commonly use in civil tongues -- are (it turns out) toric. They turn, however they do not turn in flips or in rotations . . . they turn as a cork-screw turns. When we attempt to distill the meaning of any word used in conversation or in dialogue, what we do is attempt to locate (in a temporal context) how the screw is posited with reference to a temporary surface. When plotted upon a graph, as points about a rotating plane, we look upon what is represented as a spiral . . . an equiangular spiral. The words we know and are familiar with are toric, and their meaning shifts as they are turned (and ever more deeply penetrate the medium that enables them). Some words are used in a manner that twists them too tightly: they become too tightly torted (and their mean becomes distorted) as governed by the laws of grammar (or of writing, of other means of grabbing or recording, or of any graphic system of representation). The ‘ideal’ degree of torsion is relative to the portions relating to depth and to breadth___ and that is expressed in rectangular shapes as a length of five units with a width of three units. Each generation of ‘turns’ or tricks is a composite of commas or semi-colons, terminated by a finial ‘period’ of transition into the next generation. This is also the same scheme employed with regard to arithmetic number (wherein one is considered a unit). In the very same manner wherein any number may be thought in opposition to that focused upon as its opposite (expressed as positive or negative, depending upon which is in focus). The same functions with respect to the manner in which we locate words (and interpret their opposites). In mathematics we have opposites and complements, and so also do we in civil language. The degree of departure in the first generation of words or of number is set within quadrants, and one of those quadrants is as a degree or a temporal ‘trick’ at the wheel (punctuated with a comma); after the second trick, we punctuate with a semi-colon; and it is not until all four tricks are performed that we find a terminal punctuation (and the climax of the series). In the next generation our pole or polis is inverted: the initial and leading gender is changed, such that had the whetted end started the toric set, the blunt end would begin (and lead) in the second set. In our schemes, however, we fail to see this complementary set; we skip to the next set of the same sign, pole, or gender as that with which we began. This is no longer toric . . . it is historic. Such neglect tends to distort all, and to perturb the dynamic (as the follower never gets to lead).
All irony is a function of our laying a campus out flat; a campus is the garden of dynamics . . . and it is as a vessel and, especially as a plate or a bowl (depending upon degree or generation). A campus (or ricinto) is not specific to universities or to universal visions; a campus is as a lodge or den surrounded by a field or plot. In applications relative to initiation rites, the central camp is raised or lowered relative to a surrounding field that is flat or plane. It matters not which is utilized, as this is but a matter of perspective. Think of a bowl that is up-right; the central part should be flat and the surrounding sides curve upward. When upside down, the central area remains the flat surface (while the surrounding sides slope downward). One perspective becomes the reciprocal of the alternate: arched or flat, whetted or blunt, acidic or alkaline exist as reciprocals and complements; so also do the twins of the Dioscuri or the Dynamic Duo. But what then of our evaluations of pre-civil comprehensions and the representational schemes of civilization and formal expression? Are they not also complementary?
Yes . . . of course they are. It is our great misfortune that we fail to see them as complements (and yet why we fail to is quite understandable, if not comprehensible). It is civil structures that tend to become exclusively rooted in information, and we fail to see that just because our language is understood, it remains encoded. We lose our capacity for comprehension as a function of our attraction to the common place (the plaza). Ironically, we lose touch with our souls . . . and with our flattened and placental member. With pre-civil persons we do not encounter such an exclusive dependence; we see an emphasis upon spiritual aspects, as well as an exceptional capacity for comprehension and appreciation of both the natural and supernatural. But I must finish with a more comprehensive vision of the curiosity relating to determination and fate.
So much of this is relative to intent and objective. Our objective is not generally seen as our destination . . . and progress is most difficult to ascertain when there is no destination. Our destiny is such that either we manage that destiny or fail to attain it; for myself, I do not pretend to know what is best for me (or even if it is best that I reach such a destination as I might envisage). Although I may know a good deal, and perhaps I might be regarded a good navigator who is experienced in all facets of seamanship, I do not know the essentials . . . however I am coming to comprehend them. It is because I believe that I do not attempt to force outcomes (and prefer to ride the waves without a preoccupation with respect to where they will get me to). Surely I steer my vessel, however I do not sail with an expectation that, through steering alone, I might ever arrive at my destination . . . and know my destiny. I can but feel my way, and steer accordingly.
When the self is aware, it is quite an awakening to realize how little information is required. Take the two main questions asked by God in the Hebrew Book: How do you number the stars in the sky (or the grains of sand in the desert); and how do you pitch your tents? These questions could be answered in many ways, and the responses will tell us a great deal for this very reason. The first question tells something of how numerate and civilized a group is; and the second will tell of how they see their moment in time (and how they view time). Taken together, the answers will enable a very extensive capacity for comprehending the people who are questioned. How would you answer?
All things considered are relative to the stars (are sidereal) as they function as points upon a plane or a firmament. Yet all is not considerate, nor can all be so represented in graphic depiction. Such things that I speak of are more essential, and not located upon whatever surface is current. These more essential observations must be felt, sounded, or intuited (and are not as easily expressed in graphic representations). If my preference tends to favour the more essential and comprehensive approach to living or to being, such is largely because such a thematic and dynamic approach is almost entirely unheard and unheard of in modern society. I would not wish readers to think I lack regard for schemes and schematics; indeed, such is an even more essential mode than that which we associate with comprehension . . . it is relative to the very essence of creativity. The problem that I have with what has become our almost exclusive mode is that such creations cannot now be made upon a blank firmament . . . and all who art artists must recreate upon some media that has already been formatted. The result of such recreation (if you have not already noticed) is toric in the first generation, and increasingly historic in those that follow. Torsion builds, and is followed by contortion and distortion. As artists have always been amongst my favorite people, this has been difficult for me to express . . . however, in a sense, we are all artists (and we are all poets) as all of us make (and take breaks). It is curiosity that keeps us going through all scenes and acts to an ultimate climax. I also have great sympathy for artists, as they tend to feel the effects of torture exceptionally. Yes; we as people are tortured . . . we are the subjects of undue tension and torsion, and it often distorts both our thinking and the contours of our lives. The very best that I can do is to try to remind them – to implore them to remember – that our strutting and fretting is all a part of a necessary fiction that we impose upon ourselves. We do such as a function of our having lost or ignored our integrity.
What I attempt to share (in essence) is a reminder that the siblings we were born with remain as members of our vessels (of our selves). We may not be able to see them, however we can quite easily correspond with them (and get to be familiar with them). What most impedes this capacity is our busy lives (and our pragmatic preoccupation with ideas of magnificence and bounty). When so occupied, we may retain a sense of unity, and of the tributes we are obliged to both pay and be paid by others, however we find it almost impossible to maintain a sense of integrity . . . to grasp and hold an awareness that we are not singular and alone (even when it may appear that we are deserted and without company or friends). My brother is my keeper: he (or she) is my pilot and my most faithful companion. I originally called my other 'half' Sol, and feel that I should retain that initial nomination. This I can keep within my grasp, and I am confident that I may also ‘carry’ it across such that you might also find it is within your grasp as well.
We all have our destines, and we all face our audience at the moment of climax. There is no need to fear this moment, and there is no point in attempting to govern its timing . . . we come slowly to an awareness that time is our friend (and all that happens is happily and beatifically set within time, if only we learn to dance with our Fates).
Thank you,
Bob Hoernel (August 30, 2008)