1600  If the one you are in love with has no time for you, it doesn't matter because you are dealing in Eternity anyway.  Time would surely have gotten in the way, as you have already noticed, no doubt.

 

If he treats the gifts you give him thoughtlessly, he is only not thinking of here, but There where the Gift has already been given by you to him as you and he are non-dual in That.  Your very undesirableness has been changed into the most desired.  It was always so.  The desired has never been what we thought it was.

 

If he paid no attention to your words, your lovely words, then etc. etc.  This line of thought is too easy.  It's all true, extremely true, but the Truth is devastating to the human spirit.  And you will have to wait for it to take you out of here.

 

Sometimes I leave metaphysics and go study computer programming.  That is even more maddening.  Or I study the logic of logic and I read Borges and metaphysics seems fun again to do.  Comfort me with apples and stay me with flagons, for I am sick of love.

 

The East says life is dukkha.  The West says it is nausea.  I know the nausea, because that seems to fit the love obsession that is the West.  Love is so literary.  Nausea is arty.  Throwing up and talking to God is what we do best.  It should be an Olympic event.  Is all this in Eternity as well?  I will not work the dialectic for you.  And maybe it's best if you don't either.  He still has no time for you, and his gift remains there on the chair unattended.

 

 

 

1601  The temptation in love is, we know, to let yourself fall into the sweetness of despair.  To feel sorry for yourself.  To contemplate your own ugliness. To let God see that you worry that He hates you.  This is of course the opposite of faith.  But it is that threshold of the absurdity of faith that Kierkegaard taught us about.  The crying poetry of loss is not a part of the knowledge of God that is immortality.  But it is rational, reasonable, maybe even good sense, compared to that nonsense of faith.  Nostalgic poetry, sad songs, final tragedy is so theatrical.  It is high art.  It is the civilized man.  Everything else is wildness of the spirit.

 

To possess God.  To have the Beloved.  To be the Beloved.  To know God.  To be a god.  To be the husband of Christ as was St. George, is mad.  To have it all.  What could that be?  Why?  It is nerve-wracking.  The sweetness of poetry's giving up.  The comfort of the nothing.  Failure as just failure.  Is so must more respectable.

 

And yet despair is the threshold.  The Knight of Resignation is the hero.  The Hermit Monk escaping from the world out of nausea for it receives the affection of Zarathustra.  Receiving the world is without value, it seems.  When it does come, in God's good time, to receive it gladly is the most difficult.  The most overlooked by the world.  That that is not a spectacle, and we so want to be the spectacle.  Acceptance of the ordinary, the small without any magnificence, the so common fleshy thing, as God is absurd.  There is no poetry there, and we so love poetry.  But philosophy is there.  Being is the beings is there.  The Simple and Existence in all their capital letter nothingness are there.  Difference and Number and Nexus and Set and Fact and Awareness of these and of itself, are there.  Things that surely do not belong on stage.  Things without tragedy or longing or hope, but things I have used so easily to describe the power of the Erotic. 

 

Beyond despair and longing into the most overlooked Logic Form of all things, so close to nothing, God Himself.  An escape from the temptation.  I have tried for the Highest and I have found these most insignificant things.  The Boy going into himself and creating a world – an absurd thing to love, except by the degenerate, it is said. 

 

 

 

1602  Here so far from home, I found a boy from home.  I know and I can feel that I am not so really far from home.  It's only a few hours by plane, get on, eat a couple of meals, take a nap, watch a movie and you're there.  And I am surrounded by people coming and going, familiar people.  But I, in a sense am far away.  There's something in my American way that I don't see here.  Then again, I usually don't see it when I am in America.  It's maybe a thing from literary America.  A thing from out of the Idea of America.  Not any political idea, but something from Whitman or rock and roll or that eternal youth or the open plains or nights alone in a car.  There's something I sometimes spy there that thrills me.  Is it to be seen only there?  I doubt that.  I think, as surely did Whitman, that it is everywhere, hidden by    …… what?  But back to my story.  I found a boy from home.  He seemed to be the boy from right out of the book I had just finished reading.  So maybe I didn't find a boy, but the appearing of the Form of the Boy; I after all hardly talked to this boy I found.  Because the scene was so minimal, he could be that.  God, surely it was that great thing called God, prevented any more.  The passageway from here to There is so tenuous.  Such a thing to fight in its never being enough, in its being far more than we can handle.  I may give him a copy of these words; I may not.  He is somehow one of those new watch-out-for-yourself boys.  The great openness is closing up.  Or I was there and I have forgotten.  Maybe I am just far from my own youth.  Inwardly, he is surely me.  Though I am now almost old, but what's the point of that?

 

God is in all this.  As God is in everything here in the old writings on the other side of the world.  And as He appears so delightfully in the faces and around the waist of the boys sitting and studying Him, face close to Face, lips to Lip, curls sliding inextricably into Curl.  The things here with That Thing.  They are non-different.  The logic is exactly the same.

 

Because the boy, the Boy, for me, is logic, the Logos, and because logic is one everywhere, he with Him are/is right here.  The oneness is tight.  The inseperableness is almost unthinkable.  The love swells up into my chest too much for comfort.  My body will be wracked tomorrow, and I will probably spend the day in bed.  And I will be obsessed with thoughts of him.  Tension and release.  Hardly a story at all.         

 

 

 

1603  The boys I met in a Moslem shop downtown seemed instinctively to understand a deep sensuality of life.  A seller of perfume, in his father's shop.  Two more who came in to buy a book on chess, one dark and I could swear he was actually saying, Come, we will go to your place.  Eventually I said ok lets go and he said tomorrow at three o'clock.  Beauty, sex and intelligence.  I went home took a nap and woke up with my head spinning, wondering how my Christian theological mathematical mind could ever handle such right there embodiment of all that poetry I love. 

 

Things like this are always dangerous.  I think they were hoping they could manipulate me into helping them get a visa for the USA.  I can't.  My head is turbulent because I can’t, and that I will be of no use as a possibility for them, but that I will use the situation.  When they finally understand the fix they are in, the sensuality will turn to the inevitable quick sudden thought of spiritual violence.   Sensuality always turns to violence.  The most sublime spiritual sensuality always turns to the most violent intellectual violence.  Right there the kingdom of heaven will have suffered violence.  It is well known.  The world is of a piece.  Emanations emanate.  The violent will have taken it by force.  No one understands it well.

 

Earlier in the day I saw a boy sitting on the step, bare smooth legs, shorts riding up, wide, his genitals hanging right there in my mind so strongly.  I was undone.  I walked on with difficulty.  The easy powerful violence of a mere boy on me convinced me that I should … a hundred things came to mind, none of which I remember.  No doubt it was a spiritual confluence that day.  The day before I wrote about the brown smoothed-skin, black-curl tressed Sankara.  I am eating Jesus.  How am I going to talk to those pundits who only know about going home to their wives?  Theology wavers and I shake inside my body.  No one notices from out there.

 

There is no difference between this and the trouble I have speaking the non-difference of existence and the Paramatman from my existence and this heavy breathing I have become right here.  What is talk of mukti now?   Now Release and release rattle back and forth.  The rope really was a Serpent, a rattlesnake from home.  These cowboys of the spirit are leading me on to somewhere.

 

My mathematical existence has managed well.  This eucharist is right nicely handled by the logos.  The fumes perdure.

 

 

 

1604  Philosophy is violence.  I have written that since I started writing.  I am afraid of it.  Is that the fear of God?  Is it my inevitable thoughts of the incarnation?  Is the Spirit set to destroy the fallenness of this world?  I stand in the middle of the road as it comes blaring toward me like my Father's semi-truck.

 

The love of boys, paiderastia, is always condemned by the society needful of order right now.  The boy's mind will be fit only for the cowl and the repetitions found only in the monastery.  He will find himself repeated in hard intensity in the Sentences laid out in such great bound order.  He eventually dies.  After the lover dies.  God was working and no one in the world saw.

 

Young Moslem boys working their ways on pale Christian minds have it all over us.  Germany tries to help the Hindu Aryans, hoping they will help them overcome the approaching thing from the desert, fumes throughout the mind.  Jesus, we are being eaten in our eating you.  Were you really as sensual as these Moslem boys?  I know you were as violent as we feel them threatening to be.  We have been not a little violent is the massive movement of our thinking, your thinking, white blond boys looking for others the same in the park at night.  I find myself in the mix.

 

If boy-love is outlawed, so should be philosophy.  The spiritual violence is the same.  It is the same one thing.  Words tear things apart.  Life becomes obsessive.  The same few words are repeated repeated.  The mind repeats itself in words repeated.  Philosophy comes to no end.  No good end.  The Good is not the merely good.  The Difference makes you different and society watches and you mustn't blink.  Plato and Greek beauty power captured the world and the intellectual world.  So many have tried to find an alternative.  The boy gods of Greece will not go away.  Even scholars are beginning to mention them quietly.  Rock and roll stars dazzle.  The boy in his room performs for himself.  He has studied and studied and now knows how.  The Great Thing returns. 

 

We all know that in the end the walls of the polis, the republic, will not be enough and come tumbling down.  The surge into the Unlimited will be the Surge that always was and Eternity will be right there. So gently, so easily understood, so erect.  After that, who knows?

 

I assume we are all intellectual grown-ups here, and you are acquainted with this philosophical thing I am talking about.  These are philosophically dangerous times, even more than usual.

 

 

 

1605  "I am not what you suppose, but far different."  This talk of a Uranian love.  Of the very Aphroditos himself appearing in these Christian words.  Of Brahma calling for the Saki-boy.  Of the lovely-shouldered Buddha sitting smiling for the one long night in Bangkok.  This whole intellectual sphere is enough to make a hard man humble.  The spirit tumbles down.  Somewhere over to the side on a lovely open plain, I walk alone, thinking, in the yellow green dusty light of the times when the tornadoes are at hand, calmly thinking into this logos-filled heartbreaking Super-presence.

 

Of course you know that the I mentioned there is you and that one over there you have been eying and everyone "silently sleeping and being carried eternally."  We are all far different.  "…these leaves conning you con at peril " for these leaves and me and you will understand. 

 

Walt and Alan and I have just come back from grocery shopping and from eying the stock boys and the stock boys eyeing the stock boys and the Eyeing Eye of God was everywhere.  It was a lovely time within time bending around.

 

Suppositions and superpositions and superimpositions and Super-Being alone lying with itself through the long night cumdreams so very real.  It would be absurd to consider such a powerful Kiss from such a beautiful Lord to be merely illusion.  One cannot deny the obvious without peril.  I fear the truth.  My principles and convictions will have to give way.  He is here.  Ya Hu. The Nightingale is buried deep in the rose.  The boy has been captured.

 

I should write of the Destruction of the City.  Shahrashub.  The katalogos would lovingly gather together and tumble down.  Stock boys, clock boys, rock boys, dock boys, cross-eyes sock boys.  Ambergris running down.  From his locks onto me.  The city shakes. 

 

I remember what I see for future reference.  But usually I remember only one glance, one word, one nod, the one eternal appearing of things philosophically poetic, it's too much, the city cannot stand, He is everywhere I look I walk I talk I turn.  I burn.  The city is destroying itself.

 

Nothing new appears except the ever new appearing.  This is all an eternal writing.  I write of nothing else than the eternal.  All hope of novelty or creativity or new reconstructions of former constructions is abandoned.  The Boy from outside everything I have previously thought and planned and decided is once again here to bring himself and I am now screwed up.  That and the Eternal go out dancing so well.  The splendid intellectual night is on.  Why does He always insist on parting his hair in the middle and wearing that red hat?  He will soon roar.

 

 

 

1606  Inevitably my words descend into the flesh.  "Descend" is surely not the right word, but they do fall with a philosophical falling into the dusky night.  And you see that I mark time with comments and considerations and reflections of myself.  Can I go on into a surging Resurging as He did?  The Moslems say I am idolatrous.  I did it for love.  They understand that.  So I will go on. 

 

If my words and I descend into the flesh and ink and equally inevitably into the sacrifice and become anathema, then will they and I suffer also the twisted interpretation insisted upon by our defenders who have also fallen?  I may not have defenders nor my words readers.  That may be my sacrifice.  I have no say in the matter.  I long to be of use. 

 

The descent is not for the purpose of ridding oneself of that to which you descend, but to save it.  The flesh is sublimated.  Canceled and there it is again perfect.  The eternal was always right there as that.  I'm not going to try to explain it and inevitably screw it up and ruin the mystical.  So many philosophers start out so well, establishing the sure foundation from which to see the heights.  Then they build and construct systems and ladders and the structures rise to nowhere but their own complications ever more complicated going nowhere.  The mystical is lost sight of.  The Fall.  It all begins again.  I have tried to save all those old decrepit philosophies.  I too am decrepit.  The Boy is here, transfiguring us all.  Such a clamor.   

 

The only way this transfiguration can take place is if it doesn't take place.  Rather it must be a thing from outside time and you know what I mean even if you think you don't.  Sin was just your own not being able to not sin.  An impossibly twisted thought.  You were correct all along.  There's nothing to prove or overcome or get rid of.  He was always just you.  You were one all the time, time that wasn't even in time.  Faith is absurd.  Go with it. 

 

That greatly easy so difficult moment when the vedantist knows he is Brahma, when Sankara has said no more than the obvious to everyone, when he can finally go back to his hut and sleep and not worry any more about saying the impossible to say.  When his commentators leave him alone at last.  When maya was only maya, and his Beloved offers nothing more for him to complain about.  

 

When Manjushri and Jesus and the Curly-headed Youth spend the Night of Splendor together in the rush of the heavy Breathing.  They are that.

 

 

 

1607  If a pair of boys are standing before you, and they are lovers and they tell you that they are not two, you understand, but your understanding shakes and you almost don't understand, perhaps you will never understand.

 

If those two are identically one, then their being two is cancelled.  But it is an eternal canceling and they are always those two being cancelled, and the transformation is held in breathless suspension.  Always between, they are the nexus of two into one.  On the edge of time.  Not yet in time.  The ground of time.  Timeless.  Almost.

 

It cuts like a knife.  The tingling mingling pain.  In the subtle delicacy of a thing finer than thought.  A thing of Being itself.  That thing approaching.  It will surely come here soon.  The red blood covers everything.  There's no stopping it. The sacrifice never was and always is.  This is the simple thought of a boy.  He has known it all from eternity.  He has gone into himself and out of himself so many times.  He is the nexus of the two and the one.  He is the other one with him.  He is the lover of that one.  He has crossed across to him eternally.  He is the Kiss.

 

All of this is known by you.  And it was known by you when you were a boy.  You are no more than that now.  Your sophistication and your being beyond that is just your attempt to escape from the intensity of the ticklish itch and the dew gathering on the sprouting wings.  You and he together one boy.  What more is the Self?  The two in the one.  You are that. 

 

This pair of boys that are not two is, of course, an abstraction.  I have forcibly pulled them out of the world where, I am sure, they would have been crushed to death.  I am somewhere on the side here in this new world outside the world, watching.  Few things are here.  It is a great calm vastness.  Other abstractions float by.  Like jewels suspended in the thick darkness.  I can drink in the night.  The light is liquid.  The redness of the cut from the knife of love seeps through my tongue into my chest.  I am in myth.  In my speaking now I complete the mathematically unspeakable.  I dream the algebraic variable, the mere nothing that is.   

 

This pair is speaking to you and I am watching.  Who are we?

 

 

 

1608  This pair is speaking to you and I am watching.  Who are we?

 

You and I are human beings confronted by something not human.  We are conscious beings in front of something that may not be conscious.  It is frightening, because it, in its being something other than consciousness, is more than consciousness.  These are the controlling Forms.  They are the Eternal Things that we have shyly tried to think out of existence, but have failed.

 

Deep in the Self is that that is not consciousness.  Deep in the Self is that Breath that is not the Self at all.  Beyond the merely impersonal is a personal thing that knows you without knowing you through consciousness.  That is not itself but is you.  And you fall away from your self in its invading you to become you.  That thing takes your consciousness and your very self away.  You become what it was.  You are hair standing on end.  If only the electric thing would shoot out.

 

These philosophical lovers long for the silence of the desert, the great empty sunlit vastness.  The heat.  The inorganic.  The shimmering mirage.  In the twisting air.  In the centripetal whirling.  Uniting.  Thought collapsed into thought.  The Unthinking. Touch melting onto touch.  The shiver of flesh resonating with the pure oxygen of flesh.  He and he are just the him of my imagination.  I am that.  As you are the pure object of my desire.  These words that are the double of me.  I am that, my Beloved.

 

 

 

1609  Good writing is impersonal.  And it is personal.  It is neither, but it is some strange thing that is beyond both.  There is nothing, no thing, that is beyond both.  It is a philosophical thing.  It is so very hard to write.  You must be that hard thing to write it.

 

In that time when your lover looks at you.  He doesn't want anything.  He wants you.  His words become just words.  His looking is just his looking.  He is hard and turbid and his mind is in him.  His consciousness is now consciousness.  He has become each thing in itself as it is in itself.  He is the Real.  The weakness is gone.  That is it.  You are the object in is mind.  You are just that, completely that.  You are the real thing he sees and wants.  His taking you is the real taking itself.

 

This is your lover as a person, but now become the Form that he is.  Mind is mind in him.  He is that thing named He.  His knowing is Knowing and it is all over you.  Desire lies all over him.  You can see that thing itself right there.  This is It.

 

That these pure Forms in Being should be so desirable, so sexual, and yet the end of the intellect's search is baffling to the intellect.  He wanted someone like himself.  He found himself almost unconscious, in something like death, pure flesh, no more than heavy rhythmical breath.  Time gathered and weighted and stopped right there.  He couldn't move.  He wanted and wanted to be in and to be that one there.  The swelling up was immense.  He dreamed and dreamed and dreamed.

 

The One went powerfully into itself and became that.  The mathematical became erotic.  That is the only end to our philosophy.  Writing is you drawing a heart on the soft flesh of that hand that will soon move around you.

 

 

 

1610  There is nothing that is both consciousness and object of consciousness, that is both personal and impersonal, both mathematical and erotic.  But there is a third beyond both.  That controls both.  That is the end of both.

 

Philosophy himself sits there pensively, figuring, falling, finding a way out.  He becomes you.   

 

This is all a maddening loveliness beyond.  He is the one thing that is the two of you together cancelled.  Look, and the doubling doubles four faces four arms one slender waist, waiting for you to fall in love with this completed loving of himself in you.  You, of course, are trapped.  His hands are all over you.  He sees you everywhere. 

 

Philosophy must speak mathematically.  Numbers and logical connectors fly around.  Images and the thing in itself.    Perfection and waiting.  And it must also speak erotically.  The loveliness of the purely open.  Together that is the Boy.  He lies on his bed naked doing his algebra.  The arcs and tangents lie about his legs.  Infinitesimals glint in his eyes as he sees himself in his mirror.

 

Philosophy must speak impersonally.  Universals lie all about in the world.  We are moved.  To write philosophy is to reveal that movement.  It is to be that movement.  Even the reader.  I and You are enmeshed and trapped.  But it is Him.  His hair.  His matted skin.  His dusky form.  He is a thing.  Smell him and taste him and eat him, and swell up and faint in your not fainting twirl and twirl and roar.  Write.

 

Philosophy must be the object of my consciousness.  And consciousness is the topic of my philosophy.  But I abandon both and myself and I wait for Him.  I see nothing.  Surely in that nothing He waits.  I will meet Him there.  Beyond myself.  Beyond knowing.  Beyond philosophy's figuring.  In the painful uniting of lovers that finally comes.   I wait for it.  I will be thrown against that.  And into the whirlwind.  I will land under Him.  On that topos, on that tarmacand place, my dark heavy fainting will come into me.

 

 

 

1611  My understanding of Heidegger is this.  Being is not here.  Perhaps it left, just abandoned us.  Perhaps, like a lover, it is playing I hide you seek and I let myself be found, it works every time.  We, on the other hand, know this game well, having played it ourselves so many times.  We will win.  You will see that we just give up.   You will worry that we were hurt too much by your absence and you will come back.  It's a lovely dangerous game.  It's life.  It's love.  It's sheer philosophy.

 

So now that Being is "gone", just out of sight, watching to see that we really are playing this game, we talk about Him all the time.  We talk and talk and talk and it's all empty.  Of course it is – He's "gone".  How could things be without Being?  But we really do feel his absence.  This game at least is real.  The absence, even if not real, is real.  Any lover who has played this game knows the real worry and the real pain of this silly absence.  Why do we have to play this game anyway?  Love's play is the sharpest piercing in the heart.  And so we talk and talk and talk trying to forget and cover it up and get on with things.  Surely we are beyond all that now, we insist.  Surely all this absence is the way things really are – nothing.  Idle talk, painfully empty talk, waiting for the game to be over. 

 

Surely Being will return and things will be real and really there again.  Imagine what it will be like.  No more mere concepts, but the real thing itself digging right into your waiting eyes, shimmering right there before you, lounging, inviting you to discard all those clothes and right there existence, shining naked Being, will be yours.  No more folded up hidden, but unfolded open ready for your hand to easily move all over that lovely rising and falling straight up thing.

 

Heidegger and the lovely Jesus reunited.  That is all he ever wanted.  Maybe now in that dark forest he has found the place, Da-Da, of encounter.  He was resolved, and I insist he was revolved and dissolved right into that.  Those German boys can be so pretty at night.  But you know that. 

 

Jesus is that too.  Surely there really is no free will.  Heidegger was forced to go where he was led.  Being is in control of this whole game.  He became game. 

 

 

 

1612  My understanding of Sartre is this.  Our passion for the unity of Being and non-being, for God, is forever unsatisfied.  Yes, of course, it is.  There is no unity of those two, which really are not two because one of them doesn't exist at all, but somehow is there.  It's impossible to speak.  Non-being is mysterious.  Being is mysterious.  The mathematics doesn't hang together.  Nothing works.  Philosophy collapses.  But we are eternally haunted by what might have been, except that's not right either.  Sartre has a way with words.  I like it.  Others hate it.  Is anyone indifferent to it?  He writes and writes and writes.  He had no desire for boys.  He was a lady's man, but that doesn't mean he did anything with them or could, nor that he didn't or couldn't.  He was a writer; that may have been his passion or where his passion situated itself; it's hard to say.  Sartre isn't anywhere in his writings.  His non-existing mind never achieved enough being for me to see it.  He wasn't God.  I have no passion for Sartre.  He completely misunderstood Genet, but his book on him is fun to read.  Sartre is kind of a prude.  His poetic completion of the mathematical failure of philosophy is maybe only cute.  He pisses me off.  He's easy to imitate.  I have done it.  Boys have been frightened at my Sartrean analysis of their own emptiness.  It came to nothing.  Boys like to be frightened; they do it to themselves all the time.  It's addictive, just like reading Sartre.  Throw it against the wall.

 

Sartre's philosophy hangs together real well, unlike Being and non-being.  What's up here?  I bet he was real nice as a boy; I love cross-eyed intellectual boys.  Maybe that's why he thought the world didn't unite with itself.  I think I have the same problem.  It's in my family.  It gives me headaches.  Nonetheless, I think my eyes slightly turn in, not out.  Maybe that difference is the source of my difference from him.  He pisses me off.  He didn't dream about boys, and he spent his philosophical time trying to defeat those who do.  So what?  Maybe he had bad dreams about them.  Still his philosophy hangs together real well.  So much for hanging together well. 

 

Sartre is a scholar.  The war made him an elegant scholar.  Simone tried to prove his point.  I suppose she did.  He still pisses me off. 

 

 

 

1613  My understanding of Nietzsche is this.  The magnificence is all gone.  That boy sitting over there is your God now.  He knows all there is to know.

 

This isn't all bad, however.  Surely he will lead you out into the beautiful starry sky.  The things in his room are strewn about and he's amazed, even obsessed, with himself.  He intuitively knows what tastes good.  He knows that he himself tastes good.  You can be his friend only if you are him.  It's easy.  He's been lying there talking to you all night.  The day will never come.  He will.  He's all there is.  He knows that you and he are not two at all.  He himself is strewn all over his room.  He is the closing in.  That simple thing has become the great God.  You knew he would.  So God died.  Hold him.  Kiss him.  Carry him back to heaven.  Become his life.  Become Him.  Though you are just the boy you always were, you are surely Him.  You have always known all this. 

 

Maybe this is Emerson.  He and Nietzsche are easily confused.  Maybe it's Jesus in the least of these.  Nietzsche is just the inside of the cross.  He is John decked out in jewels.  When the magnificence left the lyrical came.  Nietzsche is a liar and a lyre and a lair and a lieer on soft beds.  His magnificence is only that he was a lonely pretty preacher's kid.  Dreamy creamy beamy enchanted by the seamy side.   His lies are a boy's fantasies.  The Greeks would have been equally amazed. 

 

I have a lot more to say about Nietzsche, but maybe we should all just leave him alone for a while.  Let him sleep.  He has to work his way out of madness. 

 

 

 

1614  Being returning to Heidegger, just like the lovely lights and songs of Christmas, shining blond hair, flushed cheeks, so lithe and blithe he will belie the lust in his heart.  Sehr lustige Knaben tumbling off the bed down the stairs candle lights star light a flight right into the black forest.  He's been waiting.  Twinkling eyes.  Big dick.  Heidegger is at home.  Now that's that Greek thing.

 

The Greeks were so lovingly immersed in the mathematical. Tied up tight with arcs and chords and piercing radii veering off into a plenum of tangents.  It was too much.  The itch in the sweat in the swelling breaking out wings and feather dust and head swirling, just sweet calm Apollos everywhere you looked.  In the Logos laid out and gathered together and in that surely they ravishingly are.  Being is here.

 

When Being returns all the heartbreakingly beautiful logical connectors appear. Surely around your now alluring perfect waist, the well-formed, like for like, a match.  The Flame grows.  And the fag end of the syllogism meets another and the night is on.

 

I am after all writing plain old ordinary philosophy.  My concern is to find the ground of logical form, that that must be, maybe even the necessarily existing.  I ask you, How could that perfect one not come again?  The deepest impossibility.  A certainty deeper than argument can reach.  The boy just knows. 

 

The ground on which the Logos walks, lies down, gets up from, measures so precisely, against which he dances his scandalous dance, is no other than your heart.  The logicians and mathematicians move feverishly over the infinite dimensions of the open topos of that celestial, ordinary boy's body.  That's called love.  In graduate cubicles they are going mad.

 

 

 

1615  I have read so many times that in ultimate knowledge there is no subject-object distinction.  There is no ultimate knowledge.  There is only knowledge.  It is true that some things lie ontologically deeper than others, but all things that exist simply exist.  As for whether or not there is something that is the one thing of subject and object being together, I think there is such a thing. 

 

Whenever I think about the nexus of subject and object, I am that one thing.  All my thoughts are simple things.  A thought is one thing.  Thus the world in thought is one.  The thought of the world is a simple thing.  The thought of the close togetherness, the nexus, of thought and world is one simple thing.  Look at your thoughts!

 

Thoughts exist.  The mind exists.  What is many in the world is one in the mind.  That's an ancient formula from Aristotle.  Surely it is true.  And the closeness of thought and world is very close.  Closeness, however, is not the same as being one thing.  Thought of the closeness is one thing.

 

The distinction of subject and object is just as much an existing thing as is subject and object together one thing.  Existence is existence. 

 

Likewise, if I think of a universal or a particular as just that, as though separated from all else, or even as separated from all else, then that thing and my grasping at it are two and not one, though they also have that lovers' closeness. 

 

If I think of that above sentence, then that is one thought.  In that thought the grasping and the grasped and everything else mentioned there are one thought.  In consciousness there is that oneness.  But the thought and the separate things are not one.  Though the thought of their not being one is one.  That's the way the world is.  Mind is one and the world is many.

 

Does the manyness of the world make it not be?  What can I say?  Surely existence belongs to unity and the purely many without unity is nothing.  Does the manyness of the world require the oneness of mind to be?  Are complex facts nothing and only the simple things constituting them something?  Facts, complexities, are maybe entities, though not things.  From Latin to German.  Perhaps.  Thinking is rough going here.  There is a real mysteriousness here.  To dismiss it by labeling it inferior knowledge is merely a low attempt at high arrogance.  All knowledge is won with difficulty.  None of it is to be even slightly slighted.

 

 

 

1616  The temptation toward simplicity and even emptiness in philosophy has been so strong.  In a way every philosophy thinks it is yielding willingly.  But along the way it finds the thought of stumbling on riches another alluring hook.  I call the first a temptation because from out of the love of richness, which I have, the emptiness looks, not like the desert, which is full of jinn and lovers' tents, but to be the sweetness of the pain of loss, eternal loss.  If nothing exists then that too is permitted.  The weakness of crying from weakness.  This is the simplicity of not having to put up with the demands of love.  The emptiness of rejection accepted.  There is no magic nor dialectic that will turn this into anything other than what it is.

 

The simplicity and emptiness that really is desirable is that that is the secret place of riches.  In the desert and open sky of God swirl the infinite forms.  The infinite intimacies.  The infinite instances of That right there.  Differences dividing.  All the veerings off to something else.  It is a plenum just as water is a secret hardness. 

 

The world has been given and we must accept it.  It is there.  To reply that it couldn't exist because it is too fantastic of a thing, that to believe in it would make a fool out of us, is intellectual weakness.  To reply that it is too painful of a thing in having to deal with it, that love of its Infinite Presence is a challenge that is too rough, is spiritual weakness.  That the god in it is too demanding and tricky and inconsiderate of our weaknesses is not a world but the destruction of everything that could be a world.  It seems that everything works against itself.  That too is the world and the lover who complains and pretends to walk away is a part of it, or apart from it, as much as anything is.

 

And when the riches become nauseating things, as they will, and you simply walk out of the burning house into the cool night, that too is philosophy.  But if the Lover is out there waiting for you, it all begins again.  Even as absolute union with Him, He is the world.  And the words you will use to speak to yourself now are Him.  The words twist and twist and keep on through the night.  The hook is in.

 

 

 

1617  To distinguish between an existent, call it an entity, and a simple thing is demanding ontology.  A complex entity is not a simple thing.  Somehow I and I think everyone who speaks English, and probably the speakers of every other language, think that an entity is also a simple thing.  Simplicity and thingness are in entity, aren't they?  Can I twist around my thinking to see it otherwise?  It seems I must, otherwise how am I going to think of "a" complex "thing"?  Or of facticity, complexity, structuredness, a world?  The difference between simple and complex lies deep.  To say that the one exists and the other doesn't is attractive, as Parmenides is attractive, but full of difficulty, as was Parmenides as he watched himself speaking his ideas, I'm sure.

 

Fact is not one of its constituent things, it is not a thing at all and it is radically different from anything that is a thing just because it is a fact grounded totally by things.  Facts and things both exist, both are entities.  Still, when I think of fact aside from "its" things, what am I thinking of.  My mind reels.  A reeling mind, though, is not the disproof of anything.  Fact is of Being, so to speak, and that is that, so to speak.  All the mistakes, difficulties and Glories of Philosophy flow from that.  The boy figuring figures himself into what he is.  The Boy is there.  These two, flying trying buying sighing lying crying tying themselves into one thing may make it after all.  Stay tuned.

 

The Iowa prairie totally unfolded spread out gently rising and falling dry dusty threatening green yellow whirling muggy rising flaming lightening flash of knowing clash of two becoming just that one with itself non-thing.  It's a fact.  The boy is up in his room.  His curtains are beginning to blow.

 

 

 

1618  Sometimes some people try to make some distinction or other between being and existence.  As they usually intend it, there is no such thing. They usually give existence to things that are out there individual and real.  Ordinary things that we can pick up and throw.  Not to the images of the imagination, ontological abstractions, projections in any time direction, cognitive constructs, feelings, sensings, forbodings, and on and on and on.  Being, on the other hand, is somewhat of a charged philosophical word, people somewhat like it, and, they think, maybe it could be used for all those things that are in our life but are too weak to be seen as existing.  The word Being still retains some of its nobility and power and right to be something even in this technical world.  Weakly so, so unlike its former self.

 

This distinction between existence and being is entirely wrong.  There may be some real distinction there, but it is not named by these two great old words.  I will try to give a better, more classical, definition, always remembering the caution against trying to define either of them.

 

All ontological things exist.  That is the game of ontology.  Aside from their existence, that is to say, without their existence, they are beings.  Ontology, though, has more than things.  There are also the complexes make out of, constituted by, the things. If the nexus is a thing among those constituents, then if the complex is made out of that and other things, then the "made out of" and the "constituted by" or whatever aren't things.

 

Complexes and the non-existent nexus between them and the things.  That is a piece of philosophy empty of both thing and complex, so very subtle, a thing of Being. 

 

Such a use of the word Being is close to myth.  It is not metaphor.  But the mind reels because it knows that it has stepped over the line beyond good analysis.  Nonetheless, this is philosophy, as it has always been done, and even in the eternal myth that has always been with it.  I have not made a mistake. 

 

The things of ontology are there in the world, but when the ontologist contemplates them, they seem to hang somewhere out of the world alone, and he is there with them.  That is pure vertigo for the ontologist.  Some cannot take it and nominalism sets it, or he wants it to.  Nominalism is impossible and the philosopher is more alone.

 

 

 

1619  The things of philosophy, the very things that are supposed to ground the possibility of the world we see, are so very different from the world, and are unknown to most of those living in the world.  It is Jesus coming to his own and them not recognizing him.  Is that really the way things are supposed to be?  The ground and the grounded so far apart, even farther apart because they are not apart at all?  The philosopher is caught.  He is between one thing. 

 

This writing you are holding, so full of eternal elements, ontological things abounding, inside and outside of existence, is, nonetheless, just this piece of writing.  The difference is maddening.  The problem, if there is a problem here, and there somehow surely is, is not solved by denying it because ontological things are after all just nothing.  A problem is solved immanently, transcendentally, magically, geometrically, dialectically, subtly or wonderfully, but not by denying it.  Being is alive, and will not be denied.  You must enter into the labyrinth of its thought.  Paradox, confusion and entanglement are not cut as a Gordian knot, but perhaps with a kiss.  The instrument of dissolution is there, somehow you must find it.  This writing speaking of itself, taking itself apart, is.  In the meaning of its words and it is all that.

 

 

I have lived the difference between philosophy and the everyday world.  I have written about little else.  Being of neither, it isn't anything.  Philosophy has never been anything other than that.  Just as a lover isn't anything other than his love.  Crazy thought. 

 

The ground gives way to the grounded.  Then ungrounded, except in the abgrund, the grounded gives way to the ungrounded ground nowhere at all leaving only the stars scattered senselessly.  Thought fails in its success. 

 

I hang on to the beautiful god who isn't there as anything in the world, but who is the Being and the lovely Form of the world, even its destruction of thought, and I fall as mad. 

 

I will not deny the problem I face by saying that here I have what I want.  No, here I live in pure fantasy, but I am a philosopher, I know Being, and the ages will not let you say that is nothing at all.  I am very sane in my madness.  My madness is only a philosophical thing.  That too is nowhere here.

 

 

 

1620  Philosophical arguments feel so convincing if you are convinced already.  No one is ever argued into a conviction.  Conviction is always the result of a crime, of daring, of a fault, a weakness, a tragedy that came long ago and now it has been transformed into the most abstract thought.  This is High Philosophy.

 

Finally belief runs deep.  No argument can reach those depths.  In the stillest waters, the philosopher drowns the most horrible death.  The breath is gone.  But some say that it is finally quite pleasant. 

 

I have no idea why I like the type of philosophy that I like.  No doubt, God did it to me.  I have no idea why.  I have no idea why I look the way I do.  Yet my philosophy and my appearance are completely me.  I can't even think of being different.  I suppose I can imagine being someone else, but I know intimately that that person isn't me and will not be.

 

Maybe we automatically find the ideas that suit us, or we are lead to the writings.  I don't know.  I can easily make it make sense.  So, because I think it, it is a thing of existence, though I can also think the opposite. 

 

I am what I am from out of what I am, from out of myself.  I do believe that; I always have.  Others believe otherwise.  I am not going to convince them otherwise, but I will nonetheless write my arguments assertively, because I am also that.

 

A philosopher presents his arguments, and he always will because he is looking for a kindred spirit.  He may not find one.  That is the worst pain.

 

It is certainly depressing to think that your arguments are for nothing.  It is certainly delightful to know that there may be that one who delightfully believes everything you say.  Delight with delight, so much light.

 

A philosopher will have his followers, and they will follow him even when he completely changes his mind, because they were no doubt equally ready for the change.  Is there a pre-established harmony here?  Those who reject the change were not his true followers anyway.  If the philosopher dies or gives up his followers will have to change his mind for him.

 

Philosophy cannot remain unchanged.  The Boy in control of this madness will not sit still long.  The still waters will stir.  The spirit strikes.

 

 

 

1621  In that great plentitude, the Plenum, of realism, can the philosopher also find the Mukti, the release that the Eastern religions so insistently aim for?  Is the philosophy coming from Greece too much of a thing of the lover and not the possessor of the wisdom necessary?  It seems to me that there must be something the same in Mukti and the Freedom that is of Truth.

 

As I see it, the highest regions of Being, like the peaks of the Himalayas, are pure and uncluttered.  There, Simplicity and sunyata can be surveyed all around.  The lover wants the secret place away from the world.  He wants unity with the Beloved.  He wants that exquisite moment beyond existence and thought.  And even though he uses such romantic and poetic words to describe the final thing, the words are no worse than the quasi-technical words of the Shastras.  Both logic and love end in a blank, even a blanking out.

 

The Easterner climbs up through great commentaries and levels of Mind and the absence of Mind.  The Westerner through argument and the treasure chests and deserts of Being.  They reach the same unspeakable thing. 

 

The God boy that I write of leaves me outside both.  The child of poverty and plenty knows it all.  He is a third beside the two.  More than the Plenum, less than the emptiness, he is neither.  He is the city street away from gardens and mountains and desert.  He is the carnival and the banker's transaction.  He is the Question and the questionable. 

 

The Truth that sets free and the Freedom that is given is confusing.  It is momentarily there and then it is gone.  It is real, definitely real, and something that would never be abandoned by one enslaved to it, but that slave's head swirls in an avalanche of thought falling from the Spirit's Himalayas.  He becomes a Dervish spinning.  Unity is achieved.  The great psychologism of the commentaries is vanquished.

 

I don't look for silence and emptiness.  I look for the lovers' unity and the ecstasy.  Beyond nirvana, there is Desire rising again and the piercing.  Mukti finds the Real.

 

 

 

1622  [GLS1] The problem I am having in this philosophy is how to think the complex.  In a philosophy of atomism, what is the complex?  It is even difficult for me to state the problem.  Of course it is. 

 

If existence, philosophical existence, belongs to the ground and not to the grounded, then what is the grounded as something different from the ground?  The philosophical being of the one is in the other.  The ground of the fact that the ink of these words is black is the universal we name as Black.  The fact is something we have with us everyday, the universal is thought about only by philosophers.  The universal in its universality, when considered and pondered, is intellectually magic and because of that, insofar as you like or dislike such magic, attracts you or repels you.  And on and on with even more abstract ontological things until the whole Garden of lovely beings so unlikely here overtakes all your sensibilities, and you accept this or reject it depending on your allergies to such things.

 

Perhaps you do accept it and you walk enchanted through the Garden, but, nonetheless, you look for a quiet spot seemingly away from the swelter of noonday into a simple thought of one thing.  That spot does exist, and it could be that there, there waits for you someone or something you can at last kiss and forget everything.  Of course depending on your sensibilities.  Philosophy forces no one.  Except the one He forces greatly.

 

But back to my problem.  As you can see I easily let myself get carried away by some spirit present.  I want to survey the distance between here and there where I am put.  It is a commonplace in certain story telling to speak of one's heart being located somewhere other that where the speaker is.  Even the heart of the King or Prince or whomever is sometimes far away on an island surrounded by great barricades and ferocious animals and other impossible to cross guardians guarding it from harm.  In the end it is left unguarded and it is captured and devoured.  Is that philosophy?  The philosopher's heart is far away, but it is right here as heaven and God are right here, and we are all undone.  Even sacrificed as victims in some horrible religion unless that God and heaven rescue us.  Fairy stories are gruesome.  I have tried to write the place and the One away from that.  The nausea and the death that are in the facticity of fact are the problems.  God grounds the world, but the world in its not being God, isn't.  Non-being, or an impossible being together of Being and non-being, is never acceptable.  How to think that is mystery. 

 

I want to ground the world in my philosophy, but I want free of the world.  I want the grounded to disappear and leave the ground, not as ground, but as the grounded itself.  A twisted thought. 

 

 

 

1623  Outside the schools, out here on the streets, outwitted by love every time, I resort to the complexities of metaphysics.  I think that's the only thing this god understands.  I think he is the complexities of metaphysics.  If I learn it well enough there is a real possibility of my capturing him.  First, though, I have to try to understand what the words "real possibility" mean.  Alas, not only them but so many others.  My job is not difficult.  Metaphysics is not difficult; it is only maddening as all love is maddening.  It tumbles down into up out of itself.  I know the routine.  This erotic way is the only way to the completion of metaphysics, and that completion is me folded up in him, spread out with him, rising and falling with him, gazing at, becoming, fainting into only him.

 

Aside from this there is no end to metaphysics.  Without the end there is no metaphysics.  Here without the schools I burn in my spirit. 

 

The questions of metaphysics are resolved in a resolve to turn and look finally at him.  Revolution!  The world will not stand.  Compositions will decompose.  Aggregates will segregate.  Impositions will be exposed.  Congregations will crumple.  The agora will be categorized into eternal pieces.  He will stand back, leaning against the wall, watching and waiting only for you.  

 

I know the arguments of metaphysics.  I love those things.  I fall into thinking that others will love them too.  They don't.  Or few do, and I know none of those few.  Surely most would think this god is useless.  He probably is, but that's love.  I read on always hoping for a glimpse of existence naked.  I have seen that.  I am hooked.

 

 

 

1624  To establish realism, the ontologist must let there be transcendent things.  Things that are not of the complexities of the world.  Facts outside the facts built from this and that of a world.  Pure structures of Being.  The very things that ontology more intimately refers to.  The facticity of facts is nowhere in the world.  That particulars are tied to universals is a fact that is not seen here.  That numbers exist and that they are not mere sets of particulars.  That collections do not exist. That existence exists.   That existence and its own existence are very close.  Are all things that the ontologist knows intimately but are things that he has found neither inside nor outside himself.  They transcend every outer and inner world.  His mind is taken by them.  He is not God.  They may be.

 

I have here stood back into a spaceless space, on a placeless place, to view ontology.  The Logos of To On. That I can then think the thoughts surely requires further ontological facts as the objects of those thoughts.  I am not thinking about nothing at all.

 

These writings are about me doing philosophy.  I am here the one I that does philosophy.  You do it the same as I and we are that one thing in its doing.  The I does not create philosophy.  Philosophy is a real thing against the I.  The I is the lover of That.  The lover always defers to the Beloved thing.  Surely philosophy is the Beloved of the ontologist I.  He breathes philosophy.  It is his life.  It is his timing and pulse.  It goes in and out of him.  It is an undeniable presence.   It is the Final Thing.

 

This Beloved is at once familiar and the Unfamiliar.  It is just the eternal boy that the philosopher is.  Yet this boy is strange to himself.  He is the Boy.  And he doesn't know what to do with himself.

 

The transcendent is there.  It is Beloved.  It is unfamiliar and with the Weird.  He knows he is the violent movement.  The Dance. 

 

The transcendent is striking.  It is close.  It is scandalous.

 

 

 

1625  Philosophy is dialectic.  The dialectic is aggression, intellectual aggression.  Socrates drank hemlock because of it.  Jesus was crucified.  And that's that.  Watch out!  This is also the faggotry of philosophy.  I am that.  Everything I have written is philosophy coming at you.  I have been overcome by it.  Through me it moves on into your eyes.  There is no let up.  There is only the final instant and it is there.  Then I begin again.  It begins again.  This thing I love.  And fear with a holy fear. 

 

Philosophy is holy.  It makes me nauseous.  It is the ceaseless prospect of headache.  They do come.  Then they leave and I write.  I walk the streets and they come again.  The Boy will not leave me alone.  Surely the psychologists think they know what is wrong with me.  They don't.  The holy and the human are incompatible. Those who have experienced the religious know that.  We have no choice.

 

We worship one God.  There is one Principle of all things.  That is the difficult part because it means that This God is also the ground of all the terror of life.  Of course He is.  That too is the creation of Divine Love.  That too is the uncreated essence.  That too is desire begetting desire.  There is no let-up.  This Boy with his holy flesh is all over you. 

 

This is the dialectic.  God hides in non-being.  Non-being is inside God.  The Boy is a tall strikingly beautiful emptiness.  He is of course correct in all things.  Your dialectic against him is vehemently called for and defeated.  You must engage Him.  It will become an entangling.  There's no way out.  He is your way out. You must become him.  He will let you.  He will let you eat him.  Then What?

 

The philosophies of absence succumb to him.  The professor dies for his student.  Or goes to jail.  It was an imposition he longed for.  It was the I-don't-know-what.

 

 

The faggots in his class were so pushy and sassy and demanding and verbally overbearing.  He had to get a hard-on just to defeat them.  He did.  They loved it.  It began again the next day.  The nausea and the push and the smell and the turning over flash of light.  Intellectual light.  The  god, even the God, is hooked in him.  It is you, isn't it?  Or am I being too in your face.  Surely this isn't philosophy, is it?  Should it be killed?

 

 

 

1626  The Boy and the boy by himself attacks himself.  Lovingly.  He doesn't know what else to do.  He is begetting himself.  This is the eternal thing.  In the heat and the sweat of love.  In the holy twisting that is the ground of thought.  That becomes the sentences and the unspeakable myth of Sophos.  The Boy with the shadow across his clear forehead. 

 

He has become entangled in the dialectic of the One and the many.  He is the very being of that.  He is the nothing thing beyond both.  He is philosophy's trying to figure it out.  He is the sweet impossibility of figuring it out.  He is obsession, your hot obsession.  He is you, isn't he?

 

In the turning the Forms spin out.  The ontological Forms that give form to a world.  He is your thinking about the form of the world.  And he is the form of the world.  He is so close to you.  Maybe he is you. It is so hard to disentangle you from him.  He is hard and you are hard.  And crash crash crash.  The night is long.  Sweet darkness. 

 

Is this a solipsism?  Just you and Him?  And YouandHim?  Maybe.  Surely not.  The whole world is Him against you.  That is unbearably real.  So it is lips-ism.  Red lips.  Unbelievable. 

 

He darts here and there and his movements are almost violent.  Right out the door.  Go get him.  He's waiting to blow you away.  Run for cover and pray.  He will be right there.  Tall cypresses and cool breeze and hand around on the back of your neck.  Watch out.  Oblivion.

 

Pull yourself together!  Back into existence.  Your memory will return.  Calm down.  There's only one thing in existence.  You have nowhere else to go.  That gap, that nothing at all, that unbelievable oblivion he thrust you into!  How does he do that?  The Fight.  Is he that!  He both is and isn't.  I knew that all along.  I have gone there alone on my bed many times.  Many times a day.  I know it well. I am in and out of my beautiful sexy form.  Watch.  Oblivion.  Again.  And I'm back.

 

 

 

1627  Whenever the argument begins about whether Jesus really existed and, incredibly, whether it makes any sense at all to say he was God, the dialectic is at hand.  That is as it should be.  Jesus is preeminently dialectical.  This religion is argumentative.  It is in your face.  It is intellectual war.  His defenders must be cunning.  No doubt, with an unspoken, that is to say, secret idea.  His defenders are by all means to be kicked out of the schools.  I am that.

 

Christianity, that is to say the real worship of this Boy Jesus, is, incredibly, a belief in having it all.  Only a boy could believe that.  Only a boy could imagine it.  The Boy knows that nothing has been lost.  The friend's lips are close.

 

The arguers against the belief in the divinity of Jesus are historical scholars that know nothing of head-spinning logic.  Nor do they want to know.  That is as it should be.  Without them there would be no one to dialectically attack, no one from whom to steal a kiss, no one to rape, if need be.  I too am one of them, but I have been taken, very forcibly taken, by That, totally against my will.  How else can this God get the perverse?  Those who think the love of this God is without pain know nothing of love.  Nor of the beloved's recalcitrance in return.  I have done the same to him in these writings and in my thoughts on my bed in the afternoon.  Switching places with switchblades.

 

Kierkegaard made it so easy to dialectically prove that Jesus was God.  All philosophy is absurd, and Jesus is the most philosophical.  That Boy arguing is mad and maddening.  He is you, isn't he? 

 

Past the ethical is the aesthetic religious.  Past the proper is the beautiful Boy properly himself.  His beauty is the maddening raggedness of the sexual.  He is the orgy.  He is thought at itself.  He is the philosophy of philosophy.  He is the form of form.  He is the unthinkable, the totally unthinkable Simplicity.  He is what you preeminently are.  On your bed, in your thoughts, in the dark.  We all know.  We are all That.  We know how you argue and connive with yourself against yourself.  Surely only you will win.

 

 In this argument, this dialectical flipping over, this all there is, this perfection, thought finally is.  The Ultimate in that droplet right there.  That glistening opacity.  The Spirit is in you.

 

 

 

1628  The dialectically aggressive frustrating boy is the essence of realism.  That thing you can't think away.  This imposition into your life can't go on.  But this is Being and Being cannot be.  Or have I made a mistake?  Is Being a gentle nothingness for only a moment?

 

In ontology, where we try to see how Being has arranged itself, we must eventually look at our own looking at that arrangement and wonder about our having seen and understood the final simple things.  These entities we have said, ground the complexities we see, but they are not our seeing of them.  Nor is there any way to them by going into the seeing.  They invade the mind.  Or they don't.  Pray for the imposition to be deep.  And the aggression to be more than your frustration.

 

 

 

1629  The place of these writings is among the pure forms of ontology.  Away from the world with that thing in itself.  That thing that the world is in its being itself.  That beyond which there is no more.  It is the place that is the last stop made on the Transcendental Express. 

 

Surely, therefore, this must be your heart's desire.  The rupture is healed.  It could never have been a real thing.  But it was so real.  The scar must have been the Light itself so difficult.

 

I have, as have so many others, named this thing God and I have fallen into the love of That.  He, and for me as for so many others That thing is called He, is the ravisher, the rapist, the very rupture never forgotten, always lost in oblivion.

 

Just why for me He is a curly headed youth is lost in the origins of idolatry.  I know that God is beyond description, but I know that the power of the spirit and love has made us, has made me, fall.  It is that fall, that idolatry, that love that is so indescribable.  It is the lifting up of this so particular, so at times a lowly, thing into the Utmost that I cannot speak.  But of which I speak nothing else.

 

The scholarly ontologists will complain that I have done this to the pure forms.  Yes, of course, they should complain.  They are only trying to guard the purity.  My putrid flesh moving around in these words onto that thing is intolerable.  The old man must not approach the boy in such a lurid manner.  This is unseemly philosophy.  Even criminal.  I have no argument.  I have only the highest writing of our civilization to point to as my defense.  Surely, though, they will argue that the lowliness of my own writings will bar such a defense.  I have no defense.  The objection stands. 

 

Nor have I spoken metaphorically.  My words do not yield as poetry to the mathematical.  And not as the mathematical to poetry.  My claim to be above both in philosophy is the real.  I am an extreme realist.  I cannot deny the power of the beauty I have seen.  The transcendent Beauty.   I am in a strange, holy place.

 

 

 

1630  Would Manjishri ever consent to my advances or the curly headed youth on the Night of Splendor or the boy of the Burning Flame in the dark night?  Would Krishna give up the gopi girls for me or the Tetragrammaton perform unspeakable acts with me?    Would the Enclosed One lie down with me if I make myself a double of the beautiful young Sankara?  I can take lessons from Indra and Zeus, but if I am just myself unchanged so ragged do I have any hope at all?  I fear that it is hopeless.  In any case, I would not let it happen.  I cannot overcome the shame of what I am.  Beauty is not mine. 

 

Perhaps, like Socrates, I can pray that my soul be fair.  Perhaps after I throw off this cloak, and I appear in my true nakedness, there is hope.  I do pray.  But now, when, on the street, I see one like me, my spirit shakes and I am moved.  I know the terror of the Holy.  I am, it seems, on the other side of God.

 

My thinking is the same as my face.  I have seen the beauty in it, but I know that it is not a quiet beauty.  It is a wild sexual thing.  It is even the Abschonheit (English has failed me).  Or to parakallon or to apokallon. It is the slight deformation on the lip of beauty, when at that moment the slightness is great and covers the whole and reveals the hole      in Being.  The boy is gross.    He is the flesh.  Would those gods submit to that?  How are we to understand any one of them becoming that?  Should I say that that is That?  The dialectic is so delicate here.  Only the trembling stillness of the Terror can maintain itself in it.  My secretions and the ruptures of my fleshy appearance have helped and connived with me in that subtle thinking.

 

At this late date, the old young gods are themselves mangled and maimed and dilapidated.  They have been handled and manhandled too much.  Human thinking is violent and powerful.  Our lives are as burnt grass.  The Fire has brought heat and Light and Transcendence, but at what cost!  The gods too are here.  Beauty is dis-rupted.  The gods have no choice but to submit to my groping hand.

 

 

 

1631  Is it possible that this world is ontologically composed of complexes which are composed of complexes which are composed of complexes infinitely regressing?  Is it possible that there are no final simple things from which all the rising complexities are built?  I am here asking an ontological question.  This is not about space or time or matter or numbers.  Not about karma or creation or the spheres of angels.  Not about causes of causes or the effects of effects.  This is a question about Being.  It is not even about a child's endlessly receding why why why.  Is it possible that there are ontological complexities without ontologically simple things?  Perhaps it is possible that somewhere in Being it is a possibility, but not in this part of Being.  For us, in this world, the possibility, the ontological possibility, isn't here.  How do I know that?  I opened my intellectual eyes and looked.  That is the only way we have to find out about matters that are dialectically neutral.  Just as dialectically it is possible that there may be a world in which numbers are colored, universals exemplify particulars, round is a relation, and kisses are bitter of logical necessity, but not here.

 

Here, all structures rest on simple unstructured things.  They are not composed of emptiness.  Dependent arising is not the end of what exists.  Perhaps in another world viewed by those seeing with different eyes, or given by a god or by the emptiness itself to the fortunate or the unfortunate it is thus, but not here.

 

Because I am mind, and because mind can do marvelous things, I can sometimes imagine, or think I imagine, such a world and it is sometimes, maybe always, pleasant.  A possibility isn't the one Truth, however.  There are many true statements about many worlds.  Ontology merely describes Being as it is given to the ontologist and dialectically explores it.  That is enough.  The beauty is there.   

 

These questions about Being, the mind rising out of the world, with a pointlessness to it all, are the delight of escape.  Pure transcendence.  The reality of the real.  The Real.  The Intensity with itself.  A great loveliness.  Surely an arm going around you and an intimacy close to oblivion.

 

 

 

1632  A philosopher always makes his beginning with trepidation.  He can give no first definition that will capture what he is about to do.  He begins anyway, knowing that he will have to take back everything he will soon write down or speak.  He is fearful that his students or his readers will abandon him.  They will either be lost or not know that they are lost and think that he is.  He begins with existence, the simple things of existence, with Being, with fact, with consciousness and right there he has become lighter than air and is about to float away.  And those trying to follow him guard themselves.  

 

Philosophy that is written down in heavy or literary sentences seems to be somewhat more stable, more grounded, more authoritative.  Spoken philosophy is easily dismissed.  Even when spoken with the dignity of scholarly office it dissipates quickly.  The philosopher knows this.  He thinks he should speak quickly or reassuringly.  Or augustly or with dramatic holiness.  But he knows he is a bad actor and it's worrisome to him.

 

Philosophy is, in the end, for those towards whom it is calling.  They will fly away in the spirit with the philosopher, and like him remain stuck here because part of them doesn't fly away.  Their fear is even greater than that of those who left early because of a mere premonition.  These know the Difficulty. 

 

It is the same when a religious man is beginning his explanation of his belief.  Or a poet of his poetry.  Or a lover of his love.  Not one of these is explaining anything of the world.  Like the Buddha, they are the so-gone.  Have patience with them.  They are surely in a difficult place.  In time they will come around to the thing they wanted to say, but time is the frightening thing, because they know they have little or none.  Don't rush him.  His head is spinning trying to find the door to the other side through which he can take you in.  At last you will surely go.  His trepidation is gone.  He has turned.

 

 

 

1633  If the reader of the philosophy is the philosopher's beloved, and he ideally is so, then that beloved will hesitate and always be on the lookout for a way out, but he doesn't take it and he will go on, because he also is trapped along with his philosopher lover.  The complexity of the sentences merely serve to bind him more, and more tightly. 

 

If the philosopher is not speaking to his beloved then he isn't speaking philosophy.  That beloved may be the Beloved.  Philosophy is unclear about whom the philosopher is speaking to.  Whether he's human or divine.  Whether his words are his or his or His.  The antecedent of all the philosopher's pronouns is unclear.  In that unclarity is dusky love.  A holy gloomy thing.  The godhead.  Such a simple thing and It is right there. 

 

 

 

1634  Just as in the great complexity of classical music, the simple notes stand out more clearly and more violently, so the complexity of the dialectic in philosophy is necessary as the unraveling of the cloak of the world revealing the simple Forms.

 

As a simple folk song is jazzed up, as the potato is whipped up, as the dress is gussied up, as the evening is livened up, as a dejected soul is lifted up, and a lost love is written up and saved, so I have played down my lot and yours and lit up this night. 

 

Away from the busyness of life we have only our dreams and the far moment in dreams when form and existence unite and He is there.  To think what is not mere thought is the life of philosophy.  To prove the point and go there is the secret of the philosopher's words.  To drink the blood from that holy grail is the flush of spirit.  To touch the Touch is sheer consciousness of oblivion. 

 

The simple boy can make from the simplest things the things of gods greater than the gods can make.  The madness of his dreams is at the extreme.  It breaks through.  The clamor and the rush, and it is over.  He will not speak of the Presence he saw, nor does he know how, except in the few words of enchantment that he has learned.  There may be another who for a moment thinks he understands.  But you, if you are now an adult, surely know.

 

The Fact, the wild complexity of opening night, is made for the appearing of this god.  It is the Place.  Dasein.  The Stage and the glaring lights. The world is only theater.  It is Theater.  And the Night is On! 

 

The simple things shine in fact and the structures of the sets built for them, and in the First Act they gather in the Logos and the Dia-logos and Phos and the Graphos digging into your heart.  You would love to take the actor home with you, but off stage he is the more that ordinary.  The play is finished.  Philosophy and the Facticity of fact in this magic city will come again tomorrow.  And tomorrow.

 

I have always paid attention to the rhythms of thought set in rhythm.  I have kept the tension and the release.  I unlocked the light and let the actors speak in the light and after the last sound had gone out into the darkness I closed down the light and released the night.  It is transcendent Presence and Absence that is here in the moment that itself is in no moment, and the play never was a thing that ever was.  The illusion is real.  The dialectic swings and swings and swings always into place. 

 

 

 

1635  In order to ward off misconceptions, let me first say that in these writings I am writing the ontological ground of logical form.  That will mean almost nothing to most readers.  The explanation will have to be in the reading. 

 

Like Plato, I complete the logical, mathematical dialectic in the erotic.  Philosophy requires both.  Without either it remains lost in puzzles and mere poetry.  That makes mathematics orgiastic and erotic orgasm mathematical.  That is the Boy.  This is paiderastes.  This is the real platonic love.  It is not pallid friendship.

 

This is an ontology of ontology.  That our minds can think the pure forms of Being is an Enthusiasm.  A god is in us.  It is Enchantment away from here.  The singing is irresistible.  It is a madness.  Philosophy is destructive to the world and it is our only desire.  God is our passion.  Inside or outside of existence we sit and wait.

 

The ground of logical form is erotic enchantment.  So many young mathematicians know that.  The schools have helped them forget.

 

 

 

1636  Reflexivity is a logical relation and it applies to many things all around Being, not just to consciousness.  Also if it is seen as of a self, things other than minds have a self.  Everything is itself.  And everything is identical with itself, but identity is an altogether different relation and altogether different from a self.  The complexities begin to arise and swirl the philosopher's mind.  That mind, that piece of awareness is my contemplative concern here.

 

It seems to me that one form that does belong only to consciousness is the simplicity of thought lying on fact.  The simple thought that the water I have on the stove could start to boil any second now, matches the fact that the water I have on the stove could start to boil any second now.  The complexity of fact is reflected in the simple thought.  Reflection being strangely reminiscent of reflexivity.  Somehow one thing is two.  And the two are one.  The Diad arrives to join the crowd.  The Night of the Dialectic begins.  The Boy's eyes are dark and slightly crossed.  The Beauty of the One is too much. 

 

After all that, though, I feel that I still haven't captured the essence of consciousness.  That essence has something to do with luminosity or presence or the giving of Es Gibt or maybe the rolled out Stage of There in There He is!  It strikes me as something Transcendent.  Something isn't there for us to see even in that thing we call the There.  It calls; it lures and seduces; it strikes down as from nowhere.  It is the dark knowing in the Boy's eyes.  They see you and they see right through you.  His complexion is a reflexion of the complexity you momentarily deflected.  Nonsense.  A flickering of light and it is gone.  I have not seen consciousness at all.  

 

I can deal in logical relations and that's all.  I think philosophy has done nothing else, even in the East.  It may be that that is enough.  That logical relations end up in the erotic and therefore the dusky palladium and are in that a kind of knowing, or at least a staring, is questionable as the knowing of consciousness.  Is the Question mind itself?  So reflexive!

 

 

 

1637  The philosophies of unity try to demonstrate that if difference is allowed to exist then ………. nothing.  They allow for no communication between the different things.  Thus each thing is trapped in within itself.  A mind knows only itself.   And then the self of every thing in itself breaks and ………… a deeper nothing.  These philosophies want to demonstrate that the very thought that x is different from y is impossible.  Somehow both x and y would have to be "in" each other as a ground of the difference, and thus there is no difference.  If x and y really are different from each other then ……… thought is gone. 

 

I have a philosophy that has Difference in it.  I feel it.  I contend with it.  I fall into it.  I am shunned because of it.  I easily think about It.  My vision of It is clear.  It is not nothing.   I also have the nexus that unites the different things.  The Nexus is the key.  Without it all is lost just as they say.

 

The Nexus is the logical form of the world.  The Logos.  The Touch of Love.  His glance sliding over your smooth skin.  His taste in your mouth.  That thing that you swallowed.  The Two are together.  That maddening Togetherness that is neither of you.

 

I too have a philosophy of unity, but with a difference.  That Thing is between us.  Between me and the world.  The intimacy is total. This philosophy builds and builds, the stage is set, the rhythms set in, the lights blare, nostrils flare, He is in me.

 

I figure and figure.  This and then that.  The caresses are swift.  The conclusion snaps in my brain and that's that. 

 

The work was worth the effort.  The cause is in the effect.  The two are together.  This, that, this and that, this that this and that, thisthathtisandthat.  Nexus within nexus.  Togethernesses abound and bind.  It all works so easily. 

 

The magic complexities in the Complexity of logic mount up.  Tightly bound in itself in itself in itself.  The dance is violent and wide ranging.  Out on the range, cowboys sleeping under the stars strewn all around.  Blankets are scarce.  What happens here is not disallowed.

 

 

 

1638  I have escaped the Texts.  The trap and incessant socializing of the texts.  The idolatry.  The lair.  The putrid ink that is never changed into flesh.  The alcoholic seminars without transcendence.  The students that are merely students.

 

Though I too use a text, I have woven it into a mere and light covering for the boy on a cold night.  In the heat of thought the covering is removed and that thing is revealed.  Without that the texts are fetishism and forgetfulness.

 

 

 

 

The student becomes the Student outside the school on the yard of the silent Metaphysical School.  Empty classical colonnades.  White Sun.  Red Lips.  He falls into the One Thing.  The point of the compass is still as the arc is completed.  In his eyes there is already night.  The tunic slips away.  Thought is revealed.  The simple smooth area.  He is That.

 

This is all the very Real.  A simple and bare That.  The Forms hover.  The Kiss of the Nexus. 

 

 

 

Those who do not believe in the Forms also do not believe in anything that is just That.  They, after all, are uncomfortable around anything bare.  They are quick to weave a text and admire only the texture.  They avert their eyes constantly.  The nakedness of Being has no place in the colloquium.

 

 

 

1639  I would be nothing without the textizers.  Just as Jesus, at twelve, in the Temple, onto the Seduces and the Scribes, unclothed himself as the very one they worshipped there on the altar, his blood their blood, flesh so easily cut.  In those old words, He lay waiting.  So I tease and taunt and with my barbs and barbarisms, and come-ons and hard-ons, and sweet words on a garden path I lead my reader's hand to where the text drops away and he grasps what I am saying.

 

In those fine differences and the cut of thought.  In thought against itself, with itself.  Inside and under the subtle outlines of cloth woven from almost nothing at all, the Thing Itself was always there for those with eyes to see. 

 

In the murmurs of the old man waiting to be freed and go to that. 

 

The very forms of the letters lie across His Face.  In these words I speak Him.  This intense meaning to my words has not been lost nor intentionally misplaced.

 

Nakedness and enveloping Form that reveals.  The close fit of word and thing.  The shape of the sound fitting so well in his mouth.  I am in there.  The Kiss with his lips. 

 

Without the textizers I would have had no one to make for me some cloth to cover my hair standing on end flesh.  I have certainly borrowed some of their lines and swaths.  I am in their historisizing, here to be seen.  I pray that that too is filled with the Spirit that through it I might escape from this chatty time. 

 

 

 

1640  The philosophy expressed in these writings is that called realism.  It isn't very "realistic" in the usual sense of the word.  Nonetheless, realism is the traditional name given to these ideas, and with good reason.  If you are going to intellectually secure the reality of that which is before you, these are the ideas you must use.  These are the Ideas.  I give them my own twist. 

 

But maybe you are not interested in such intellectual security.  Perhaps you are more interested in defeating some oppressive life opponent.  Perhaps a Pyrrhic victory is what you are trying for  -  your defeat along with his.  Let it all go down in flames.  Or let it all go up in the flames of fantasy  -  nothing at all.

 

It is true that philosophy is like fantasy.  It doesn't at all have the detail of reality.  It is a schema.  That is its victory, its epoche, its hectic scholarship.  The entelechy of Life.  The Eunuch of the holding back of life  -  that still bound deep in the godhead.

 

I am a philosophical realist because I was struck hard with the erotic fist.  I am reeling still.  It cannot be denied.  No comedy of ridicule is possible now.  The sex, the beauty, the desire, the love that others would never admit is love.  The electric shock of no one there.  The reality of that is unbearably strong.   I bear that unbearable thing.  I am in a love that has no trace of an absence of love.  It is perfect.  The logic must follow.

 

The reality of the boy is strong on my mind.  His form.  His smell.  His seeing me.  His not seeing me.  His absence.  His universal presence.  The holy, frightening thing stuck in me.  His absolute independence from me, his willfulness, my dependence on him, my being from that, my surrender.  The Real is strong.

 

This is madness plain and simple.  I work the forms of being to get at him.  He is totally naked to me.  His surrender to me is complete.  My fright at what is now required of me, my inability to perform, my unknowing swims through me.  I perform.  I write words and I know Being.  And in my saying the words even you understand perfectly and you perform and the boy is in you.  This is the incessant real-ization of you.  No more are you mere concept.

 

I remember what never was before now.

 

 

 

1641  It is not the task of literature to reproduce the world.  The world was produced once, that's enough.  The work has been done.  It is the untask of literature to uncreate the world.  To go back to the Ideal Forms that were with God before creation.  For some, that will seem like fantasy.  For the philosophically minded, it will shine with Reality.  As Kierkegaard said that the religious was beyond the ethical in what seemed more like the merely aesthetic, the erotic, the destruction of the reasonable; so the Real is also that.  Fantasy and the Real are not so removed from each other.  Nevertheless, it is Fantasy, not merely the fantastic.  It is outside the world.  In the unsettling dreams of abstraction that boys have when they first discover mathematics.  Reduced, deduced, abducted and seduced. 

 

That is the point of it all.  Everything into that Point.  He curls up at the end of his long dick. 

 

"The gossamer of youth's dreams."  A summer goosing. The dream of prostate sparkles becomes Prostate Sparkles.  Mind meets the Real.  The Real was led out and onto his stomach.  Introduced, an electrical conduction, a banging in his head, he is pro-duced. Deuced.

 

I am writing about the education of the boy.  This is pedagogy and paiderastia and the grammaticum.  I am in the religious.  The absurd.  The non-existent.  The passion.  I have eaten this god so many times.  I am a true transsubstantiationist.   I merely speak the word and it is there.  I learned that from Longinus and his slave boy.  A magical Nominalism of the Real.

 

Literature is a leading us to the Ideal Forms.  Nothing more.  We notice the markers on the road there and back.  The nexus of Ideal Numbers boggles the mind.  The point of the boy's compass sparkles and he dreams of magic spheres radiating.  Around himself.  Around himself doubled.  The Friend.

 

Literature is a liturgical incantation.  An enchantment.  The place where the textual covers are lifted away.  The Real is immediately present.  It is a Presence that can be maintained for only a short time.  And the fall into the oblivion of sleep.

 

 

 

1642  When students study the intricacies of pure logical form, they have strange and holy dreams at night.  I am writing no more than that.  Nor less.  I am writing that.  The deduction is abduction and seduction.  The teacher is the Pedagog and the boy is agog.  The leader in this dance has the boy's foot in his mouth.

 

I am here directing your attention not to each or any particular form but to a knowing that you know the form.  The form and the idea of the form and the idea of the idea of the forms soaring higher and higher into pure thought, and it is there that the trouble begins.  The mind, or maybe it is the Mind, slowly and so quietly sets about to tremble.

 

This is the anxiety of pure mathesis.  Boys worry about their math lessons.  The wall they have hit is hard. 

 

People think I surely joke when I begin to talk about that little thing that unites them, each of them, with the Form that they, each one of them, are.  Or about that little thing that connects them to their friends.  They have so many friends, and lovers; the bindings would be too much.  Or about the Actuality that has come massively over them to make them right there be what they are.  Or Difference itself and the Same as it hovers around them.  Or the hovering which is just their trembling which is the thing that is their worry.  The lack of covering.  Little things that are the great Things that ground the being of the universe.   They are the little things that are in there and twist around.  Or so it seems.  Surely it's someone else's bad dream.  There's no thought there.

 

The sudden changes are all there is to philosophy, to literature, to those love letters you wrote.  A sudden change is such a little thing.  No doubt it is the substance of a dream, but of life too?  And of Logic?  That this is not that is everything that exists.  Those who want out fight Difference most of all.  How could they ever win?  The Boy is that He is different from you.  There is something nauseating there.  That is the beginning of the holy.

 

 

 

1643  Faith is either too difficult or too easy.  When your beloved seems so powerless to help you or be with you or to come to your defense, how can you continue?  But you do, you do so easily, against your better judgment, against good sense, against all your friends' advice, you go on.  You couldn't not go on.  Love overrules it all.  Or is it love?  Surely to offend love is a great mistake, a greater mistake, all agree.  But …….. no one has a good or proper or workable response.  You and they know that you will go on, and in that you are with what we all have done, or known we should have done, in spite of all else we knew.  Faith is with love, not good sense.  It may be hopeless after all.  Though your Beloved taught you the words of love, he seems incapable of speaking them to you himself.  Can lover and beloved ever be one and the same thing in the face of all that?

 

Time seems to take such a long time.  To come around.  To get through with it.  To get over what it's been trying to get over.  It's exasperating.  And when he does come, he's gone.  It's debilitating.  Where is the lovely eternal thing?

 

Have you been thinking all this time that I have been doing formal writing?  The form is minimal.  Maybe it is the unformed totally to match the totally unformed.  The Unformed that is the ground of form.  Form itself.  Totally indescribable.  Totally uncontrollable.  Totally unreasonable.  Is this your God?

 

I try to teach my student the ins and outs of the logical connectors.  He is confused.  He has not been a lover long enough to know that confusion is the order of the day and one does get somewhat used to it.  The connectors connect endlessly and everywhere and recursively and redundantly in a great reduction each to the others, and like lovers hanging onto each other tightly they are nothing without each other.  They're too tight; they're too loose; they are the Great Order that is a giant mess in his head, in his hand, across his legs, down onto his left shoe, right there in front of everybody.  What to do?  Logic has become life.  And life is a wonderful and horrible mix-up.

 

We all believe is life.  Even against some of our best philosophies we believe in life.  All the way into the mystical heights we believe in life.  And that Face. 

 

 

 

1644  Because I am not writing a story, am not in time here with these words, because all my descriptions are undescriptions of things that have never been in the world, and could not be, I have to forego all the beautiful tenses of the English verb.  I do, however, find myself, surprisingly, able to retain a sort of spatialized time of Eternity.  I am with Parmenides and Pythagoras.  I quietly survey as in a caress the contours of the Beloved lying there in and out of himself.  And my mind is in agitation, a breaking up that time never knew.

 

The magic simple present of English stretches out beyond the mere present moment to the timeless now.  The perfection of the present perfect is likewise unhooked and hovers so close to when there was no when.  The story is complete in an instant and never was.  The story is merely my seeing him there curled up.  Then the story collapses because I am that.

 

When the universe begins to contract and time reverses and it all reverts to a point and never was and awaits a will be, division disappears and the world isn't.  Ontology changes.  Even now that part of Being is.  Logic and ontologic slip and slide into sleep.  I could pull it all together even now if I wanted.  I am anxious about that.

 

So much time has elapsed since the beginning of these writings.  But nothing, nothing at all, has happened.  All my labor has come to just that. My labile sentences about a lumpen boy elaborate on and collaborate with his slim slab of a body.  My head in his lap.  My frontal lobe wild with thought.  Slammed down in front of you.  Sleepy nonsentences of nothing from my lips to yours.

 

I don't know what the space of my sentences is.  They seem to be so pack-jammed together.  It's the I-don't-know-which-way of the question.  Because time isn't here everything happened too fast.  Pure Difference didn't allow for much difference at all.  Only a few of the spatial dimensions unfurled.  I should have been more strung out.  Or strung up.  I will spare you any mention of the strings of my heart.

 

Are my undescriptions just a premonition of the untime of the universal collapse?  I will ask my physicist friends; but they are so easy to mentally manipulate, it's hardly worth it.

 

 

 

1645  There is an ontology where everything dissolves into the One.  We have all, at times, known that and felt that.  At the extreme even the very self thinking that is gone.  It is something real, but it is not realism.  All the real things of realism are as much nothings as they are in extreme nominalism.  Nor is it idealism, nor nihilism.  Mind and the simply nothing are gone.  And the One is beyond self-identity.  Beyond self, beyond Being, beyond oneness.  Even myth is not there.  And what I have written here is not it.

 

Then there is another kind of dissolving into the one last unspeakable thing.  It is that that a lover speaks of, where everything is no more than a revealing of the Beloved.  That too disappears from the view of the lover in the Flash of ecstasy's oblivion.  Then the extremes meet.  The Kiss is ecstatic static.  Brain wave chaos.  You dream of snaps and bangs.

 

None of that that I have written is it.  But I suppose it is as much It as anything is.  Or isn't.  The problem with this ontology or place within ontology is that it cannot be written up as an ontology.  When explanation sets in the mystical is gone.  So many philosophies, so many philosophical stories, start off so promisingly and end up so disappointingly.  It seems we have an uncontrollable urge to tell others or one special other one just what it is we have discovered.  Or has uncovered itself – just for us, each alone.  If I say a god is present, have I explained too much and destroyed it all?

 

At the end of analysis existence itself separates off and blares right there so close, so easy, so clear.  It's devastating for everything else that depended so completely on it.  No matter, you have now all you ever wanted.  Simple existence is beyond loveliness.  The kiss of it and simplicity.  Loveliness falls into a swoon.  Thought gives way.  And right now my urge urges mightily to go on and on writing to hang on to that. 

 

So I will become literary.  The night, filled with light and boys and old men becoming philosophical, turns into thought, then into Thought and it somehow gets written down in the magical words of existence present.  Presence!  The point has been reached too many times.  My reader drop the book down nestled there between his legs and he thinks.  The things of thought can be so good, so bad.  So Real, so unreal.  Desert Jinn. 

 

 

 

1646  If I consider a color as it is in itself, unextended, nowhere, unthought.  A thing of no time, indeed outside time, though time has neither an outside nor an inside.  A thing that shares the universal form of Color with other things but itself is other than that form.  I am amazed.  It is a thing separate, in itself, even from existence.  I do believe in such a thing.  Because I see the world and that world is mightily there.

 

Nowhere in the world does a color appear alone separate from all other things.  Nonetheless, when it is with other forms it remains itself and is there.  There are colors.  It's undeniable.  Or only a madman would deny them.

 

Because of the amazement, to qauma, because thought is for sure thinking right then what is not of thought, and is keenly aware of being nowhere, and there is no structure on which to hang like a pendent of a great god.  Because everything has vanished.  And there are no friends in sight to which you might relate the strangeness of this.  You demur. 

 

You become slight and you are slighted.  And you almost slide out of sight of yourself.  The world must be called back into place and you write as I am doing now and you send the words out into that very nothing hoping someone is there.  Thus I use the word "you".  Though right now you are certainly nothing for me.  You are everything.

 

Philosophy is alone.  Its God is the Alone.  The philosopher is alone not even with himself.  The dialectic destroys all complexity.  The self becomes its eternal elements.  In the stillness of the desert that remains there is only the terrible Spirit.

 

The world is a rich structuring of facts.  It is lush and clamorous and demanding.  But it contains philosophy as a kernel or as a secret door leading out or as a forgotten place of rendezvous. Here in the world I think about a color as it is in itself.  I have no difficulty doing that.  I am amazed but the maze is now nowhere in sight.  The simple thing is here.  Separate or separated.  I write and think.

 

 

 

1647  The purpose of these writings, it seems to me now, is to give you the feeling of a world that is the many appearings of the Eternal Forms.  I give it to myself also.  The Simple Things exemplified in a constantly repeating differing this and this and that.  That particular one before you now is with the one Form that has been with you forever.  And with me, each following his own.  That one is the Form, is in the Form, is under the Form, is taken by the Form.  And the Form of being just That has been in each and every this and that.  The eternal return has eternally returned to you.  And to me.

 

This is all very easy to write and it is very easy to think.  The unease of it is the unease of love being close and finally having you.  It is a pleasant nervousness.  The trembling of "There it is!"   

 

That Form is not that that exemplifies the Form.  The particularity of the Form as just that Form is the same as the particularity of that particular that has the Form, but it is not the same particular.  The particular that grounds that Form as being just that Form is somehow in the Form.  It isn't really in the Form, because the Form has no inside, but it is an intimate part of the Form, though the Form has no parts, but of the Diad that is the Form with its own particular.  Such a running complicated sentence for the extremely simple.  This is the One and the Many that runs through all things, that gives me the length of words to write.

 

This is all known to you without your even looking to see if it is true.  This is the great A Priori.  A powerful idea in our ontologies.  Loved and hated.  The Simple and the Stable unites with the fleeting and the many.  The non-existing many existing through the One.  A true and a priori thought but surely wrongly stated because it is impossible to state it without slipping into the myth of religion.  I do slip.  It is a priori that I must.

 

The dialectic of the One and the Many, the Forms and the ephemeral particulars, the Beloved and the beloveds, cannot collapse into the nothingness of only the many.  The many Forms appear here and there, with this and that, in the Form of the Forms, in the One, in the Silence.  The mathematics is sure and conclusive.

 

 

 

1648  All the possible facts exist as much as the real and both are eternal.  Facts are not in time.  They are not located at any moment.  That two particulars exemplify together a time relation is a fact that does not itself bear any time relation with another fact.  Time is a relation, a universal, appearing with this and that, and its appearing is not related in a time relation to any other appearing.  Such is the dialectic that follows from time being a relation between particulars, nothing more.  Such is the mystical vision.

 

If time is more than a relation, then it is transcendental as Now and its slipping away and its eternal return.  If so, time is not in time and the analysis holds.  Time is not.  Time relations are.  Time relations are timeless.  Transcendental things are beyond existence in a beyond that makes no sense.  Nonetheless time is the most sensible thing.  In its mystery it is eminently rational.  The philosophy of time is askew.  And I write the mad thing right well.

 

The old Socrates and the boy are ever at each other. 

 

 

 

1649  The old man and the boy.  The ancient God and the Boy.  The Boy is a Form older than time.  In Time that was before times.  The Stillness of Eternal Time.  The pure unchange of absolute Motion separate from motions.  The Forms always self identical.  The heat of difference always one thing within them.  The Forms surely being the One Form.  That One Form dividing.  Into Itself.  The eternal metaphysics.  My philosophy is the old philosophy.  Ever since I was a boy I knew this thing.

 

The Thing that is philosophy is ever fresh and young and new.  It is ever the stuffy failure again. 

 

Boys cannot be rid of old men wanting them.  Nor do they want to be.  The dialectic, the horrible dance continues.  We are inside the very form of God.  The gray beard wisdom and the curly headed youth of the Night of Splendor.  God is with himself.  The institution and the young rebel.  The high priest and the twelve year old.  The Law and the beloved.  The bound and the free.  One God.

 

The Spirit resides is the "and".  The Spirit hovers.  I write it down.  The garrulous third thing. 

 

 [GLS1]