Look at the deer, it can be all ear.
Listening for what it can’t yet see.
The ear is noble. It does not fear.
It is original. First was the ear.
How dull’s the eye that cannot hear?
The bull it shits about “The Senses”,
a putsch of the eye enslaves the ear.
The common makes no sense to me.
Better blind than being deaf to you.
The eye may awe, the ear doth thaw.
The ear can hear, the eye just bites.
A brain without eyes is just blind to lies.
Sight deceives, hearing weaves tones
and tones that survive our bones. Continue reading
Posted in JoB
Tagged phoetry, phroesy
‘My dear parents,’ said the sister banging her hand on the table by way of an introduction, ‘things cannot go on any longer in this way. Maybe if you don’t understand that, well, I do. I will not utter my brother’s name in front of this monster, and thus I say only that we must try to get rid of it. We have tried what is humanly possible to take care of it and to be patient. I believe that no one can criticize us in the slightest.’, F. Kafka, The Metamorphosis.
Only when you’re heard does it make sense to say something.
Job only wants one thing: to be heard. His friends listen to him. They do not hear what he is saying. Gregor wanted one thing: that his sister might develop herself. She does and so stops listening to him.
It’s all right. Both get what they want in the end. Not justice or wisdom or payback for the observation of their duties. They get want they want. They’re heard. Job’s tabernacle will be blessed and Gregor’s family fairs well as well.
You can read both as criticism. That is what happens if you try to hear what is being said. Still, think a little harder when you are trying to hear something. Or a little less. Because, you know, literally both stories end on the up and up. Gregor and Job get what they want, they literally and exactly get what they want.
If you think they don’t then you didn’t hear what they said. Maybe because you were too busy still listening to what you want for them. Probably because you only hear what you want.
Try again (warning: full-on atheism ahead): Continue reading
Posted in JoB, Kafka
Tagged atheism, bible, cultural optimism, Hobbes, JoB, Kafka, Kierkegaard, learning, phoetry, phroesy, universals
I (knocks): Hey, Death, you there?
Dr. Death: Yeah, who there?
DrD: Ah, you again. What now?
I: Well I wanted to talk some about this notion of self-preservation. People seem to think it crucial stuff.
DrD: Philosophers you mean? My experience is people rarely think at all, maybe I just get them when they’re all thought out.
I: Yeah, well, philosophers I suppose. But don’t they supposedly voice what people think?
DrD: They suppose that they think like other people think. My experience falsifies that.
I: Ah, O-kay, I see. so maybe self-preservation is not such a common thought after all? Continue reading
Four years ago I wrote a piece titled “Mr. Presessor“. In it I predicted the future. I got it all wrong. Instead of a “rational” political turn – inspired by Obama’s second win – we got the present ’emotional’ turn culminating in Trump’s first win. Mr. Presessor morphed in Mr. Presdator. Maybe Hobbes was right after all: we are wolves in search for a leader for our pack. Our fate is to howl – so loud nobody dares to cross our borders. The only place for reason is to power our pissing contests with the inevitable other packs of wolves.
So, is it a matter of what happened in the East? Or is it a matter of what failed to happen in the West? Let’s be hip and cool and pull out that finger to do some good old pointing.
“In giving up the dualism of scheme and world, we don’t give up the world, but re-establish unmediated touch with the familiar objects whose antics make our sentences and opinions true or false.” Donald Davidson, Inquiries into Truth & Interpretation, Clarendon Press, Oxford, 2001, p. 198.
The word ‘real’ is a divider. Just like with God, when your real isn’t my real that’s enough to create the type of zeal to come to blows. We constantly show we don’t need the Gods to start a war. That is a fact. It might seem everyday and familiar to sophisticated modern people like us constantly figuring out what is real and what a mere figment of our fancy. Nevertheless it is a fact: whenever people think they’re right, ‘really’ right, death’s on our doorstep.
So let us examine this little word ‘real’ for what it does to our reality. Let’s see whether it belongs with the familiar family of other infamous four-letter words. To start the inquiry, try to remember the last time you heard somebody saying person X was not a ‘real’ Y. For instance X was in fact a muslim but she wasn’t a ‘real’ muslim in that she did not wear a hijab. Or, X was in fact liberal but he wasn’t a ‘real’ liberal in that he didn’t verbally come out in support of gay marriage. Or, X was in fact born here but he wasn’t a ‘real’ national because he failed to defend his identity. Or, X was indeed a refugee but she wasn’t a ‘real’ refugee in that she did adopt our identity. Or, like in my case, I am an atheist but I am not a ‘real’ atheist because I do not think religion is the worst thing that ever happened to the whole wide world. Like I’m not a ‘real’ autistic because, well, I don’t look like one.
It won’t be too hard to come up with your own examples where something like this was thrown at you or somebody you liked. So follow me in tracking how the word ‘real’ flies like a boomerang hitting the utterer of it smack in its own face. At least when we’re lucky enough it doesn’t hit a very real person in a very real way before it has fully bent back.
“Parrhesia is a criticism, a self-criticism or a criticism directed to others, but always from a situation where the one talking is in a position of inferiority with respect to an interlocutor. Parrhesia comes from below and is directed towards above.” Michel Foucault, Discours et Vérité, p. 84, Librairie Philosophique, VRIN, 2016.
I shan’t complain. I have had a lot of luck. Good fortune even. Or, maybe, it was by merit, just maybe it was a matter of worth. Whose worth? And is it worth it? Who the fuck am I, after all? Over time your self gets heavier. Stuff sticks to it – weighs you down – wears you out. Try flying if your wings are tarred with trying to move on despite pain, despite spite. Strike spite. I don’t hold a grudge. You’re all acquitted except for me because my head is a horse-heavy hole of hatred circulating itself. Heave. Ho.
Maybe that was the big bang. Maybe it’s what the humming in my ear wants to say when it is hissing. Once there was a ‘Who am I?’ asking what-the-fuck who imploded to be done with it and she (why not she?) had no clue that on the other side of implosion was – damn symmetry, damn it to hell (or not because it will bless you right back to heaven it will – an explosion and all of us. Every single one of us. Including me. Free speech like spit spite of me always trying to get on top and stuff clinging to me heavy-ing my head. Ho.
But you’re having fun, no. You are having fun. Well, fuck you, fuck the fit and fuck you well, for this: