Archetypes - The End of the End and Beginning of the Beginning Affecting Us All in April, May, and June 2009
by Robert Wilkinson
If you're wondering why you need to finish up any backlog and still feeling like something BIG is happening, welcome to what's happening to everyone. It's the end of the end for us all. Many who are prepared and ready will be moving into newer, better things, while others are probably feeling like they haven't a clue what's next. Welcome to where we ALL live.
Venus is now stationary direct at 30 Pisces, with Mars rapidly converging on its conjunction, fusing many things, creating a thought form that will impact us all for years to come. This is a degree of Archetypalization, where our thought forms can be shaped in ways that if we're willing to put our heart behind our mind's form, we can see it made manifest in the months to come.
Be thoughtful. Be considerate. Say goodbye. Bless the passage.
Wherever 30 Pisces falls, we'll see the fusion of the areas ruled by Aries, Taurus, Libra, and Scorpio. This unifies a third of our life (4 signs) in a life area (the house where 30 Pisces falls) where we are given the chance to practice our thought form building capacity. We will know how expert we are by what shows up in the next two years.
Venus is quickening, and conjunct Mars for weeks to come. Welcome to a great fusion, where several areas of our lives will come together to manifest the dream we've dreamed, the ideal we've declared we want to be made manifest.
Breathe deep, meditate and go deeper, and move into the vast ocean of the end of the end of Pisces, the last sign of the 360 degree archetypal span of activity. The end of Pisces is the broadest, vastest field of feeling experience anyone could imagine, where our separate self can dissolve into the vast Self.
Both Venus and Mars are now in an area where we all can sense the vastness of the totality of human experience, where we all share deep feelings with us since the beginning of time. For the next week, embrace the deep compassion where we all come together in the common human experience, forgive much, open to a wider compassion for yourself and all others through all time, and relax. The future is already on the way, like an express train.
As the post from Here led me to Here and then to Here led me to observe no embedding permitted I went here and then here before I found a stall where I could acoustique. It was a nice day, as the photographs show, although I couldn't help but feel all black and white about that period in history before the advent of colour. Am I the only one who needs to look again at all black and white photographs ever seen with the new colour of life added in, doesn't it add to our perception of continuity as opposed to disconjunctive break with the past (a past not truly, properly conceived?). I like sitting in front of Traci too, always a pleasure to see her face, this still I thought particularly fetching and evocative.
Of course if you stand around a lot, like I do, then you get to see things a lot as well; any sketcher will tell you that it's why we drink coffee; why we pause at all.
Anyway, at that time, just after the conference alerted me to the new speculative realist perspective (with the ontology of objects not yet quite clearly formulated in my mind, and without the benefit of Latour's remarks about the lack of play that critique supposes, and in fact as I was then also without mentor or any guide whatsoever in the annals of Diogenes there had never been such a Lampostier professor as I, all talk and no grab, all silence and no lingus.
I was not sure if THESE were or were not, are or are not entities anything less than works of art in themselves. Everyone knows I love books, but not how much. I secretly stow into the New York Public for a donut and a fizz, spending ages outside eating pretzels afterwards looking through the plants and biosigns for parkage I stumble into Pierspointe's Morgans place and stand around there for a while, thinking of ole Blighty, and the years before ponting round the Thames.
Shelby shows me her video from the iphone and I say, "Look, that's exactly what I'm talking about. It's black and white and yet, we know, we know for sure that it was all experienced in colour. It occludes our perception. I know it does."
The swarming flies around the side of the Thames; the stunking rat sewers of accelerated origins brought to a halt with the tides slippage. Spat stank shower muffin?
A stranger strange hands me a Muffin, con blueberries. I think about the time. And off round the corner, Hammersmith and Windsor. "I can't really tell what that one's of. I like it tho. Do you?"
It's a weird one, conic and irregular. Forshortened by something. A occult of the eye?
'Ere mate. Can you juggle four?
Geezer hands me his balls and I spy they are MSX c5's, and yeah, I do wanna have a feel of those. The juggling takes my mind off Southwark and Traci's art. My mind changes gears into something that isn't yet performance, but not just practice either.
There are dogs. Tourists. Pedestrians. Peter's mother Brenda and her little dog. A mobustier pushing for attention in the breeze. And a birds eye view of yesterday's event, proliferating in the breeze. So this is London eh? Peter Ackroyd's London. Blake's London, and Wordsworth London. Smithsonian. London New York Museum. I step out of the way of a cunning downslider as the pattern goes off and I drops.
Hands the balls back to im. "Nice. I like those. Garfield rekomend em?
Harfinkle.? Jason...I turn round, thames. Nile. southbank...festival. I hear:
This other geezer leans on his post. It's all post post post this morning. A shovelling donut passing by, a sliding ferret. What;s tha?
Shelby says its Jurassic. To me its just an icecream. A fine tongue. Possibility of tetech here. Look. The iphobe she says, and this is my phone. The long winded ski jumpt down her throat is a feindish repriece from some of what I jsut heard. Talk talk talk talk talk. Here I stand.... so it's a not as good as yesterday already. I just can't get into their argument, that's why I was pleased to greet Mr Latour this morning. I think I've made about sixty sous this morning; there's still the washing up to be done at Joes Pizza. I crush my ecologic packaging into my handsome palm tree. To her I am man sans telephon. Ici. She lips her licks: 'it's not real, see?" She licks again.
Funny what some people think of as a joke. I think it's amber juice. Quie c'est? What's that?
Came across this shortly after leaving Rome. A strange man clutched my arm , handed me this manuscript and buggers off. 'Doesn't really look like a lampost, but what the hell?' Hieroglyphic thoughts washered here courtesy of the Baeubcraeftwerks Museum Library, to which I shal return it.http://beinecke.library.yale.edu/dl_crosscollex/SetsSlideShowXC.asp?srchtype=ITEM
from Plato's Timaues courtesy this yodas from the the frenchbench of the Vatican. Very Nice I do say it is (see traffic lights)? pause and proceeds go to the ineltorable minority of Aehthygrians who saw Pope's Constant as a fixed phsic of a thing. Further down on the page, a more complicated specimin to juggle catching my eye
"HANDY TABLES" "RE-INVERSING WITH PTOLYMY" 8 MArch 1646. 8 A.m. I wake up, washed and tired by Ficino's company. His book is open, ready to hand, but I reach for wine, red wine, like they used to make it Albany. What a joke. I lean over and strike up a Lucky from the pack, and no, Shelby hasn't nicked the lot. Then I look over his ad for the collections of tables and set about earning my keep.
"Just how handy are those tables?" he asks, coming in from the bathroom. " Given to handedness, I'd say". I leaf over the glass that sprates mefrom Blake, and my breath steams up the glassy surface. Probably bulletproof. I give it a pat and feel certain the alarm... But not one alarm. That confident, I thought, and wrestled myself, bags and all beside a tourist scene fromn the seventeeth century, wigwams, wumpums and what not in oils. As I had a moument to recoup, I collected the data is my head about the astrologer's tables, and the purpose to which tables are pt in general as substance. Tables as salt, as paper is to scissors. I scrawled quickly before the blogger beside me could see. Certain I was done with it I shapnled up the top and set to galazing once again at the other beauty. The 16th century masterpiece from Manilla, engraved by Don Alfonso the Friist, nee Cousin of Hebridyia Daertius, one of the few queens to survive the Tiamat. IN the vestibule over to the left, some guards were standing near a young looking Gtrecian Urn. The mastering eye concocted a blur above my head up into the King's Chamber where he had undoubtedly set his astrolabe to work. I felt the urge to say something funny, and grinned stupidly at Shelby while the lunacy took over my mind. "You can see from his hands he's a juggler; just look at the end of his juggling club. You couldn't ffind a better one today. Still, a bit clumpy with his other end tho. Still, I suppose, no problem juggling that, he did have an encyclopedic avenue to the heavens after all." Shelby was muttering in French to a side officer. She liked to talk shop wherever she could, and deferred to my irreverent tours of these museums which I was prone to, sulking and euphoriating over this and that, not her style. The manuscripts pile up on the tables. I search for a good image to illustrate to him my purpose. "It does much more than that now, " I say. "Here," and he hands me the copy naturally. "You can see how the astrolabe worls."
but the slides did interest me, yello, pink and green objects in their own right, presenting an IDEA about Causality. For some reason, I can't yet see the full Harman picture, his view (if you like that word) is emergent (probably) in your own life anyway ("everything changes, you eat jelly roll" as Ginsberg sanf sangue this morning about RkJ and skeisis, i thought, well yes, there is a good reason anyway to make the distinguisher "bullshitter" and Sincere. It does make for more interesting reading. I could see something of the LSE from the Thames as I rounded through the park Embankment chomping on a donut, glimpsing the Eye of Cleopatras needle, sitting for a few hours between lectures about the rippling tides and formica contracts that were being arbitered nearby; I probably stank from circuitry of ambient train odour, qwick spurts of sweat necessitated by the churning intensity. The statue of a poet I stand in front of black great face, an inscription that moves me, the snoring intensity of grandeur backlit by the massive obsiloquence of Security breaches. LAterminals were in the paper; I saw one flashing through the undergrowth as I decided for coffee and not a beer. We were suited and booted round Planck length tables, the japanese girl particularly eloquent after three sips of white wine announces her phenomenology. A table of autiocratic didacteurs shifts over to make way for Melanie's finer features, and the table talk kicks off with an Ontology of Objects moving and being moved in slow motion through the plasma" "Causality, he saus happens when an image that is divorced from its Qualities" pouring a green pesto onto the bisqet as London traffic assemblage data comes to a temporary halt outside. I troll on up to the British Museum, confidently very certain that I've absorbed enough from the intellect for this century, and assuage my ears with the silence through the other side of wood doors, eighteen concrete steps and a MArble archway where I catch my breath beneath the radiant hexagons of the new sunlight. the auditorium's magnificent; and the great statues are where I'd left them, guarding the entrance to Ur, the great Sumerian epigrams and crystallographs carved out into sphynx and Lion; the great stories of Ashygryash, Idryssly await me
When the change accurred.accrued (it acrured HERE). Ref to the Traffic Light....pink hyperobjects, withdrawing, and object Balls (which arn't THE object), I couldn't resist the OOOvertones and the semantic polyvocalism of this trick. As an oject in itself (there is withdrawness to me); but as I peruse my consciousness space where I am looking is at my own balls! (surely this reaches into the heart of worthy new metaphors that might replace Navel (Oooorange) gazing (Maz Planck telescope notwithstanding) the object can lead to silent complaints. (Hence my oject). However Metzinger makes his point, his qwuestion from the western perspectival consciousness (which as delanda shows is design oriented) and as Spengler hinted, is spatially consituted (could S[engler not have gone far enough) leaves (fall from trees) the great ecological divide (that essay on Two Cultures) the way non linear space opens up, and time. Ah time. Makes me think Metzinger, and conclude it wont hurt to read the book, but my routes blocked temporaily. What did I write in my journalle cette matin? Comme, avec le temps, ilya seulement l'enspace; ilya seulement le conception du spatiel qui est la moment quand l'object jamais disparu. To Oject, of course, to Buddhists, is self referentialized; however, as TM says, now withdrawn. The shoes I have bought months ago are not the same shoes i wear now. The event of shoe buying, then, amidst dear flip flops, ladies in waiting and the sweet smell of socks was nothing tantamount to anything; what was real then in the shop were the previously withdrawn objects I was then wearing--those other shoes--which now i am not wearing; either way, the object was the event, not the shoes. A case, I am sure, that will be made again and again as the Buddha noted, best not to be too attached to those objects you see. And now to embed another object (this you tube video) "a rose embedded object video" where the ideal next trick i shall perform may or may not be the traffic light model with or without its signifiers as to when to stop and go... (we all slide across the red sometimes, and we all take a left without signalling. Same with seat belts) but as we're all perfectly capable of driving. ...(actually the driving metaphor is one made good use of in Juggler's Circles (3 ball cascade is the driving)...to the movies, alas perhaps another time. Meanwhile, the traffic lights I am thinking of, sea encrusted and toned with Victorian panache (down the bottom of London Road) where Kings Cross meets latent Imperialism and the new affect is made Cosmopolitan by a sunshine state, you can find me juggling there
IS it that the throw in the dice picture is visualised differently to a juggler? As Meillassoux's thrown dice emerge into my mind, the dice with the million faces that are always landing the same way up has made me think of a universe where the balls thrown never enter the juggler's hands, I reverse my own way of thinking about learning in order to apprehend the moment where philosphy pitches into my lived imaginings about juggling; as I had intended to think about juggling a specific number of balls, as in learning to juggle the key is in the throw, it becomes clear that I can't transpose philosophy's use of dice (or should i say one philopher's image) or is that the point (the object is the image of the man throwing the numbers? onto my own pre-conditions about intention, ontological as they may be, the balls need to be thrown to the same place every time to be a juggler. So having established the disconnect in the juggling metaphor, i can now process through contingently to mind maps; maybe therre is a connection there? it seems clear already that READING is a key to the present conditions of thinking and learning as we find them. We have mentioned, more than mentioned Meillasoux's impact, and as HArman and others suggest, we deserve to be the recipients of the use of this new word, correlationism. So when it's obvious to an outside that the inside's thinking on this is subalterm difference enters in between the asked original questions and intentions, is to say: it's not for no reason that I threw out my Husseurl for a dialogue with Joyce's interior object, Derrida, where three Yesses were proclaimed with far more vocality and vociferousness than had been said before. When Joyce's objects became Derrida's voices, something had been implied at n minus 1 dimensions that had proceed as method in order to establish the multiple. {Robin Lovgren. Juggler. Posted this today from his summer 2009. The nice swimming pool catching my eye at first as much as the juggling itself. It's a timeley line of a post as yesterday it was announced that "Seven is the New FFive Ball" meaning, in juggler's Land anywway there has been a threshold leap. More of that later. But for now? It's just this video is so sharp, you can't not say something about it somewhere; as with all good things, it is always just a sort of surprise...when and where being moved to write happens. And as it just so happened that Graham's post this morning was precisely about this subject, it got me to thinking again. 4a.m thinking. January 2011, coming across this video. Titles. Thanks.
[cont]... In a way, I'd rather be sleeping
[LATER}
These were then, as now, no more the mumblings of a variegated cow, or a weed (or should I say a mere weed amongst rhizomes) no, these were real thought processes at the time of that condition of Being, where, I was pleased to read, we were happy being what we were becoming, knowing that we were contingent upon being what we were not.
"thesis notes"......
Only much later did the question of reading arrive, coming as it did fast in the Wake of understanding how the brain prefers to learn: the power of Humanity's most effective learning mode (Buzan) not lost on Derrida, nor any of the previous conditions or intentions either were lost on language theory departments. Enter the Literary Condition and the advent of the new kindled book reader, and the questions seem greater to weigh in on the side of understanding learning and Reading, when these ojbjects are before us it is necessary to see that they exist. A you Tube Video, a Scribed text, a blog, a hard cover book, a walk in the park, a cup of tea, are all necessary Learning conditions that still need to be awakaned as the ontological precondition to learn. Here, Metzinger's narratie is more than apt a guide. The voice alone striking and metaphoric, writhing and rising in an absence of thought and ideas. Where is the phenomenal self Model? What is it when thought as an only inside of consciousness, where that inside thought by Steve Lehar and the model that fills the vomumetric gap with a perceived figure of form just imagines that it is there. this is the principle of higher learning and speed reading, maximised at this time by the technological synthesis of environemtn and thought as well as the the environment that has been coming into Being. This s why the maps are important at n+ dimensions (as the maps don't interfere with the method of n minus one dimensions, nor does juggling). The Portolan Maps are a merely "way in" to a sea of thinking about brains, maps and images we make of what we are thinking. More than once I have looked stunned at an emergent mind maps qualities, and seen the brain environment learning (the clouds) emerge in the dark night of a yesterday that turns out to be a contingent linearity,, as our experience merges into amodally perceived questions about time as we experience its fluctuations; absorption into the moment? or envisioned as the artist's descent into sdomething plastic, an alterior real of objects is implied, seen never and rarely felt, but implied to descend into (every ascent is really a descent, hoolds the MAyan Metaphpor of cloathing open, as indeed the rags of the aztecs have left us with a conundrum: could it be that the calenders were constructed but not seen? Was it possible that the preconstructive and bicameral environment (at the level of the seen and experienced) was so radically different then, as Jaynes propsed?) Were the pyramids built unconsciously? And what the hell have saturn and jupiter got to do with all of this. Are they only metaphors for the juggler, as balls in the air, once so accurately thrown that they arrived, somehow into an eternally recurring trajectory where the five planets are juggled and the juggler moves so slowly in space that his rotation outlasts the ability of any one observer to see the actual roatation. What does actually happen when one lllaid turns to the other and says, Hey Hector? What about my strory? The last word on that, narratizatiion, as Jaynes says is that it is a feature of consciousness, that the Ancients didn't Narratize as such, still (I think) needs to be thought through, because as everyone surely now nows and knows now that that meeting Cortez had (and By! Cortez! I mean by that that full and complete assemblage that is ALL that CORTEZ was,is and still is to be proclaimed as metaphor par exapple, absolute noun, appender of all modifications, carrier of all tranlocative and nontranslocative nows to arrive at El Pasideo, or wherever the multiple organisms of landing arrived with its tentacles, networlds, kipping in its shutters round Olde new england later, only much later, swalling the entirety so copmpletely into another world , such that more language and letters had to be allowed to drop in, such was that intensity, that radical acceptance that YES we knew it wasn't necessary to have or make a new language into an order to say something new, but that it was a necessary radicalisation of creative contingency and being to accept that that had to happen at the level of the text; it just has to, it hasn't completed its genesis by a long shot (that is for sure) and it holds, absolutely, something radical and new as it had promised in nits origins, as Becket well knew, though would eventually think intself into Being what it actually is knowing that it was in its own Age of Dsicovery, all layers of every word added and calculated for overtones and double referents of accidental meanings where something, for real, can't be imagined (for any good purpose) any other way than what it actually is. As Graham says in the closing paragraphs and pages of Prince of Networks he writes, philosophyand none of it all, not even our thinking proceeds or is understood by only "arguments, proposition, explicit reference, tangible qualities." That once understood that the logical proof for this or that can't be given first (and needn't be) the way is cleared for us to render and rhetroic, and wouldn't that be celebrated by a few nt with us today to hear. Long live the multiple, for sure, is and was its rejoinder, and long live too, the propsed next staep, after the cleaqring of the five balls, to the introduction of two and the externalisation of mathmatics itself, the 5/7 as has been propsed. Sewn up for the juggler i the universe that doesn't catch but only throws.... and as we're not in that universe, but as we a re in this one where we proceed on principle that the catch takes care of itself, we have established therefore a universe that we are in where indeed it is possible to so accurately throw the dice repeatedly that it would and does (I think that's the most important thing) that it does actually come same number up every time; or right side up in a kind of top down qwarky kind of way, as I think my friend TMT would say. And because of that, I'll post this damn fine video again.
1b/ Words (mostly) courtesy: Harman, Morton and Jaynes are there to help me think through another subject (other than juggling); that is.... (not only the balls themselves and their use in a juggler's LEARNING) but something altogether more private to me: the nature of consciousness itself.
3. Established Theory of Learning and Speed Reading implied as Method.
I know it's more subtle than that; it was a turn made because no other turn could be thought at the time, until I think Meillassoux cracked it open. Whatever the first question of philosophy is, I find it hard to imagine gh not liking this
for the last couple of weeks I've had Ecology Without Nature near my head where I sleep; last night I didn't sleep at all (more about that in a minute) but before i attempted to sleep I replaced Ecology Without NAture with Speculative Realism. Both are beautiful books; I'm no Adorno but I do have an eye for aesthetics in books sometimes, although I'd taken the cover off Ecology Without NAture (a hardback) and dropped it on the floor (highly unreverential from a Buddhist point of view, but there you go--as most parents know, sometimes kids just don't pick things up, and as any cat owner is more than aware--it's actually preferential to not have things constantly tidied up. Now, let me first say this: my USUAL reading practice hardly ever involves sitting in bed, ever. It's clumsy, bourgoise and there's never enough space to move, write or think... i always end up getting up out of bed, so why bother? but as the subject is objects (!) I thought I'd enjoy some nocturnal osmosis and due to the restrictions of time-compression during "Christmas" some osmosis is better than no osmosis at all. After all, Ecology Without NAture is not an "easy" book. There's no lulling oneself off to sleep after tackling ecomimesis, rendering or the vast array of metaphors, allusions,, tropes, facts and argument that is contained it. And I ain't Latour either, so the only way for me to read these books (and I will clarify what I mean by read in a moment) is in the office, sometimes on a couch, mostly standing up, with a highlighter in hand, or a pencil and some form of colour in poreparation for a subsequent event (ye creation of a mind map). Although I have produced a few mind maps already from Tim and Graham's other talks elswhere, they have been brief, fast and not thorough (but they look good). Anyway, as I said, last night in the bath I had finished my first cursory run through, highlighting of Ecology Without Nature and now it was Speculative Realism's turn, a mighty fine looking book from Zero, aesthetically pleasing in its own right and already (I'm sure) becoming synonymous with the timeness in which it has come into existence. But could I sleep? Hell, no. I'm not saying there's anything less at stake in Tim's book than in Graham's; far from it in fact, the argument that Romanticism still permeates thinking is strong and the argument for not "viewing" Nature as "view" or "aesthetic experience" equally strong, and several other strong arguments and thoughts that I'm not equipped yet to talk about pervade the text. No, it's definitely not my point to suggest any comparison; they are two books written for quite different reasons by two quite different people. No, that I could not sleep is the point. I mean, I did sleep but not in the usual fashion. It was restless. I was thinking in my dreams. Things were dialoging with me about the nature of Object Oriented Ontology. What had been released? What was releasing? What was I thinking? Or was it thinking me? I focussed in on the lampost across the road, seeing that I could walk up to it. Now it's not a lampost, it's a grey panel which can be opened, presumably to sort out the wires. Then I can pan back and it's a street. Oh so this is what the object is, consciousness can do that. I can move about spatially in my mind's eye. But this wasn't thinking, where is the object, the object is right in front of me, and yet its not, it's beside the bed isn't it? What would the third object be? (Christ, where's the first object?) Back to the lampost, which is off in the distance on a street corner at the top of the road (why that lampost?). But now it's a flat, grey panel again, and now it has curves. Is it the objects or consciousness that I am interested in? Some other thoughts flitted in and out throughout all of this very rough approximation of the NArratizing noise that accompanied six hours. I went to bed at ten, reading in dim light two pages of Speculative Realism (knowing I was fooling myself into or out of a post-bourgoise relationship to reading itself (soft, soothing tonic) a position I had long ago given up. In fact I'd almost entirely given up traditional reading methods in 2002... to replace that with then a new to me method of reading suggested by Tony Buzan. Of course Buzan's method is more of a suggestion than a rule, and so between 2002 and 2009 I experimented and gradually devised a new balance between input, reading, note taqking and making mind maps. Naturally the first flush was a form of ecstasy, in 2002 the IDEA that reading and memory could be both speeded up and more efficient was intoxicating and within five or six months I had proved this method to myself in such sufficient reason that I've never looked back since. I now almost never read in the traditional sense, page turning a novel or trying to understand. Morte of that later. I got out of bed, taking my time (sore back, cold, middle aged, post christmas flu, four a.m, dark urgh (awake again), coffee, putting Speculative Realism next to the sugar while I waited for the kettle to boil, thinking about that lampost and the now-awake realisation that I had had some form of an acoustic lucid dream. I don't know where I'd put Ecology Without NAture, ceertainly not on the bookshelf. The work was pleasantly piling up for the WInter term, I knew what mind maps would do to my reading of the book, so I made a compromise formation and instead tried to read it cover to cover. Well, that just made me feel thick with embarassment. It wasn't going to work that way. I'm making coffee running through all of this and the cat is staring at me. I'm excited really to begin the mind mapping of the books (Circus Philosphicus arrived two weeks ago) and Latour and Meillassoux wait in the wings: this all has to be put together. I know that. I'm not in it for the money (lolly). I'm not even in it for the argument. I know I'm in it because I havesniffed something really new; some sort of spicy arrangemnt of ideas would detract from what that new is. I know we all know that Harman and Meillassoux have cracked it open, and when I get round to it I am sure that crack will be more than clear to me from Brassier, Ennis, Wolverhampton Lord Bristol Wanderers and Others who are Speculating the Turn at a break neck speed (yes, I downloaded the pdf.... and will buy it as well). I havn't been this excited to begin work since HUme woke me up one night after a bender with Immanuel, saying Marrtin had come over would I like to Husseurl it up a bit? (But that was a long time ago/or so I thought before when time wasn't just a feature of consciousness' spatializing itself--and that really is another stoory). The coffee, a rather cheap, instant and slightly disgusting variety made only palateable by decent milk and a breathtaking amount of the sugar, flowed. Pleasantly, the cat didn't pester me for food (is there anything more disgusting than the cat food smell?) at four in the morning I mean (not in extensis for all time in all places) and outside to my very own version of a Latour Hut (not nearly as large, more truthfull a hut than Latour's House) but warm and disconnected from the main house in what we call a garden near what we call a field opposite what we call trees, behind which are what we call more fields and the sea, across which it would be necessary to sail before reaching France and other environs about which Captain Cook knew too much. Graham's new post, the first thing I do in the morning now is read Harman's Latest, (on Ennis Jan 6 … People still can’t quite get used to the idea that individual things are anything other than square, middle-aged, traditionalistic, reactionary, folk-psychological, commonsensical, gullible fetishes of the everyday fool on the street. But they’re wrong, and they’ll gradually come to see that they’re wrong
) igniting my mind even further, yes we would all find out soon enough that that this isn't that bench that we thought was the total question, as I'm not the subject I thought myself to be; because in the occasion of me reading the lampost, between the cat and the book and all of NAture (raining down) filling the mud banks with water juice, objectifying itself in blog land to mind's idea of what is happening in the specualtive turn itself agreeing that the turn it had made, the turn made from the past where Derrida had sat, was a wrong turn and that the U turn had to me to be made as a bed is remade; that was what was in the lampost, behind that plate which I in fact did not untighten or look in but into which I had projected and could see (and can still see ) wires.
