Outer Limit

Come find me
on the other side of your stars
where your equations don't work
and nothing makes sense
at all

I'll be there to catch you
so you don't fall

so you don't quit walking
the path you were meant to walk.

Philosophy and Fiction

Philosophizing leads to conclusions, and if the philosophizing is done well, the conclusions approximate Truth to the degree that they are, at least, reasonable, believable. The philosopher, however, must and will learn to see his creations for what they are: approximations, models of Truth or truths, humbly accept that they are neither, in essence. In essence, his models are an adoration, whereas the essence of Truth is, to say the least, the object of his adoration.

His completed philosophy is a city of concepts and ideas, organized well enough to visit with the intellect; general enough, in an intangible aspect, to resemble the known world, as if a child of it. The philosophy will necessarily amount to portraiture; one man's rendition of The World, accenting certain features here, diminishing or ignoring other features elsewhere. Because the philosophy is ultimately a comment on The World, it will be imperfect, incomplete, precisely because commentary seeks to add to the reality being commented on, which implies that the commenter considers the reality in question incomplete, in one way or another. This, of course, is an incredibly general statement, for "incomplete" connotes, to some minds, a negative. Without digressing into that topic too thoroughly, I'll simply ask that the reader not limit his interpretation of "incomplete" to its connotations, and consider the word more creatively, so as to include all that "incomplete" can imply.

Philosophy as Commentary:
The philosopher is motivated by something, so he contemplates and so he writes. I would not say that there is one something that is the source of his motivation. Perhaps that something, be it unique to each philosopher or the very same to all of us, has certain common features. I would guess it must. Among the commonalities is the act of documentation which produces essays, articles, books and journal entries. All of this, whether shared or not, is a contribution to the body of literature that is philosophy. What is written, though diverse in topic and more, necessarily adds to what has already been written. And despite variety of topic, all that is written is, ultimately, a product of the way the author regards reality, life, existence, and their parts.

To write of this topic (I lump them all together as they are used interchagably) requires selection, discrimination. Philosophy itself is a most encompassing subject. No wonder that it has, over time, become attached to specific subjects of inquiry and turned into another study, entirely distinguished from philosophy.

I return to the since abandoned subjects of philosophy because I see where our course of inquiry has arrived. I see what was ignored and, in some cases, doubt our reasons for doing so. Despite the existential discomfort during some occasions of inquiry, I believe this not only worthwhile, but my best.

Philosophy as commentary assumes that reflections of a certain sort are philosophical in nature. That is, they regard the topics listed above. A lot of philosophical commentary occurs in conversation, colloquially, as well as in art. As such, relatively little is documented and that which is documented is often general as a catch phrase. Thorough passages through intellect are, to me, rare. Or more precisely, rarely documented. If and when they are, it seems they are always contextualized as fiction; or, controversially precise, commodified as fiction.

Monday, October 31st 2011

Controlled Confusion

Pace the house,

let the Devil tap you on the shoulder,

and contemplate,

"what is reality, really?"

Then walk all the way

back to God.

Lit Serpents

Men and women of letters
there is a food chain
of which you ought to be aware
or warned
depending, I suppose,
on where you be at.

Book worms,
there are lit serpents,

lit serpents
there are uninterested folk.

Itajuba

a melody of clouds.

the sky
a shade of blue
no other thing on Earth
ever had;

they tell me
where the higher winds blow.

Above cobblestone roads
I, a dreamer,
a believer
sing with the morning
and raise the sun.

And I recall:

I once disappeared
when I threw the world away
for what it seemed.

And now --
despite the wilderness of this life --
I find myself again.

untitled

Reminiscing, over coffee,
about cigarettes became as bad as I could be. My party days were long gone. The twelve steps led me to freedom.

Only some of the time, I would think about cigarettes. The rest of the time I was just being. Not thinking about anything, driving here, walking there, oblivious and totally aware at once.

I'd come a long way, is how I'd put it.

Just being was the strangest of achievements, but it worked wonders.

Ode to Story

Philosophy will turn my angels to theories.
Science will disintegrate my constellations
into flames randomly set in the void of time
And space.

Where else is a man to go
But to story,
which is free;
which needn't neglect any reality.