Posted in Music, Preservation, Self-sufficiency

The Lost Trophy

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“The true trophy hunter is a self-disciplined perfectionist seeking a single animal, the ancient patriarch well past his prime that is often an outcast from his own kind… If successful, he will enshrine the trophy in a place of honor. This is a more noble and fitting end than dying on some lost and lonely ledge where the scavengers will pick his bones, and his magnificent horns will weather away and be lost forever.”

 

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Posted in Midday Respite

Midday Respite

 

 

i’m running out of time i’m out of step and
closing down and never sleep for wanting hours
the empty hours of greed and uselessly always
the need to feel again the real belief of
something more than mockery if only i could
fill my heart with love
Posted in Midday Respite, Yours Truly

Midday Respite

My first love did not reveal itself in infancy, posthaste unto me.

My first love did not reveal itself in juvenility, posthaste unto me.

My first love did not reveal itself in maturation, posthaste unto me.

My first love did not reveal itself posthaste unto me.

My first love did not reveal itself unto me.

My first love was itself unto me.

My first love was itself.

My first love was.

My first love.

My first.

Love.

Was.

 

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Posted in Abstract?, Music, Persons of Interest, Unquantified fragments of numbers

Truth in Pursuit

The aim of scientific work is truth. While we internally recognise something as true, we judge, and while we utter judgements, we assert

Having visual impressions is, of course, necessary for seeing things, but it is not sufficient. What must be added is not anything sensible. And it is precisely this that unlocks the outer world for us; for without this non-sensible something, each of us would remain locked up in his inner world.

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‘Facts, facts, facts,’ cries the scientist if he wants to emphasize the necessity of a firm foundation for science. What is a fact? A fact is a thought that is true. But the scientist will surely not recognize something which depends on men’s varying states of mind to be the firm foundation of science.

 

Please read further on the logic of truth…

http://philo.ruc.edu.cn/logic/reading/Frege_The%20Thought.pdf

 

Posted in Language

That Which We Dare Invoke

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That which we dare invoke to bless;
      Our dearest faith; our ghastliest doubt;
      He, They, One, All; within, without;
The Power in darkness whom we guess;

I found Him not in world or sun,
      Or eagle’s wing, or insect’s eye;
      Nor thro’ the questions men may try,
The petty cobwebs we have spun:

If e’er when faith had fall’n asleep,
      I heard a voice `believe no more’
      And heard an ever-breaking shore
That tumbled in the Godless deep;

A warmth within the breast would melt
      The freezing reason’s colder part,
      And like a man in wrath the heart
Stood up and answer’d “I have felt.”

No, like a child in doubt and fear:
      But that blind clamour made me wise;
      Then was I as a child that cries,
But, crying, knows his father near;

And what I am beheld again
      What is, and no man understands;
      And out of darkness came the hands
That reach thro’ nature, moulding men.

~ LAT

Posted in Fear Inlandish

Fear Inlandish: Piece X

“For so sworn good or evil an oath may not be broken and it shall pursue oathkeeper and oathbreaker to the world’s end.”

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But the vulgar view has a very poor understanding of despair. Among other things (to mention only one which, if rightly understood, would bring thousands, yea, millions under this category), it completely overlooks the fact that one form of despair is precisely this of not being in despair, that is, not being aware of it.

The vulgar view is exposed, though in a much deeper sense, to the same fallacy it sometimes falls into when it would determine whether a man is sick or not.

In a much deeper sense, I say, for the vulgar view has a far more inadequate notion of spirit than of sickness and health — and without understanding spirit it is impossible to understand despair.

It is ordinarily assumed that a man is well when he does not himself say that he is sick, and still more confidently when he says that he is well. The physician on the other hand regards sickness differently. And why?

Because he has a definite and well thought out conception of what it is to be in sound health, and by this he tests the man’s condition. The physician knows that just as there is sickness which is only imaginary, so also there is such a thing as fictitious health.

In the latter case, therefore, the physician first employs medicines to cause the disease to become manifest.

Generally the physician, just because he is a physician, i.e. the competent man, has no unconditional faith in a person’s own assertion about the state of his health.

If it were true that what every man says about the state of his health (as to whether he is sick or well, where he suffers, etc.) were absolutely to be relied upon, it would be an illusion to be a physician. For a physician does not merely have to prescribe medicines, but first and foremost he has to be acquainted with sickness, and so first and foremost to know whether a supposedly sick man really is sick, or whether a supposedly well man is not really sick.

So it is also with the physician of souls when dealing with despair.

He knows what despair is, he is acquainted with it, and hence he is not satisfied with a man’s assertion that he is in despair or that he is not. For it must be observed that in a certain sense not even all who say they are in despair always are so.

One may affect despair, and one may make a mistake and confuse despair with all sorts of transitory dejection or grief which pass away without coming to the point of despair.

However, the physician of souls does, it is true, regard these states also as forms of despair. He perceives very well that this is affectation — but precisely this affectation is despair. He perceives very well that this dejection etc. does not mean much — but precisely this fact, that it does not mean much, is despair.

Furthermore, the vulgar view overlooks the fact that, as compared with sickness, despair is much more dialectical than what is commonly called sickness, because it is a sickness of the spirit. And this dialectical quality, rightly understood, again brings thousands under the category of despair. For in case at a given moment a physician is convinced that this or that person is in good health and at a later moment becomes sick — the physician may be right in affirming that the person was well then, and at a later moment became sick.

With despair it is different.

As soon as despair manifests itself in a person, it is manifest that the person was in despair. For this reason one cannot at a given moment decide anything about a person who is not saved by the fact that he has been in despair. For in case the condition comes about which brings him to despair, it is at that same moment manifest that he has been in despair throughout the whole of his previous life.

On the other hand, one is by no means justified in saying, when a man has a fever, that he has had a fever throughout his whole life. But despair is a phenomenon of the spirit, is related to the eternal, and therefore has something of the eternal in its dialectic.

Not only is despair far more dialectical than an illness, but all its symptoms are dialectical, and for this reason the superficial view is so readily deceived in determining whether despair is present or not.

For not to be in despair may mean to be in despair, and it may also mean to be delivered from being in despair.

A sense of security and tranquillity may mean that one is in despair, precisely this security, this tranquillity, may be despair; and it may mean that one has overcome despair and gained peace.

In this respect despair is unlike bodily sickness; for not to be sick cannot possibly mean to be sick; but not to be despairing may mean precisely to be despairing. It is not true of despair, as it is of bodily sickness, that the feeling of indisposition is the sickness. By no means. The feeling of indisposition is again dialectical. Never to have been sensible of this indisposition is precisely to be in despair.

This points to the fact, and has its ground therein, that man, regarded as spirit, is always in a critical condition — and if one is to talk of despair, one must conceive of man as spirit. In relation to sickness we talk of a crisis, but not in relation to health.

And why not?

Because  bodily health is an “immediate” qualification, and only becomes dialectical in sickness, when one can speak of the crisis.

But spiritually, or when man is regarded as spirit, both health and sickness are critical. There is no such thing as “immediate” health of the spirit.

 

So long as one does not regard man as spirit (in which case we cannot talk about despair) but only as a synthesis of soul and body, health is an “immediate” determinant, and only the sickness of soul or body is a dialectical determinant.

 

More to come in Piece XI…

Posted in Language, Music

After The Burial

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YES, faith is a goodly anchor;  
  When skies are sweet as a psalm,  
At the bows it lolls so stalwart,  
  In its bluff, broad-shouldered calm.  
 
And when over breakers to leeward  
  The tattered surges are hurled,  
It may keep our head to the tempest,  
  With its grip on the base of the world.  
 
But, after the shipwreck, tell me  
  What help in its iron thews,  
Still true to the broken hawser,  
  Deep down among sea-weed and ooze?  
 
In the breaking gulfs of sorrow,  
  When the helpless feet stretch out  
And find in the deeps of darkness  
  No footing so solid as doubt,  
 
Then better one spar of Memory,  
  One broken plank of the Past,  
That our human heart may cling to,  
  Though hopeless of shore at last!  
 
To the spirit its splendid conjectures,  
  To the flesh its sweet despair,  
Its tears o’er the thin-worn locket  
  With its anguish of deathless hair!  
 
Immortal? I feel it and know it,  
  Who doubts it of such as she?  
But that is the pang’s very secret,—  
  Immortal away from me.  
 
There ’s a narrow ridge in the graveyard  
  Would scarce stay a child in his race,    
But to me and my thought it is wider  
  Than the star-sown vague of Space.  
 
Your logic, my friend, is perfect,  
  Your moral most drearily true;  
But, since the earth clashed on her coffin,  
  I keep hearing that, and not you.  
 
Console if you will, I can bear it;  
  ’T is a well-meant alms of breath;  
But not all the preaching since Adam  
  Has made Death other than Death.  
 
It is pagan; but wait till you feel it,—  
  That jar of our earth, that dull shock  
When the ploughshare of deeper passion  
  Tears down to our primitive rock.  
 
Communion in spirit! Forgive me,  
  But I, who am earthly and weak,  
Would give all my incomes from dream-land  
  For a touch of her hand on my cheek.  
 
That little shoe in the corner,  
  So worn and wrinkled and brown,         
With its emptiness confutes you,  
  And argues your wisdom down.

 

~ James Russell Lowell

Posted in Language, Music, Yours Truly

Christmas Island

 

If man is an island…

and the waves which summon to,

each grain which moves and becomes him…

bountiful , yet plain.

 

If man is an island…

and the creatures his c(s)ensor

Soft and firm movements…

they in turn ravage his bounty.

 

If man is an island…

an impenetrable force is his jungle,

the trees his fickle fortress…

the thicket his bane and breath.

 

If a man is an island…

and the firmament his untimely god

His sustenance is trivial…

his steady earth, slowly withers away.

 

If man is an island…

his bounty unrestricted yet rare,

bounded afore…

for the nothingness thereafter.

 

If man is an island

the night his inverse shadow,

for the day shows him no more…

the lights deathly benevolence.

 

 

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