smears, splotches.

There is little out of life

            I could not get

from your eyes. Or: that guttural voice, that

voice, tampered with by cigarette

               smoke—a voice, a

demon’s, fuming, o dear,

O one of mine once. O my drift: one

        of mine, once, now away and

done: done,

with me: me and the damnable lies:

devil-man, me; you, the demon born out

the skull of the devil-

man, though once fully yourself,

              that is, wrenched

from me, become an angel,

angered: down to the last worn

out knot of breath you feel

it, you feel me,

in your breath, fuming: and, sadly,

my pleached loving goes drifting in bolts,

               lightening-bolts, out into

the cosmos, yes,

eventually woven and

voyaging through: it goes into the forest-

-yes: where the yarrow grows in thickets with

bloomed flowers, miniature and tenuous:

it tells me,

warns: of ugliness,

in myself: brief,

thwarted love,

love for that which

contains me in answers like a fucking

cocoon—to keep souls as me from

voyaging the little

branches out, out, out into the cosmos„,

black with deadened

lulls, and me the figure out the mind-

             -of BECKETT with his bag

of cans, trudging through wet mud,

hearing his story like a memory from everywhere

around: an omniscient voice: I hear it even here-

-speaking words; the words, that

is, that at present are come into being

written, go beyond being written into just

                      being: themselves in

getting a voice to wake ‘em up from

powerful flatness that might just be that aware

thing of misery, the last

corner of the room,

somewheres

in the throat of the storied stories shouted

in a dull lull by the voice,

above: a vessel

for this my own phenomenon

of love and states of love, works of

it: BECKETT, talk,

you absurd man: bellow the memory

down to me in an answering

strike to slump me, finally; and, yet-

          -you’re given she to bellow

down: she: she

speaks, and I hear

her opus like a breath: I try to blow it

back upwards

to heaven, though

it goes from there down

to my imaged figure; shaking,

stays with it; and, cut into

the heart, hers—answers,

each, from you, her, you throat, you confessional

valve, hers: your opening opening finally

up to judge: juddge, yes,

just me, judge me, yes,

you just judge me, unjustly, give

her the vessel your voice above: fuck

                    you, BECKETT: you

scintillating creature on

the cusp of an utter appearance

of pure being: she

typifies you in heaven in a-

-shy self-conscious mocking:

most holy, whole, and full, embracing:

you make of herself a womb-

-to hold my dirty

soul:

in an incubated room: somewheres„,

somewheres in your bleak heart: you, love,

forget the voice, absurd voice

of voids: you-

-kind love: head, heart: both dissected,

vamped all twain without a bother to put

      it back together because it’s

without me this time: and anyway

is already in some enmeshment-

               -of a sort: no, no

     bothering taken, however, to get

      me a part of the enmeshment: that

                is, if only for the sake

of me not taking, being not being taken,

by me: this don’t

make no goddamn

sense: please, make

sense, and give existence

a try: the in-itself that BECKETT

                   and I offer you, even though

you think he’s the one giving: make sense of me,

love, instead; speak in your own voice,

speak like PIM: tell me

what to do, love, please,

grow me out of yourself, love, until you

grow out of me: hear me out:

tell of yourself, tell yourself

                 to me, give my

omens a demon to relate their petty selves

to. Why? Why what? Can you hear me when

I ask you questions, DAN, and you’re asleep:

you always answer me; when awake,

skirt around the issue:

but when you’re sleeping you answer:

answer me plainly: answer,

regardless-

-of whether what comes out pleases,

displeases: who were you: who

were you to me: are you:

pah-too-loo-ugh

this is silly—you just don’t get it, you,

love, lovely you—you just

don’t understand

things any different: it’s

                   cuz of me: your

pretty loveliness is what cravenly-

-I sublimate: sublimate,

yes, with jokes:

that is:

you love to joke, you

love to make yourself a beauty:

to look all beautiful beyond the voice:

a, the vessel for the voice

above, absurd, to reach down

to EARTH with: who

would you, love, be-

-without BECKETT: a beauty still to me,

in yourself, an angel, yes, yes:

even if only through your own shyness, your

                 timidity; silence, verbose

in the corner: you like others

to think you frail, right?

pah-too-loo-ugh

all I can say is that

that’s it, once wasn’t: I made

some

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1.,3/f0lejkaaand now it’s what it always was: life

is life, always will be

life, damn it: this, look

… … … .

at this albatross: this bird hung

across my neck’s not an omen

that some ship of ghosts’ll

plunder me, my

heart, no, of all value; disgrace me

in revealing me to everyone as a vapid soul, sick to

the bone: I just, though timidly,

        like you and beautifully

in your omniscient

sound—I just

think you’re a demo,n an

      an an unforgivable

essence for me to joke about, to others, with—

PAH

don’t give me reason to stay, DAN:

      let me talk whispers to you

at night, speak to you then, when-

-you can’t hide any of yourself as much: when you

can’t act like me: won’t

be timidly persuasive

but hamfisted; to-the-point, but

disorganized: blankly vapidly truly weak.

TOO

Don’t make any sense of the omen,

whatever randomness hangs around my neck, love;

whatever’s plundered, destroyed.

LOO

Follow me into my heart’s forest and

core: confusion’s heat is there: there,

I feel the rasp of your breath, fuming,

held staccato like a gutsy choir framed

in gentle smoke I seem to understand.

UGH

Understand me, DAN. I want to smoke, let’s go

outside, friend; let’s smoke. And fume:

let me chatter with my own, human voice,

and know myself thus without

a voice, to you, who see me rather

                         as a thing supernatural,

sublime: and so then every voice is right, wrong;

is true, false; is weak and is quite strong: and leave

our madnesses

surreal and dislocated and perturbed

and, and

craven; uhm, suspicious as to the omens

hung around your neck that will present

themselves more fluidly later:

DAN: I confess, you are to me this

house of-

-cards, laden and tough

as a brick-ass bitch. And, love, you

omniscience: seen as that, by me,

absurd, negated and outlived: love,

you’re there: you’re there,

down to the last breath

of smoke. Breathing, fum„,inng sh,ti shit

. .  .   .  ..  .   ..  .

ON ABRAHAM’S SILENCE.

Abraham went beyond faith, into a universal consideration of letting go. Similar to one who goes up high to fall further down. In a universal, infinite sort of sense, all that matters is the length of the height between one and another discernment; there is no side to side, no numerical order, no gradient. Only the volume distributes the substance, because overall it is devotion that leads to any perfect thing, infinite devotion for an infinite thing. To not need to understand this, even unconsciously, and yet to consciously live out to its end the climbing up, steeper and steeper, the way more precarious, without an extreme fall? To have an infinite, objective faith implicating an infinitely leveled metaphysic?

The universal perspective in Abraham lies here in a functioning ambivalence—ignoring the encroaching, brutal event he must commit to pass, and as time passes without a word to evidence he could not share either way. He is committing to his function as a subject of his God, but does not know his function, because his God demands this from him without reason. He must have felt the role of Prometheus stealing the torch, to know not how he might make others see, if even he himself could not. Without the extreme fall, as Abraham was spared: that is, to put all of one’s vigilance to an order from upstairs that a Christian God, He himself did not see through to the end: a much the higher thing did: that is, not what makes a Christian God Absolute, the Absolute, not the infinite object itself, containing all ignorantly; but a thing aware of all, everything, omniscient in the truest sense. Such a thing is indeed no container but impresses like scales over our vision; it is ephemeral precisely because it is precise, each, every perspective, thought, every reality, every WORLD a crystal case. This I believe carries its own possibility of an Subjective Absolute, and these two poles themselves combined, a container that is all, but not the characteristically different things themselves, in unity, with an infinitely variable state of those things, and which involves an equal discernment of every corner of consciousness in all who are, as if God were peeping all across peoples’ heads; this is simply speaking its own massiver Subjective Absolute, and quite un-Christian.

God stays Abraham’s hand, and too was saved by the infinite mechanism in Abraham’s function as to the role of a very much more abstract, aware God, what on a universal level amounts to something morally straight: a way of morals however, at this scale, somewhat like the conservation of energy, where relevance is neither produced nor destroyed but maintains itself in a permanent sternness.

At a point where height is lost and depth takes over, there is no longer a fall or rise: there is stasis held in place amidst the silent pitch of darkest void: held in place by a faith, a baffling faith that ‘it is good’. Such an intimate thing might also be something wooden, and, indeed, obstinate, unyielding, stern.

Neither produced nor destroyed. It is to have a supreme sense of Abraham’s faith, to apprehend a belief that what should be rightly will be. So then maybe Abraham shut his mouth for himself and to lie the next time he spoke. To soothe himself, because he loved his son.

He had no choice, or to recognize his God’s absurdity instead of his own. By calling himself no father of Isaac, rather than telling him it was God’s will he kill him. Then at least, Isaac prays for a merciful God, uplifts Him, instead of cursing God to the ill luck in being given a loon for a father, who thinks he hears God. In denying the divinity Abraham so surely might have experienced, one puts the earnest truth upon Isaac’s shoulders. Abraham is willing to dishonor all of himself so that his son might still retain his faith; Abraham reveals nothing, so that he proves his faith and his sanity. The insane mind voices to convince others of his delusions; the sane, merely, learn to keep their delusions under control, and the matter tight-lipped.

As well, by virtue of the absurd, it is too unbelievable to tell anyone else, too real to ignore in oneself. It is the going-through of a plan that would directly involve informing someone, especially if it’s God who’s informed you, your son’s life that must be given, without reason.

That if he were to reveal the reasons for what came to pass of this to anyone would dishonor the pact between himself and—God—is true, but why? From a psychological standpoint, consider the opposing possibility: that Abraham heard voices, and murdered his son, he later tells, because it was the will of the Lord—in whatever sense you want to put it, I’m not a Christian. It is the idea that it happened but he does not say so that is important to consider because, otherwise, how is there evidence? Would that not worry him? But Abraham is in faith trusting that it was indeed a divine presence that he experienced. Otherwise we would consider him a murderer! How is there a story of Abraham in the Bible unless the man himself was an extraordinary case; as it is by definition an ignoring of evidence, faith, but for the means of shrouding the horrible deed that must be done, in fact remaining all but reticent on the three days journey, until Abraham and Isaac come upon Mount Moriah.

An extraordinary case, indeed; unless it were a complete fabrication and no man named Abraham ever existed, whose slaughtering hand was stayed before upon the throat of his son, by God?

But on the level of what amounts to mere mortal distinguishing of right and wrong, in the moment, at least, the only reason we consider Abraham in the Bible, from what I can tell, is for the miracle in that his hand is stayed by God, and for the devoutness—of one willing to sacrifice his best for his faith. And of course, honestly, truly, it is as simple as that, of course.

… … .

Look over this again, if you have the time. I just wrote this, it’s about Kierkegaard and his book, Fear and Trembling. Check it out. I’m almost finished with The Sickness Unto Death. Both of them are masterful.

I wanted to explain to you that you should see my work as a universe unto itself, that whatever I speak of you should find the sense in, because I do, if only you give the shape time to emerge. And then, like as here, you’ll find that there is a realm of understanding much able for a man to enter, but not dwell in. That one’s place in his head can indeed fathom unfathomables, though his head, strapped by anxieties, cannot put all of himself there.

Thus it is a matter of volume, and my arguments are, there^ that Abraham’s case is extraordinary because it is selfless, in an absurd way; besides the love for his son and the sacrifice there, it is a selfless act still, to take the rap for God’s insanities. In the words of Kierkegaard he is indeed the—Knight of Faith—for his silence on the subject, decisively. It is a general way that perhaps while not needing to be ritualistic is consistent in its result as to the respect of paying duty to the unfathomable.

And here, a substance, too, though unfathomable; that a foundation for consistency could itself be a ritual, though not ritualistically repeated but used as a jumpstart at random times. One thinks that God caught Abraham in the crunch, a timing deadly swift, as when a heart on the brink of not beating again is brought to the thrust again by two chest-prongs of electricity.

As with Philosophy On The Main, an understanding what should consistently come together, indeed, a clean, objective matter, substantive: that things should organize and at some level be the very extremity of perfect, and which will be, though time obstruct one by even passing from seeing their record, and yet once one broadens their scope of this to include the next possibility in the line, then at least there is that hint to direct one to the best one, what might sensibly happen. And perhaps a case for fate, once one takes on an universe of this. What a horror then, to be asked to sacrifice your best one, as with Abraham!

What I was trying to explain was this: so lets say I need to find relief and relent to prayer: and lets say I do this, without fail, for a long time, as a general platelet on which to judge my own surety as to what I believe is good and right, as a way nearly like a superstition, that if only repeated would dissolve the peripheral worries as to this if nothing else: and lets say moreover that I were to take it to a level where it became not so ritualistic: that it was not so general, how I paid my respects to what is good and right: that I did it differently every day, and yet still the superstitious feeling was retained—that what I had to do to fend off this manner of dread as to my way of existence, the ‘obstinate questionings’ as Wordsworth puts it, in a present moment, changed.

Surely this is more like a compulsion based off of a reaction to anxiety, but not completely outside the realm of faith in a higher being. This in a way is different and somewhat less a strength, because it’s never a tracking of the source of anxiety but rather provides helpful hints to what is an endless shuffling of anxieties to different areas of the mind, different statures.

This of course would be enough for anyone to feel resigned, if one is powerless to their sensations as to affecting the process of thoughts.

One of course must have the thought first, before God does, in order to experience what is it’s unbelievable difference: that is, the sensation, the tingling of the flesh, is our reward for the courage to have been unchained by the thought of powerlessness, if only for a moment; that is, that God is fate, that there is even an Absolute and All-Knowing thing, disregarding this precept, and then having faith in oneself, once you are outside of the WORLD whatever Absolute could give. And yet like Abraham realized, such a thing—Absolute—cannot, once silenced, provide those hints, if this periplum, roadmap, schematic, whatever, of fate as to all-that-is is wrested from his own God and given to him who is much the more an ignorant man. One as him takes on the matters of a universal fate of a recurrence ever the deeper, past his own reckoning—that, Abraham realized, was the importance of even the shadow of an Absolute in men’s minds, that it held everything together simply because it was everything, and yet too could he enter faith in a plan beyond the plan of even God itself, in ignorance, perhaps the more, of what it would do once needed to function itself as a subjective wavering thing, able to be snuffed out and all, everything, silenced, with one sleight-o-hand: perhaps the man whom Abraham was was able to use his own humility to his advantage, as if in on the joke that God, too, was in on, to a mightier extent: that we are in control of so much for the sake of what is so little to a grander location, and which would be destroyed, save the humility of that grander location as to its own powerlessness to see Abraham as anything but a little man. So then Abraham has a hunch about the greater thing; the greater thing, encompassing all, has a hunch about what is humane. And within degrees of this, there is folly on both sides of this ultimately sideless length.

As to what Kierkegaard thinks, I believe his hunch about Abraham was this: that we can choose to need to know more past the usefulness of the need, which clearly typifies the use, etches it in the passions, the use of it for the human heart. Once removed from one’s best fate, or, that which moves Abraham’s heart, so then Abraham must rely on an inaccurate morality founded in that his own faith of what is right and wrong fell in line with this order from God.

As a foundational thing in an infinite sense, faith is a ritualistic, atavistic thing. Any skeleton of surety, though fool-proof, is too inaccurate. Why then, once he received no new information, did he assume only up to the point that what must be done done and Isaac slaughtered?

Well, he, Abraham, accepted the gift of what is, such as, his God speaking to him, telling him to kill his son. Abraham here is immediately willing, that is, to play directly into God’s hands, and moreover be a step ahead, just one step, or perhaps a step “before God” as Kierkegaard better says of it, so that an infinite resignation as to one’s powerlessness to perceive anything not choked almost to death by corporeal limits, might dissolve for him, too, as a peripheral worry.

But corporeal limits are all of humanity, who stake much on them, despite they might lose. Does this make Abraham merely inhuman, or divine?

Philosophy On The Main is about that obligatory unfathomable space, perhaps created by man because perceived if of course not understood. There is to an Absolute of course nothing subjective and yet it may be viewed many ways. Anyway, a perception at the least, a notion, of an unfathomable thing, if one pays, compulsively, dues for this, inserting one’s own arbitrariness, might make it in time, perhaps relevant, necessary: if at first one doesn’t in his heart believe it, so too will his sensations precede thoughts, and so too will he be a slave to feelings. My ways of paying respect to what is right and good, these compulsive superstitions that anxieties as to whether I am—in my questioning way—either of these in my own mind insist on replaying, are variable, moreover, they change, paragraph to paragraph, and all a prayer, the same one, different thoughts, on the same objective matter.