Category: Philosophy

Ache ( the words, pt. 1)

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, Writing6 Comments

I think it significant that this post and these thoughts were constructed/composed to Max Richter‘s composition “The Haunted Ocean 4” from his Waltz With Bashir soundtrack.  I have been unable to figure out how to load that piece here but so wanted you to be able to listen while you read.  I have found “Haunted Ocean 1” which has similar themes, but if you are able to listen to #4 please do!

(our environment writes as much as we do)

Ache

 

Borges writes “immanence,” Blanchot “infinite” and “void;” Beckett’s “dim” is Jabes’ “absence.”

– Let the attributes ring in your bodies like hymn –

Someone’s “silencio” is another one’s “vague.”  Heidegger’s “Dasein,” a collective of “Tao’s.”

Whence this pull toward placed-ness, toward wholes, toward meaning?

What evidence have we that this could ever be the case?

From “birth”?  Or “death”?  And what might we mean by “life”?

Words.

Language.

“words are not the reality of language: words – by themselves – do not exist”

–Jorge Luis Borges–

He illustrates this simply.  And might be demonstrated even more concisely, like this:

God.  Dieu.  יהוה.  Allah.  and so on…

Or, with Borges:

“En un lugar de la Mancha, de cuyo nombre no quiero recorder” (12 words)

“In a place in La Mancha, whose name I do not wish to recall”  (14 words)

“En un pueblo manchego cuyo nombre no quiero recorder”  (9 words)

“In a Manchegan village whose name I don’t want to recall”  (11 words)

or

I love you.  Te amo.  J’taime.  Я тебя люблю etc…

or

I adore, crave, honor, respect, delight, select, prefer…

            It isn’t the words, it’s the language.  And the language isn’t just words.

Ache.

Torment lies here.  Angst, frustration, agitation, anger and want.  Fear and inadequacy, limitation and failure, desire and doom.

Ache.

If the words not the thing nor the thing without sign or presentation…for what, for what do we yearn?

Ache.

We seem unable to be HERE, PRESENT, and simultaneously FULLY SO.  Some faculty, some capacity slighted.  Either intellect suffers to passion, or understanding commands immersive sensation.  Ever a split, a just-nigh or just-shy.

Ache.

To long for, to crave covet and burn…

Ache.

My love is absent.  I ache, I yearn.  But when she returns and is present, I lose the pregnant and consumptive fullness of her absence.

Either way I ache, for more, for all – for comprehensive life.

            Called by “I,” “void” or “it.”  “Being,” “nirvana” or “love.”  “Youth” or “joy” or “wholeness.”  “Pleasure” “emptiness” or “thou.”  Nothing.  or All.

I name it Ache, today, intending by it some constitutive condition or state, a description of “living,”

by which so many meanings are lost,

and I ache.

And so it begins…again…beginning within…

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, Traces, Writing2 Comments

Starting Out

 

And so it begins, as it so often does, begun long ago.

With the tone of a quest – an inception, a conflict, a cure.  Anxieties of disillusionment and fear, inadequacy and doubt, peppering the path.  But hopes too, and promise – what seem like successes or substance occur ascend along the way.  Perhaps desire with approximations of love, and frustrations translated to passion or anger.  Always there is grief and loss, what marks out time, and makes our days memorable.  Why we attend at all, the keeping track and transformations, insistent process of our undoing.

For once arrived in the scene, what else is there but the variegated haul to a destined demise?  Is it, then, always the “same ol’” fresh story?  A posited entity, a series of markings – accruals and deletions – to the closure of cessation?  What else might be told?  To what purpose?

There are moments, you say, moments of pause or release, elation or tragedy that form knots in the threads.  These might be dislocated to some profit, no?  At least for the living?

Midstream, and in motion you might trace it, you say, inscribing what’s open, what opens…emergence itself.  The clutter that punctuates being – its in-forming and injury?

Perhaps.  To guide others along possible pitfalls or options; to preserve instants and subjects; to fuel or to warn.  Perhaps.  Or simply to dream, to escape the inevitable awhile – what’s wrong with that?  That we in the glory and grind take a break, imagined or not, and drift or pursue, engage or elope to some alternate, parallel course?

What is: possible.

All of it is.  The values are relative, individuated.  Personal.  There’s no accounting for taste or of preference to dwell.  The matter hardly matters, after all, can be apparently “explained” (see also – epigenetics, chaos, theory and the like).  How we journey or survive, become or desist is an isolate concern.  Effecting all.

And there’s the rub, this sense of pattern, of system, of interconnectivity.  The impression that all might belong.  It won’t be long.  Insufficient gravity and incommensurate propulsion.  And so we move, arrange, derange, seeking for forms like the banks, or directions like currents.  We flow.  And it begins again, beginning within, as it always does, begun so long ago…

N Filbert

“Round, round, round, round, ‘I’ gets around”

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Philosophy, Writing4 Comments
Upside-down twisted i

Paring down the Signals

(please click on title for text!)

Decompression Addendum: Redefining Terminologies: Finding Words

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, Writing2 Comments

“The variety of words is another error…I believe words must be conquered, lived, and that the apparent publicity they receive from the dictionary is a falsehood…I now recognize among the thousands the nine or ten words that get along with my soul; I have already written more than one book in order to write, perhaps, one page.”

-Jorge Luis Borges-

Rudiments: Places of Operation

Redefining Core Existence Terminology

 

Family: those with whom one “belongs,” chosen and not, like it or not, one’s “tribe” – born into and/or evolved and developed.

Home:  states of being or locations, settings in which one IS.  Settings in which one is freest to be.

Love:    shared and mutual, reciprocal regard, respect, desire and preference.  Those with whom one thrives and incites the thriving of.  Intention and attention ( a relation between not inhering in beings)

Friendship:  unmitigated affirmation, reciprocal and intentional.  Native complementarity of being.

World:  internal and external context at any given moment

Self:  whom one is or shows up as in one’s world – at any given moment: individual weave or presentation in circumstantial contexts and settings.

Language:  whatever serves as communique betwixt individual and others and world (internal/ external)

I:  utterer of language, behaver of behaviors, actor of actions, feeler of feelings – as regards the “self”

Other:  any and all beings not the self-regarding individual

Vocation:  that which one IS and DOES; self-perpetuating passion – that which drives and rewards, fulfills and seduces, nourishes and excites desire for an individual…one’s propulsion, desire and satisfaction in being.

Leisure:  rest, reprieve, de-stressification

Fun/Play:  light enjoyment, carbonated experience

Sex:  whole-cloth woven world of contexts of one or more individuals

Art:  combinatory effect of an individual’s self, world, vocation and play; any “otherwise-not” creation of a living being’s given and concocted whole

Thought:  a self’s languaging of “world”

Habits:  automatic or instinctual activities of an individual, supposedly self-soothing or self-managing

Perception:  individual sifting of “world” and “self” (see also: interpretation)

Reading:  engaging the language of others or world or self-as-other

Intepretation:  an individual or group of individual’s “spin” on “universe”

Universe:  arbitrary boundary comprehending all that can be perceived/conceived by an individual or group at a given moment

Conception:  consideration and invention of possibilities of “universe”

Writing:  an effort to live, to exist

Decompression: A Process

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, WritingLeave a comment

it goes on…this emptying search…

(Re)Assesments

 

At something of a loss, what feels like a “crossroads” except that perhaps nothing in existence is really either / or.

That was not a sentence.

Bewildered without anxiety, I approach a sort of noisy blank.  A surfeited absence.

I have the amorphous sensation of being entirely undone and woven up as a satchel of my everything.  Every instance of myself threads the material of an empty knapsack that is me, dangling from a stick over the shoulder of the world I inhabit.

That the bag, indeed, is empty.  No objects or trinkets in that wee darkness to finger or grasp, no spirits to set free, emotions to unstopper.  Nothing within to escape, not even air.

My entirety fabricated as an emptied bag.

 

All I’ve ever written, attempted, every action, thought, adventure or relation.  All my labors, abilities, acquisitions, emotions and dreams; every word or intuition, fear or blatant risk, all ongoing consequence(s)…EVERYTHING – internal, external; past-present-future: is the skin of a being, the form and the boundary, the grafted substance of an absent individuality.

 

I experience this neither as a blockage, nor an impasse; no meaninglessness, purposelessness or ennui – simply a vague, obvious experience that all I am as a being is my interface with the world within and around me, idenitifiable without essence.

Responsible, shaped, recognizable and devoid of identity – no narrative or plot, character or definitive name, just an inextricably meshed passel of experiences forming a pliable veneer around a vacant hollow.

That all will carry on, as such, until its end.  Experience upon experience, before experience, during and after experiences and experiments – weaving, threading, joining…this being-form, this walking thinking speaking shape, this perceptive living husk or porous shell, a wave and trajectory of experiencings.

To feign a purpose, an intention or choicy action as this reality requires some arbitrary groundwork – hypotheses and rudimentary organizational operations.  What might this handbag proffer?  Or emit?  What song might be huffed from this void?

 

This is where I seem to be.  Evaluate.  Assess.  No pillars, few givens, a smattering of beliefs and bones and hunches, a median vocabulary of gestures.  From this – what pretend to build?  What fabricate?  I find that I want to, have desire to, create.  Make out of what is woven – everything that forms me / allows me to be – but in what manner?  Open.  Free.

 

As if the absence is realized, the content in-formed, substance resulting from wafting motions and play.  Capacity for invention.  Something like soap bubbles – materials forming a translucent and wobbly funhouse mirror of shapes…leaking…nothing!  Yet capable of popping fragments like droplets or spittle, or words.

 

This seems to be where I am.  I know not what might emerge, but I’d like to leave some trace of the fabric experience has made of me.  Scraps or ephemeral stains, artifacts.

 

Out of the Cave

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, Writing2 Comments

I really don’t know what these things are I’ve been writing (“Ideas of Home”, this one…).  Seem to be open ramblings.  I apologize if they waste time for any readers, I think I’m trying to open up channels inside of me with less self-conscious shaping and imposition of some pre-formed concepts of style, order, characterization, plot, even poesy.  Opening veins, trying to allow swollen connections between pockets of my body and brain that otherwise occur only in dreams or infrequently heightened states.  Not sure what’s going on, just writing.

 

In the Depression, A Cavern

 

The outlook that prides its common sense (for those who bear it)

“I cannot comprehend our attachments to beings”

-E.M. Cioran-

Airtight logic.  Closed circle of belief.

The end is doom and oblivion, i.e. “end.”

Therefore, “I cannot comprehend attachment” –

to things?  Well, perhaps, for personal endurance, a comfort while still understanding their nature (“truth”: “things fall apart, the center cannot hold”)

that all become, belong to silence (no total comprehension, understanding) all is constant change, therefore ephemeral, ridiculous to trust or develop dependence – everything changes, and then you die…

that, well that does not seem to alter much.  Perhaps it wavers.

As all things wobble and waver, are insecure, uncertain.

Well, but maybe not “ends” and “loss” – almost certain, almost absolutely so,

but then not everything has happened, as far as we know.

Hold on to joy’s illusions – real experiences – and why not?

Embrace.

Let go.

You better let go

or it will be taken, suffocated, crushed.

Smile, but don’t forget to cry, there are many truths.

And much matter(s) to perceive (momentarily)

But then there’s that: the individuality of perception

and the fact that that capacity will cease.

Heightened moments, erasing duration,

fictions of time and space.

Self and other.

World.

Wonderful World of Texts!

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, Writing2 Comments

Mystery Text #1: Of Origins and Ends

 

Many have participated – untranslatable translations and definitions undefined – signals of the ineffable.

Speaking of texts…writings and utterances, organizations of alphabets.

Writingreading, readingwriting – with an existing text – pray tell me the difference?

 

On the one hand – anyone.  On the other – the same.

Between = a text.

Words on a page are a circle.

No origin, no conclusion.

 

Who writes this?  Is it me?  Who is “me”?  Was it you?  Who were “you”?

Who deciphers?  Is it me?  And when “I” read again – is it the same “me”?  Later this evening in the quiet?  Saturday at the cafe?  In bed while a movie plays?  Is it you?

Reading as continual rewriting in the same alphabets, same words and phrases.  But the content?  Denotation(s)?  Connotation(s)?  Connections?  Disjunctions?  Referents?  References?

Who leads?  What follows?  Who follows?  What leads?

 

I venture to commend the signs of the text are the subject, the object we observe and receive, perceive and interpret.

 

Who authors?  And what is authored by that who?

Author following, adapting, borrowing and conceiving the text’s arrangement.  Or reader authoring the significations, meanings, referents(-ces) and possibilities of thusly arranged words?

 

Double absence.  Absence of the one constructing the text, absence of the possible recipient.  Anyone (or no one) at the origin, no one / anyone at the end.  Text(s) of no closure and of ever-questionable intent.

Text as ever-ready presents(-ations), like letters – always between the past, the void of dead, or the future, the empty potential and the unformed future, unknowable recipient.

 

Remarkable, to me, to be capable of participation in such a vital and energetic, ever-evolving and malleable, yet lifeless matter – able to be as stable as an inscription in marble –

the artifact:  word or image, painting, photograph, text: gestures of the dead or the missing, yet constantly enlivened, resurrected with each encounter!  This is passing strange!  Out of the unknown, toward the unknown and lifeless in-between!

 

Ever a-rising out of no-more and availing the not-yet:  unnecessary necessity of authorial entities – the necessary unnecessary of receipt.  The still spinning wheel of lifeless matter on a page… in potentia.

A marvelous mystery to behold


The Unknown and Unnamed recalculates and barrels on…

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, WritingLeave a comment

“& knowing from

the look of the others

that a panic has come

into your own eye

to know yourself only

as an instance”

-Ron Loewinsohn-

            Am I indeed no/w/here – is this a place to founder?

Are you here too?  Now?  And what might that mean?  (Or is that already to abstract, extract, exit to a changing no/w/here?)

I have my concepts.  I have my doubts.

I am unidentifiable, no/w/here.

If you happen to find me (or dis-cover?) would you please point me out?  Just a gesture will do.

You can use the simplest sign, that concept, just a dash, a briefest line – “/”.

Or a slapdash curly loop to momentarily contain it all in, all of that malleable nothing with thousands of experiences passing through: .

Loop-the-loop-de-loop go the organs and wires, the pores of the flesh, the nerves and the neurons, the veins and cells…

I am bewildered.

I think I am a concept.  (I thought I was a verb).

I get the joke!  “I think” – I am a verb.

So runs the conception.

Selah.

The ?/’I’ Barrels On…(the Unknown and Unnamed recalculates)

 

Empty concept or full flow, he advances (advances?) – he verbs.

Verbalizes.

He acts.  The marking concept, the tiny scratch – ‘/’ – goes on, regardless (of my regarding).

No/w/here.

This is IT.  (was IT and becomes so again) as ‘/’ act.

This unknown, unnamed subject/object absent presence moves like a filter screen being swished through a tub of air always tagged “IT,” (if this were a game).  Is IT?

Beginning from no/w/here and heading there too, and always at once…

it’s downright unsettling!  (literally – there is no settling or pause!)

I find (without actually locating a thing, even a speck or a fragment, not “conceived”) I am always no/w/here, and that no-place is always (ALWAYS) changing, moving, different(ly).

Unknown(-able?)  Unnamed(-able?)  Unlocated(-able?)

            Homo Scribus (homo-anything!) – person-as-verb – erases as it writes, deletes as it constructs, falsifies as it truths, acts in its passivity,

ever equaling the equation at zero!

(no/w/here)

I’ve gotta steer clear of math, of physics…I don’t compute!

“Some Blind Alleys: A Letter”

On By NW FilbertIn Art, Current Reading, Philosophy, Poetry, Writing6 Comments

Should you have the time…and it requires a bit…I would love to hear responses to the following essay by E.M. Cioran from all you interesting minds I observe!  Thanks –

“Some Blind Alleys: A Letter”

-E.M. Cioran-

The Unknown and Unnamed regains composure

On By NW FilbertIn Experimenctes, Journallings, Philosophy, TracesLeave a comment

The Unknown and Unnamed: the Conception

 

A few days naked and I’ve bewildered myself.

I was never good at math.

But I do love the rain (absorption, immersion, ambiguity).

There’s no accounting for taste.

I think I am a concept.

“a concept is a convenient capsule of thought that embraces thousands of distinct experiences and that is ready to take in thousands more”

–Edward Sapir–

            What’s in a name?

“the function of conceptions is to reduce the manifold of sensuous impressions to unity, and the validity of a concept consists in the impossibility of reducing the content…to unity, without the introduction of it…the conception of being, therefore, plainly has no content.”

–C.S. Peirce–

            I ran into a sign.

I was flooded, I saw and I seemed, I heard and replied, have been undone in my doing… I’m a roving mark, like a vessel constantly being filled and emptied, at once.

I can’t perceive without a concept, why not the simplest one – a single mark, a dash, say “/”?

/ fear it “plainly has no content.”

/’m confused.

“I am what surrounds me”

–Wallace Stevens–

            Advancing “empty,” a flesh-coated collection of organs replete with a coding of operational signs (we’ll call them ‘language’), I foundered.  Considering no one in pursuit of no/w/here, I became wherever that was (is?).

“This conception of the present in general, or IT in general…is before any comparison or discrimination can be made between – what is present – must have been recognized as such, as IT without parts abstracted and attributed to it…”

-C.S. Peirce-

            No/w/here – nothing – no one: “embracing thousands of distinct experiences (while attributable or identical to none of them) and ready to take in thousands more.”  ALWAYS.

Every/w/here, everything, every/one:  I conceptualize a concept, a mark to attribute an infinity of experiences toward : “/”.

Names changing by the millisecond.

A concept without content, or all conceivable content.

A baffle, a paradox, distinct and unidentifiable (in essence).

Here “/” come! (the unknown and unnamed) possibly sporting any knowledge, any name – perhaps heading your way even now!  Beware!  It’s conceivable, whether intended or not, that all of us are empty concepts, flooded concepts, without content, and all of us heading no/w/here at once!

“Here is where one seems to be”

–Robert Creeley–

“The place I really have to get to is a place I must already be at now”

–Ludwig Wittgenstein–

“’I’ can only be identified by the instance of speech which contains it, and by that alone”

–Emile Benveniste–

(to read all the Unknown/Unnamed writings thusfar accumulated

visit my Experimenctes pages!  Thanks)