Skip to main content

[x[x>x]x] - Sloan James




This is the dialectic. Sartre and Hegel.

Both slave to philosophy.

both slaves to the for-itselfness imbedded in ideology of totalisation.

Both masters to history.

and so, the irony.

The iron will.

The aestheticism that elevated their notions

nuance and finesse

from consciousness and reflective fitness

to cooling down intersubjective cooperation.

Permanent irreal contemplation.

howling about the ontic and the concrete instantiation

reifying praxis when the key is,

hiding subjectivity in the imagination

freely accessible when one pre-reflectively transcends selfless self-fully

from facticity through interpolation

avoided relativism and solipsism in sensuous situation.

The me that justifies itself

avoiding for-others and in-itself

without oppression and yet for itself,

ontologically driven toward the category

that is the only avenue to genuine phenomenological conversion.

Good faith post bad faith.

No overt expression of mere communication.

Experience void of self-deception

and BANG!

through Art!

You've stumbled so balanced and so clear minded!

Light footed and hot hearted

thanks to pure negation, we arrive, together,

detotalised-totality, in accepted alienation,

the sound, the space, and the immediacy

of existentialist authenticity.


As close as materiality and metaphysicality

can get to a humanism heavenly,

or a heaven condemned human to radical freedom.

The Geist relies on everything!

Spirit is modified historicalization.

It is a simple mutual

recognition

thanks to a mediating third;

between artist/audience

creator/creating

insufferably suffering with so much sufferability,

monk with ego in post modernity. 


but better because -


The Work. The Work! The project.

Richard Rorty and Nabokov meets De Beauvoir's ambiguity

and Camus' infamous absurdity

we meet beyond sincerity

when we commit to being-for-the-work

so necessarily aesthetic.

Only through the aesthetic

and so wonderfully, wonderfully ugly

in its profound and deformed intentionalised unintentional beauty

lateral to its saliency


I learned just the other day that morals and politics don't play the same game.

But what I've known without knowing reflectively

is through play can be found harmony,

and there's one way to do it

and

a zillion ways not to.


Nobody can be free if I can't be.

and if one person's in prison then I am not free.

oh, the problems of radical freedom.

You know the look doesn't mean you see them.

You know the waiter?

We've all been one.

You know the Jew and the homosexual?

and the Thief's Journal?

by Jean Genet;

you're gonna be ok.


If you're the real artist, not the fake, you've got a fighting chance.

But if you're for others, even at a glance,

there's a special place

before transcendence,

that keeps people being hell.

In-itselfing the for-itself

Absolute degradation.

That's why they're Other; people.


Every moment,

when the book closes,

or the lights come on,

or the album ends,

and the vinyl round-spinning-whisperness comes.

Self-certainty at the root of inadequacy

is adequate when I'm me moving on

and you're moving on with me

without strident objectivity

other than what I don't ask of you

and you don't, ask, of me.

it's negation that's the conversion from bad faith to good faith

to that elusive and intangible authenticity.


In bad faith you can find it again. how bendy you gotta bend.

ontology is easier than psychology. I don't care if you're Badiou or Lacan.

whether you're Kant or Johnny Cash's boy named Sue.

The kingdom of ends is me and you.

Beyond that it takes being to find no-thing

and nothing is all the rest of everything.

Why do you think love is such a fuckin' thing? huh?

Why do you think love is such a fuckin' thing?


The dialectic gotta be sewn or thrown or creating itself perpetual

as consciousness and being are in constant (and must be) transcendence.

But there's a way, listen to me, there's a way,

to be the narrative situation

without for-itself/in-itself/for-others.

There's a phenomenological ontological category that's right now novel,

yeah right now novel.


"Get to work" the artist.

Get to work.

You're the hope and the anti-hope.

You're the truth and the non-propagandist.

You're the only voice that'll save us.


You're the only voice that'll save us.


Written by Sloan James
Labels:

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

Impending Impatience - Nia Di Gennaro

  OCTOBER 18, 2022 Share     Ardour For this crown, dark Avidity In the balm of this chamber, blush Devotion In brevity To this season, long In the slight of an a.m. downpour, gentility How the scene ached to express itself to me Presented by significance Dressed as Violent elegance Intoned as Brutal magnificence Rousing sentience Waking dormant tenderness Bidding attention     To where I lay To where I’d been laying For hours For days     In Your meat Your marrow Your pith In Your depravity I’ve merry walked In Your brine I’ve sticky rolled In your proclivity I’ve risky peeped And quietly We march the death meadow     So as not to stir the bitter wind Or provoke the nightshade starved Who desire a kill     Wings wide Flut-tut overhead And know its menace Hold breath And hold for the pop and glitter And purr with verve Oh, my Thy drugs are quick   Written by  Nia Di Gennaro
Post a Comment
Read more

16mm Situated - Sloan James

  MARCH 11, 2023 Share Image credit: Still from "Tired snail eyes look around on a jog home" —  courtesy of  Lucas Haynes   16mm Situated 28-February-2023     Staving off the lower back pain of a man muddling middle age. But that would mean death at... never mind. The dull and dim concoction of nicotine, Endone, Turkey 101 and THC doesn't quell too much. I thought I was through it. Through with spine serpents snaking and looping and hooping round the bottom of my back, hissing at every movement and threatening bites of venom. Just sink the fangs in already slithering queen of mediocrity. Maybe those days jogging mattresses up staircases for minimum wage are ghosting my future plans. Plans to stand up and walk from one room to another.        We put off dinner because hanging paintings has taken all day. Where does the damn  Rigney  go now that he's away? Gone? in a different place. Another home. One I've never been to. But...
Post a Comment
Read more

Going to Hell - Alex Kudera

The years raced by until I found myself standing on a street corner in China. I was in Xi’an, and I was in my wife’s old neighborhood. We lived in her tiny studio—a few narrow rooms, linoleum floors, hot pot and range, no oven or fridge. A plastic seat on the toilet so frangible, I broke it twice by sitting down. Twenty-first century living in yesterday’s mainland. An authentic experience in the world.                But I was out for a stroll. This is what I loved to do—walk and look around. It was hot, but the neighborhood was out and about. A crowd stood alone or congregated on every corner. Laolao and Yeye claimed every spot on rusty metal benches shaded by trees. Many more people walked in the sun. They had umbrellas; I did not.                In ten minutes, I strode around the corner and up the block. The sun’s bright rays seared my retinas. The heat beat against the pavement and splashed ...
Post a Comment
Read more