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

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 up against my cheeks and ears. You could fry an egg on the sidewalk. Throw it on fried ri
Post a Comment
Read more

The Cement Mixer - Jon Doughboy

 It’s 2002 and 2008 and 2012 and 2023 and the Millennials collectively, the entire generation,  have rented a cement mixer the size of a global recession from Jean Twenge’s cousin who works  in the building trade making a buttload of dough renovating subprime mold-farm homes and  turning them into hot commodities with some fresh sheetrock and gentrification gray paint and a  sheet or two of brightly-colored metal siding for “curb appeal.” On one side of the mixer is emblazoned the word “Time” in Vantablack spray paint. On the other, smeared in feces and blood, is the word “Culture.” The Millennials excitedly crowd around this two-named mixer like it’s churning out unviable yet  charming third-party candidates. And this is no ordinary mixer. It’s state-of-the-art and the art  consists of taking in hopes, fads, fears, archetypes, myths, and generation-defining themes and  mixing them all up into something sturdy for future generations to crawl then walk then sprint  then wobble then coll
Post a Comment
Read more

The Rage of Impotence: a review of Mark SaFranko’s One False Step – Zsolt Alapi

The British author, Graham Greene, dubbed author Patricia Highsmith “the poet of apprehension” in his introduction to her Selected Stories . Highsmith is a one of Mark SaFranko’s favorite authors, and there are haunting echoes of her sensibility in his latest novel One False Step , appearing for the first time in English (previously published in French translation). SaFranko manages to create a world that is cruel and almost claustrophobic, drawing the reader into an unsettling feeling of dread as the protagonist’s life slowly devolves and spirals toward its inevitable conclusion. One False Step is the story of Clay Bowers, a philanderer, whose wandering eye lands him into trouble when, in an instance of darkly humorous irony, he falls off a roof while ogling the lady of the house, rendering him a paraplegic. As he is recovering in the hospital, he realizes that “The thought that he might not be able to do anything (sic)…that he might only be able to lie there and think for the rest o
Post a Comment
Read more