To be bored with oneself

I have heard what the talkers were talking, the talk of the beginning and the end,

But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

There was never any more inception than there is now,

Nor any more youth or age than there is now,

And will never be any more perfection than there is now,

Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

Urge and urge and urge,

Always the procreant urge of the world.

~ Walt Whitman, Song of Myself, III.

This only makes sense if one is in a co-breathing relation with the world (what the ancient Stoics called SUMPNOIA) … If I have this “spiritual” sense that the entire cosmos cares about my (well-)being, and that somehow I belong (metaphysically) in the exact space and time I inhabit, then Whitman’s gorgeous, exultant poetry moves me.

But I don’t believe it.

Walt wanted to make love to the earth itself, to fuck the ground he walked upon, and to somehow find communion with the iconic goddess “Nature” by masturbating himself into some sort of union with his supposed source of All.

The concepts by which we live are phantasms of the mind … that sounds like a quote, or perhaps it’s something I picked up from my life-sustaining reading over these past several years.

In any case, the urge to bring forth new selves into the world is universal. But the self, as a concept, is unique and unrepeatable, but gloriously malleable!

The Church Father were right to call it/us : HUPOSTASIS

.

Listen: as I sit in a café in Greenwich Village, martini in hand, smiling at the roving pseudo-angels that inhabit such joints, I am one self.

When I speak at a conference, where people engaged in actual research are taking the time to listen, I am an other – not a different (specious distinction!) self.

“The Same and the Other”? Horseshit!

Whatever swinging-dick motherfucker who came up with that distinction deserves to have his balls cut off!

There is only the self and the perceived world.

Period.

Get it?

Good.

No real matter. The HULE of our Being rots away at its own petty pace, from day to bleeding day … >We all fail and fall ... “Thoughts of a dry brain in a dry season.”

Day by day I’m drained of theTHUMOS that once made me a force to be reckoned with.

That’s fine.

Peace falls like a shroud upon us all, eventually.

If we are quiet in our hearts.

Someday I hope to walk, drunk (as usual) through a park or some suburban pathway and find a dying goddess.

Poe himself said that there is nothing more beautiful than a dying woman.

But it takes a dying man to appreciate her.

And the boredom of imminent death is enough to draw togetherPSUKHOIthat would otherwise remain Monads.

Gnostic-like.

In her is the end of breeding. Her boredom is exquisite and excessive.

~ Ezra Pound, The Gardenblockquote>

I wouldn’t dare – at this point – to declare anything about Pound. His nature was of another order.

Harold Bloom would be proud: I acknowledge the anxiety of influence.

There’s just one person that I refuse to acknowledge …

She lurks like a succubus in the dark Huysmanian night and she will be exorcised.

Peace, my friends.

To my enemies:

Asphyxia.