Philosophy of the Keexzus, No. 13: Narratives of the Real

[first appeared on on December 20, 2014]

Evaluate language. Evaluate past. Feel, see the ‘I’ that anchored a culturally cultivated narrative. I used to believe in the narrative. The narrative is not real. Yes, read Baudrillard. Yes, read Chomsky. And, yes, Chomsky was my literary hero for an early epoch of verbal creation. Chomsky was an intellectual analyst of government form and function. The language and function of structure is not the lyrical essence of Life. The formless essence of god consciousness is lost. What we see in the physical realm is form. Form is the first identification of mind. What goes through the mind of god? What goes –if possible—if feasible—the lyrical dimensions of something inconceivable. The How & Why aspect to a wholly varying degree will, of course, create controversy. The endless identification with mind is not god. What is more alien than form and identification with mind form, one aspect of a varying, expansive cosmic drive that language and Wittgenstein cannot account for? … one has to write…

(Some) many)) would expect certain form and structure. Perhaps this Is not a philosophical investigation, a blank page thrown the audience that reads. The artist who dares to inhabit the blank page. What has been the greatest threat than the exhilaration of a bloody, sweaty truth? Infinitely project ones own consciousness through interpretation of form, recklessly conditioned, reactive to the idea of Real. And the use of pronouns and whatever varying degree of consciousness is the editor and one reader can tear away meaning that is only a sliver of the full reel. And maybe one actor becomes sentient. There is judgment and interpretation sitting in the aisles. The actors think and live in the narrative, inside the play, watching, perhaps in another realm, they are the observers of some science experiment. The dialogue is written. The music plays unbeknownst to the actors. The journey is the journey is the journey. Don’t complain. Start at zero.