Philosophy of the Keexzus, No. 74: Orbs of Time
I am listening to Rachmaninoff.
Language like blood dissolves Spirit.
The endless repetition of thought is addiction.
I am remixing one language with meaning. The fabric is torn from the walls of time. And it is transcribed into new forms. See what is written. There is one literature. This literature has become rotten and fragmented like wine. All the world’s literature has yet to be written. If you write, you will find yourself. What is your supreme identity? The dimensions and layers of time, in the vertical dimension of past and future, exist as chapters, as fictions. The manner in which fragmentation occurs is art. The division of time, the cataloging of time and tragedy is literature. Fragmentation is the essence of literature. The stories we write ourselves begin with time. The cruelty of time is its very essence, the tragic narrative of this or any era: the illusion of time creates delusion. Wading more deeply into the abyss, one discovers oneself.
Language is structured according to ideology.
Transform the cultural face of time.
An imagining takes hold.
This is the rise that is psychological time.
Literature begins to take shape.
Aeneas does not exist.
Odysseus is not coming to save you.
Do not wait for Godot.
Time is oil burning.