Tuesday, June 11, 2013

spiral folds in the 'skin one'


           

           One becomes slightly despondent, when, after years of attempting to describe an echo of the unique, the singular, or really, that the singular can only effect an echo of itself as multiple, that the singer Narcissus, as faced to the mirror of the pond in the blindness of this process, this pond din,  sees the ripples everywhere reflecting a single self not his own, and in that disappointment to the cliche' which everyone knows, and casts aspersions upon, becomes some echo of Winckelmann twisted out of focus and renamed by the zeitgeist's memic plumerie, for how different is Rudolph Otto's "Much there is that is weird, but nought is weirder than man," from Pater's summation of Winckelmann's Plato, as concerned in temperament primarily with the dialogue of Lysis, and reflecting a world as styled by Pater, "which is wholly Greek, and alien from the Christian world, represented by that group of brilliant youths,"[...] "still uninfected by any spiritual sickness, finding the end of all endeavor in the aspects of the human form, the continual stir and motion of a comely human life." But notice there in the farrago of pat if hopeful summation the fly in the ointment, and how it echoes at the nadir, the summit, infection in its action being no different than inspiration, and this knowledge being the content of the sublime itself.
            So then, the one, I, I suppose, in looking onto the perilous scopic render, regime of the many-pathed way, the map, and mapping as Medusan, afford myself a term, or a pair of terms, a me-methexis, a window, a fenestrula, or organ, not wholly as new as the spiritual organ which Hegel announces for Winckelmann, but something plainer, a dowsing stick, pointing to a phrase perhaps, a stone with a hollow subterranean branching, a manifold to cover the eye, and send the sparks splitting, an irrony of synthexis, the slight change, to those who know, meaning everything about newness itself, for what is weirder than Hegel positing that Winckelmann has invented a "new organ"? Or that the best of the classical, in its understanding of the human sublime, becomes in effect, post-human. Our thought, our spirit, is prosthetic, our mind itself, purest Tekne, the will of appearance itself, as echo, ripple, reflection, as one, becomes slightly despondent, Dis upon din, a 'Ship of fools' copula (culture / self) navigating a sea of noise:

It is my misfortune that I was not born in a great place, wherein I might have had cultivation, and the opportunity of following my instinct and forming myself.

And how easily that ripple can be re-writ:

It is my misfortune that I was born in a great place, wherein I have had cultivation, and the opportunity of following my instinct and forming myself.

and the irrony of the leftover, the Derridean Différance:

not might
knot mite

and finally, recalling The Lesson of the wi(n)dow's mite as presented in the Synoptic Gospels (Mark 12:41-44, Luke 21:1-4) [as look, mark]:

note mijt

or 'the music of a small jangling of coinages'

which as our foundational computation
both erodes the foregrounding of political contextualities
and creates one, rendering the great self of the divine,
in its kaironomic yet gaseous deformity a simultaneo!
or "Sign-Ultimate-Neo", so that, as I, I imagine backwards
in time, as/to, the organ (rhizome) as it must have appeared one day:



"as Leibniz to Lepton".