Rimbaud somewhere speaks of watching the skies as a criminal avec son idee. And not only the criminal partakes of this attitude – even the Dos Passos intellectual, the business promoter, the political career man. These in a sense – or at least, I sense – these have almost become our representative heroes. No longer do they rebel against society, exile themselves, romantically disdain its ways for the ways of art. Art has dropped from its pedestal, the hero moves about in society as a shadow, not menacingly or aggressively, but coolly collecting his profits and faking respectability with varying degrees of consciousness
The Yin & Yang of World Hunger ~ David Revoy
Source: The Far Queue
Thurman’s spirituality was grounded not only in the beauties of the black experience, but grounded as well in the terrors of the black experience, as only someone living in Florida and Georgia could know them in 1915 and 1920 and 1930. At the same time, it was a spirituality that says: “And knowing all that, I also know that all human beings are one.”
This kind of strange combination of spiritual truth with hard political social truth led one young man in the 1930s to say this about Howard Thurman: “I’m disappointed in him. We thought we had found our Moses. And he turns out to be a mystic.” That’s the spirituality that gets people all riled up.
Not sure where the hell I’m going with this… been up tonight, mind going like a madman reading snippets of various tracts on the history of iconography, iconoclasm, representationalism, anti-representationalism, etc. Burges The Origins of Objectivity as well… strange amalgam to be sure… I find myself chasing ideas through weird rhizomes as if they were strange beasts in some illuminist manuscript, discovering patterns that might be nothing more than mad scribblings, or finding sparks in one thinker that seem to flash up again in another, each either revising, excluding, or absorbing the others notion and recreating it in a new concept or trope, metaphor or hyperbole. One works both for and against the whole tradition of interpretive strategies, using both forms and playing the one against the other till an idea either survives or is left standing amid the battlefield of other dead ideas. Believe me philosophy is full of dead ideas that have yet to vanish or be excluded. The war goes on…
Our current hierarchical view of ourselves and of our consciousness (with “I” at the apex, and “my ideas, my emotions, my experiences, and accumulated skills, etc.”, below) can now be shown to be fundamentally incoherent in a number of ways—the central contention being that in actual fact there isn’t and there can be no centre to our consciousness the same way that there is no centre to a river. Breaking away from the cul-de-sac of the this current/common hierarchical view, this chapter outlines a new model in which conditioned responses of memory—in the form of holarchically ordered, fundamentally interconnected basic assumptions and emotional attitudes—provide a continually shifting structure of consciousness (akin to the changing (infinite, yet finite) structural patterns which may arise in a kaleidoscope)..
Source: In Detail | The Order of Thought
The baby knows that existence is a paradox, both coincidental and inevitable, that everything is mostly nothing and the difference between everything and nothing is functionally negligible. The baby knows that the difference between everybody and nobody is nobody. The baby knows that nobody is nobody. The baby also knows that nobody is everybody and that if nobody is everybody then everybody must be nobody, too. The baby knows that everybody is everybody and by way of, or as an extension to that, the baby knows that everything is everything. Everything is everything is the grand unified equation. E = E. That’s the formula. The baby is working off these figures.
The baby, like many a great philosopher, is highly dubious of object permanence, or even objectivity for that matter. The baby is born of love consciousness, and is therefore love consciousness actualized and realized. We all are. Sometimes, or even often times, we simply don’t realize it. We all are the baby and the baby is us. Nobody knows this more deeply than the baby. The baby knows love deeply because it is close to its own temporal root; any human transgression is a forgetting of the love at our root. It’s hard for a baby to forget the love at its root because that love was some mere months ago, hella recent, so that’s where the myth of childlike innocence finds its a priori, solidifying it as one of the more bulletproof myths of human thought.