In Brief Conversation with Husserl, Nietzsche, and Schiller
Thank the Good Lord Above for that trace of phenomenological time consciousness sneaking its way through the air, discretely emitted alongside a vacuous cloud of purposive essentials- presumedly based in some sort of cosmological ambergris found only in the inner most recesses of nature- imposing its rotten stink upon my being by whatever orifical means made possible through all causal stretches of the imagination. Yes, yes. I know that stink all too well. And knowing all too well the potentiality for respiratory collapse, I retreat into the guiding graces of timely reflection in the hopes that I may meet my salvation in fresh air…
Perhaps my instinctual retreat is a reaction reared by re-tention, by a “morphic resonance field”- historically, socially, undoubtedly cultivated in a lived-setting amidst that which we take as really real; as an immanent threat to life, itself, as we know it. And it is when this fear-filled field is presided by a modal reign of morals, subjected by scrutinous questions of what one could and should and would do, that there evolves a pretentious pro-tention; establishing an enduring push forward, a running free and past what is, despite the natural maxim to slip straight through the tiny pre-textual exits in our motherly grounds towards familiar safety- natural, practical ends. This premise of friction is given to consciousness as more than a mere re-presentation of our prejudicial fear, as more than that which bars us from ever wholly realizing all of our self-fulfilling anticipations; for it is given as we truly believe that we may even live in harmony with our startled starts, despite the dangers daring us to dominate indubitable demise with immutable depth and courage. Or, I may be pro-tending this whole conception, as well, rendering all I’ve just thought complete nonsense.
Either way, such considerations allude to a possible underlying, “causal” state of consciousness. I cannot quite contend that this state is a successive, linear progression type of causality- although, at times, a looser understanding of embodied pressure systems would yield a common contour bore by an effectual deluge of boundaries blasting onward, onto, unto our backs. The type of causality in mind is a teleologically understood causation, involving ends, their means, as well as ends to be taken in isolation, as if exemplars of all ends; ends to which we instantaneously attend, moved by impulses which may only be described, never explained. This causality is of the highest order, granted by its sensational source in the lowliest forces common to us all. And it is by this structure that primal impressions may reveal our place, our space, our realm, as a re-production of the original fear lying before us, lying in collusion with what aims these impressions are bound and determined to attend. And THE highest of all of these tall-taled-orders, THE highest of these caused-by-products, is not manufactured with ethical or practical considerations; but is rather created accidentally, albeit non-arbitraily, within the scope of immediate emergence in the process of becoming, of coming to know, our original beginnings: the patterns of pain, the patterns of idiotic perseverance, the patterns of personhood.
Together, these patterns beget a truly original question which is firstly philosophical, and which concerns the orderly action which supposedly allows absolute ends- even though there appears as co-given no chance of success at achieving pure prudence. And yet we humans, we universally commonplace philosophers, become stark-raving-mad enough to completely miss, on account of our ecstatic inflation, the very truth of our desperate, disparate position- one which is separated from the world with which we toil, just out of reach of a pure, ultimate end; which is assuredly super-positioned with other realities far more interesting than that of our own, no doubt ignoring us though we refuse to see it, for why else would true love, true unity- true wisdom– lead us on, leave us wanting for attention? All it takes is a mere whiff of that overwhelming base-note, pronouncing the existence of voluptuous ideals of mythical proportions, to seduce us from beyond the sight of our own prejudical disposal to the objective, to convince us that we have a real chance at consummating ourselves. And each time we catch wind, each time wind catches us in a rush too wild to handle, we forget all of the other infractions befallen our naive egos, accrued throughout every trick of tragic time, and set out on a fresh adventure to find the secret source of our mistakes; so that we may right them, and fix for good whatever it is that we’re doing wrong; whatever it is which causes wisdom, originally promising temporal matrimony, to ignore us. But the most sick and twisted thing about this situation is that the very force of our own self-loathing, the very blame we burden upon our slight and puny shoulders, is what grants us movement, a priori-ly paralyzed, as a real existential possibility for our precariously positioned selves; for without this highly questionable purpose, this affinity for reasons “discovered” in our fractured fairy tales- this unfounded love for wisdom- we would without a doubt stop dead in our tracks, motionless and hysteric over our never quite reaching the life-end we covet most.
And our pitiful givenness, the end to which all of our actions stand beholden, becomes, in its place, the teleological moral of this very painful, very human story; one which is very hard to stomach; one which is self-perpetuated, self-inflicted; one which is personally known, as we are each deeply hurt in believing ourselves individually responsible for the erected gates of banishment, constructed abstractly so as to distract us from the heavenly horizons demarcating the dark holes of our beginnings- and from our own fuddled action, centered on stage for the viewing pleasure of the laughing face of the mysterious codes conducting our conduct. And it is through this embarrassing portrayal of ourselves, real yet completely fictitious, nonsensical, illusory, imaginative re-presentations of the heightened state of affairs disclosing our disconcerting world, that we attempt to present ourselves anew; doll ourselves, our thoughts, our minds up in the delightful delusion that we ought to be here; letting slip the fact that we create this picture in response to the pain calling and constituting our continuance, in a plight to prove our beloved wisdom wrong. This image provides our hearts a window of protection from the only original content which may be taken in, in and of itself, without end; and allow presumedly safe passage through the first sights of life for our rather sore and salty eyes…
I fear I will never be able to rid myself of the source of this stink. For no matter which way I turn, no matter which direction I take, I am still subject to its resourceful gales. I will be perpetually blown away by cosmic winds into a state of lunacy; by winds forever attempting to erode my dimensions of self. Unable to wash myself clean of this malodor; unable to rid myself of a shameful longing for what I may never touch save through indirect suffocation on exhaled half-lies dealt by life’s devastating dreamscape; unable to surrender what’s seeped into the the very fabric of my habits; forever subjected, forever indebted, forever in question, it seems I will be.
Copyright Keli Birchfield 2015