Sunday, July 18, 2010


(i wrote this the other night and couldn't figure our how to finish it, so i just closed it. maybe its finished, maybe it's not. thanks for auto-saving my weirdness, google.)

"The FIgure in the Face of Something Greater"

note: by classical definition, a philosopher should avoid autobiography. autobiography can only be articulated via an empirical voice that inherently negates the objective voice of the philosopher, and should therefore be avoided.

and now, the story of my life

everything that happens is happening in real time. i am here and you are not. we are wrong and they are stupid. we is us and us is whom. whom is the subject of the object who holds the object. sometimes, centuries after the death of an author, we are able present the truth.

it is fixed, but it was never broken. this is blue, but it was never green. i am you, and you are someone who i have never seen before, but casually made eye contact with on the subway in a city i only remember visiting in a previous life at a critical point of my second childhood.

our history is so versioned. the story follows the model and fits the era. our story is legit because we play reactionary to a poetically credible set of circumstances. everything that's ever been written is really just hiding a secret desire to be a bible story. we are not in bethleham, so we make up somewhere else. location, location, location. you always said you were north vietnam, and i always humored you, but in your sad eyes i could only see tobago, and london was calling you home. you look as fine as latin america when you wear that dress, but i still can't touch you because there's a mountain range that grew between us. between. i get that you had the right idea, in the same way russia always had the right idea, but you're still way to big for me to even begin comprehending that you exist.

function or phantom, no presence that can be felt through these walls. the ghost is here to neither haunt nor help you. we can never really acknowledge how untimely our death was, because we're stuck. you can only see the ectoplasm. the ghost will always come and go for his own reasons. even though he's dead he still has a future. he still loves his mother, even though they never talk. he exists in no taxonomical location. there is only purgatory, and even his own girlfriend really nothing but figment of some pluralized memory everyone has while watching "the breakfast club". he will live in your house until you make him leave. he will live in your memory even after you ask him to go.

if we take this essence to be example, we are no different when we oppress what is both within and outside of us. it's like we define each other. it's like even though i can't see you, i feel you, and i now you're right fucking there. it's like our truths cannot exist without the untruths that shame them. it is the difference from within one's self which makes it one.

we are all potential objects of forgiveness. the concern at hand is mutually misunderstood, and i see the way you see me when not too inhibited to do so. i get it, and i'm okay with it. i know that love is a proverb with two faces. one of essence and one of qualities. i love you because you are you. i love her or him because he or her is beautiful, intelligent, resourceful, hard working, forgetful, handsome, boring, impulsive, a lot of fun, and usually has no idea what he or she is doing when they are wherever they are at any given place or time.

i get it. you're a spirit. you talk to your holy other before you go to bed, and you wake up later. sometimes you're late for work and sometimes you're not. what comes after is not relevant. it is what it is and what it isn't, simultaneously. you already knew it because you could never learn. the terror made it home and is lying in your bed. it looks just like you and talks just like you. you share the same traumas and the same interests. it grew up just like you. is it you?

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