AT THE STOA

I thought it was absurd that I was having breakfast at 12:00 midnight, having had drank and slept by 6:00 PM. But in hindsight I'm glad I did, because had I not done that I would not have had one beautiful moment in the intersection when I was in a cab on my way to a co-working space at 2:00 AM. Let me back up. I wanted to remember that moment  this morning where I truly was calm in letting things be, where a rose is a rose is a rose. I want to remember it. I want to remember it. I want to remember it. It was a moment with no hope or agenda, no ideation nor devaluation, no frenetic attempt to declare detachment or avoid abandonment, nothing but a moment that is. Let me back up further. There's a wise and incisive  article  about detaching, and as I was reading I was half agreeing with it and half poised to offer a counter. The counter would involve a lot of explaining as to what my issues are, and I'm too lazy to do that, but go ahead and read the article. It's...

In Derrida's Living On  and Pratchett's Feet of Clay , we see a minor theme, one of visibility being rendered by something that is not visible. This paradox is a true paradox in the sense that its contradiction is one of necessity: that which renders the possibility of sight should in itself not be seen, lest one incite madness. In Derrida, this madness is being blinded in seeing the light; in Pratchett, this madness is being poisoned by the fumes of a candle. One does not see the light; one sees by it. Seeing the light is a sort of death or madness. For there is a madness to absolute visibility rendered by seeing that which itself renders visibility, it is the ultimate disrespect to sight itself, for it is absolute definition. It is an Ouroboros having completely eaten itself, or having opened the box with the crowbar inside it. Or having successfully bitten teeth. Any enterprise that seeks truth (and which enterprise does not?) runs the risk of this madness, philosophy mor...

By definition, "To define" is "to limit," de finitio , "make finite." So gentle, this thing, I will hesitate to define it with a box that will suffocate it, So gentle this thing, I cannot draw limits to it, and arrest it to one thing. And so gentle this thing, it makes a sound so slight, like a heart breaking forever. So gentle this thing, I cannot bear to listen as if it was my own heart breaking, So gentle this thing, I might not be able to bear it. For I may be the only one bearing it, As defined.