2nd and Primary Conflict of the Transcendental Ideas of Myself
June 8th : Alarm clock. The little chronological hand grenade that destroys me in whatever spun-out dream : and I had been so deeply involved. This feeling that I’m leaving the dream, not ever that it is the dream evaporating around me. My dream body is rent asunder all but painlessly : it is I who evaporate. Always a pang of emotion at leaving that world, so eerily familiar and protean.
This morning, there is a fog. Standing at the coffee maker, looking out of my kitchen window up the street, I can see only three houses out and then everything softens into a warm white cloud. Birds are still going. They start early this far north. I often hear them around 4:30, before sunrise. And that quickly : the fog has both brightened and become thicker. The only solidity outside of the big living room window, where I am now, are the branches and leaves :: all now as if one single, indivisible object :: of the great, green Box Elder. The fog makes everything else :: streetlamp, car, mailbox, dog, squares of grass :: into the other side of my antinomy (it would be, technically, the 2nd moment of the antinomy; the 2nd Conflict of the Transcendental Ideas) where there are either no simple objects, only an infinite divisibility, OR only simplicities, indivisible (with the mediating factor of “composite substances” in either case). That’s the one that makes me feel sick. Nothing about the rest of the antinomy affects me in this way :: big cosmological questions :: free will, God, infinite space: unfree willing, No God, finitude. Fine ! : these collapse into each other at my feet. I stand alone on my planet, all dusty, all deserted::: Even the stellar winds do not reach me here, that is how alone I am, and yet I hear a sound like an eternal, slow exhale of breath. An atmosphere made entirely of ex-halation (lit., out-glowing). Here, dust has hardened into an unresponsive layer, like a plaster held together with time, the ooze of old time run dry, desiccated, which forgot to move for too long ‘‘‘‘of itself’’’’, but time does not move, and here, space does not move either except in the person of myself as my will wills it, unfreely or freely is all the same to me. The distance (can I even say that this distance has a locality at all? it verges on a piece of Heideggerian nonsense : although I am rather moved by his brief passages on “remoteness”) between me and the god must be an infinite distance, minus one shaving of a micron of incidental extension::: This dark flash of an incomprehensible distance between me and the god is the only knowable quality of the god, by negative inference : that the god :: to whom I have in a friendly way deliberately appended the definite article and decapitalized :: does not entail anything like existence. The god cannot exist. If the god exists, it cannot be the god. I exist and my wandering planet with its timeplastered dust exists. The god is some-no-thing else : there must either be a kind of being that is creative that does not entail (its own) existence : a some-no-thing that only entails that very existence which it creates but whose creation does not turn back upon its creator to give it existence : no::: It does not “have” existence. Can the demiurge get fully inside of his own diorama without ripping it apart? Well, maybe the demiurge or the infinite antepleromic regress of the demiurge’s demiurge (i.e., the god) is so small :: small indeed, a kind atomic subscriptum :: that it has no locality to speak of::: But here, we arrive not at the cosmological question of the Creating god and its Creature but at one of the vanishing points of the 2nd antinomy. Size. Divisibility. Simplicity. Objecthood. And though I stand alone on some wandering planet, a rounded, deathheath lightless but for the glow of my own sounding heart, nothing about the god’s inexistence makes me ill. The Uncreated One/s : to that I say “Hello” or “Yes.” Nor does my unfreedom or my freedom put the nausea over me. This bothers me least of all even though when I was younger it worried me constantly. If I didn’t have free will but only experienced myself as “having it” like Spinoza’s thrown stone::: I thought about it all the time. Eventually, I began to cling to the antithesis of the “unfree” will in order to force myself to see how as long as there was a will that willed, questions of free versus unfree were probably nonsense. Word and counterword. Free and unfree were aspect perceptions : one, a fuck, the other a ribbit (the famous drawing of the fuckribbit). Will. That was all. The real antinomic contra would then be between unitary willing and a kind of willless multiplicity of drives : so, was the will divisible or indivisible? And again, rather sickening::: The 2nd antinomy whipped its tail in the cosmic plasterdust, rearing its composite serpent’s head. God. Will. Finitude / Infinity. Does space go on and on without limit? Or does it cease? But cease where? How? How could space cease, as if it were some hunk of matter? Space ceases (only partially, internally, like a word ceases in the breath of spoken sentence) in every single one of its substantial determinations. I stand here, limiting that space which I also generate. I ripple through it in my smallest movements. My measure of sub-spatial negativity goes forth and up and down like a ball in a wave. Surely this is the antinomy most obviously related to that 2nd one, my ruling antinomy : my haunting antinomy. It is the question of divisibility and simplicity turned inside-out and projected into its own medium. For me, all of these questions, however much I am able to separate them in my mind :: in my sentences :: stand totally in thrall of that otherwise most boring antinomic Sibling the 2nd: WILL. THE NO-GOD. SPACE W/ INTERNAL LIMIT → Mark these edits resolved ←
I see my question written now in the starless expanse that makes me feel both as colossal as a moon of iron and as miniscule as a fragment of decayed cesium on the head of a louse lounging on the pubic hillside of my slatternly Angel.
Born on the Ist day of Scorpio : thus is my ruling category Separation (written elsewhere as Division). The Ist, 3rd and 4th of those cosmological ideas that I have maybe arrogantly subsumed under their supposed equal :: to recapitulate :: are no bother to me on my planet’s surface : :: I. Absolute completeness of the Composition of the given whole of all appearances. (excision) 3. Absolute completeness in the Origination of an appearance. and 4. Absolute completeness as regards Dependence of Existence of the alterable in the field of appearance. OKAY. I return to the reigning monad in the star of my scorpionic constellation. The internal ruler of my indebtedness to the irresolvable feeling of and for Separation. [2.] Absolute completeness in Division of a given whole in the field of appearance.
2nd and Primary Conflict of the Transcendental Ideas of Myself
2a. Every composite substance in my world is made up of elemental parts, and nothing anywhere exists save the elemental or what is composed of the elemental.
2b. No composite thing in my world is made up of elemental parts, and there nowhere in my world exists anything that is elemental.
I spit myself :: sic :: in 2
I go to pour my IInd cup of coffee:::
The fog has become a fine rain.
I feel an expansive relief in all of my Faculties.
Magnanimity.
If the IInd antinomy is only in pure reason, it is in that part :: unfortunately for my nausea : but it’s okay when you have a sense of wonder (!), a sense of humor :: as if reason had parts, that is also in the world. But the rain comes down in one long soft rushing :: I do not have a tin roof, which would make it into a crushing waterfall, but eaves and their thin gurgling gutters such as one can find anywhere :: sound : ssssssssshhhhhhhhhhhhuuuuuuuttttttt uuuuuuuuuuuuppppppppp .