involuntary memory cont. 2

For a while there I lost myself. I must admit I let the content of that last memory deconstruct itself, its remains fleeing rapidly towards an already lost future, eclipsing the splendour of my supernova now a mere shadow in a pair of star struck eyes. Not all is lost though, there are things to be got, times to be had, inspecting the shimmering becoming of a future in the future. This time dilation is of a completely different magnitude than returning to the past to pluck the fruits of the sturdy aegis of ancient memory trees. Contrarily we're no longer swimming up the current, or unwinding the clock, we're dealing with a memory from the future - essentially we see before us the structure of a promise or its other; a hope. Oh right, forgot to tell you, I never found eternity: in the blue velvety silence of the night I swam towards the mingling of the 2 Gods but never arrived. So now I find myself soaked in the treacherous, Elysian waters of Rome. Obviously not only all roads lead here but every tide does as well. As it turns out the cobblestoned neighbourhood of Trastevere, bathing in sweet rays of the unconquered Sol provide fertile ground for sprouts of the aphrodisiac flower from the future. Now, the elusiveness of this flora makes it a bitch to pluck. So bitchy and elusive in fact that your only hope of a glimpse is in the eluding of the elusive itself. The best primer for a capable slate of mind for this experience is to get absolutely lost. I take my start wandering past Da Enzo and barely notice the scene of a family gathered under the yellow restaurant lights, you know that special glow the cinema reel gives off when it has been sped down? The pale father figure in the middle of the table is harpooned by the wife's words; or rather, her joke, 'cause he throws his head back laughing like a maniac while the five kids are flying around the waiters. I blink as I realize I'm now staring directly into a wall of graffiti, no restaurant nor family to speak of on this deserted street. Although, I am hit by an ominous re-collective blast of familiarity when I see the writing on the wall: "Isola and Theodor". All explanations that start to form in my mind dry up before their ripening, but the breeze tunnelling down the street into this déjà vu reminds me that the fine fabric of the elusive is woven in the surging wind of meaning itself. Kinda like MacBeth whose fortune bears the stamp of being 'swarmed upon by the multiplying villainies of nature' - anyway I brush this emergence and collapse of meaning off as an espresso-induced contingency and get on with it. I regain consciousness inside the Basilica of Trastevere as I'm confronted by the mosaic of the Annunciation - you know, the whole thing about a guy in feathers revealing the coming of the saviour to the unknowing virgin mother? - well the clouds disperse in an instant as I realize that the logic of a promise inheres in this marvel: heaven descending to earth - the eternal future predicting the already lived past. Do you see? A promise is never in the first instance a reflection of a demand, but is in its revelation 'begotten' with a spirit of hope. In this way, the future can be held accountable for the suffering in the present even though it may itself already have fled to the past. Anyway, I'm spacing out in reverence as this novel melancholy enters into full force, I try to convince myself that the future could just as well give birth to joy, that beautiful spark of Gods, but it just doesn't seep in. The strength of a hope lies in its constancy; in its total surrender to the promise from which it followed and the promise hinges on the return of this hope as its concrete assurance of itself. Fuck, I can feel I'm on the trails of the flower, the future being installed equally in the promise and the hope, but the transience of my now decays into a reminiscence that obscures the coming to be. My feet seem a blur as I pick up the pace to a full out sprint, everything is breaking down around me, the millennial buildings turn into theatrical props, the 'buona seras' draw out to a long howl of indignation. My trail is blazing and my feet are burning as the air knits together, popping and sparkling electrically to materialize a female figure in the horizon walking into a gelateria; grinning demonically I fucking fly forwards trying to sink my claws into the bitch...

involuntary memory cont.

This secondary lubrication really only serves as reinforcement, as a kind of redoubling of my awareness. I suppose you'd have to imagine a sort of pulsating movement to understand it, similar to being overtaken by a bigger wave on a surf towards the shore of the beach, or perhaps to a brutal shift of gears in a Maserati, the acceleration taking you by surprise and the activation of pleasure centres in the brain momentarily blinding you to the present situation with sheer enjoyment. Were one to extract from this picture a logic and expect it under the guise of its total other-being, we would have a model for the vulgar spectacle of the 'nightmare' of the future's past (or the past's future, whichever term you prefer). Right, so I'm there, open-mouthed and half-expecting another crude temporal witticism, but there's a point at which irony, the sweet and self-distancing 'cream and campari' of life, simply recoils upon itself and enters a frenzied dance with knives in a complete manifestation of terror. I have a lot of affection for both the future and the past, Jesus I've been to their houses visited their families and stuff, but in this instance I'm siding with the past (I might say that these crazy bastards can be real dicks too, I once visited the guys from the future, inevitably bringing small fragments of the past with me... Needless to say the atmosphere was 'tense', the past awkwardly and rudely drawing attention to their whole life-story). With the now nowhere to be found there's simply no mediating movement out of this mess. Oh yeah, forgot to tell ya, the now is usually the grown-up, the 'delineator' of a limit that is limitless, but being a bit 'older' than the other guys always preoccupied elsewhere. But let's stick to the parties involved in this apparent feud. The reason I say apparent will become apparent in good time. The future is on the boiling point, demanding that the past return home with them; the past, denying to be courted in such an inelegant manner, tauntingly strips down to the nude. It's downright absurd. Not to be outdone the future applies the opposite strategy refusing, out of the blue, to enter into the past. This madness must have triggered the fury of the past because suddenly they are down on their knees asking for the future's hand in marriage; arms crossed and shaking their heads with closed eyes the future now resembles a tiny offended child. Calling their bluff, the past dashes off with a time-bending velocity towards the future's future; the future hot on their heels in pursuit of the time they momentarily lost. So I'm there in the bar exhaling audibly and trying to survey this perverse inverted world which has unfolded before me when the gravity of another memory is beckoning on the horizon. Fucking hell now I've really gone and lost it. At this point I would welcome any kind of disruption from the small shimmers and sparks scattered around the bar but my pint is still half-full, and I might say my supernova rather diminishes this 'artificial light'. You can sit around waiting for another sun for eternity, or perhaps you only ever find it mingled with the sea as Monsieur Rimbaud put it. But then I should go bathing I suppose, which is what I'll promptly do, waiting for the reappearance of that memory. Right. I'll be around.

involuntary memory

So the phone is off the hook, guess who's on the other end? No, you don't know the rest of the story.
I should start from the beginning with the immediacy of my first sip. Taking no notice of my hand raising the glass to my lips and the other guests tailing far behind the surge in my awareness I travel through time. There's a certain sense in which physics has got it right, yes, all right, circle a big fucking object in your spaceship far out in space and return ages after or get too close to the event horizon and you will arrive "sooner or later". I prefer my method. One of the benefits of a supernova ego is that time dilates when you traverse your mind. And I'm a veritable fucking wormhole as this lager streams down my throat. See, you really need what the German Idealists would call an Anstoss, though I might say that Fichte and even Sartre much later didn't get it right-it's neither the body nor a discovery. My Anstoss came to me unwittingly in liquid form. Of course it's a contingency and thus a limitation, don't throw that shit, and don't bother cooking up a half-assed contradiction of this to the necessity of my supernova explosion. But I'm floundering now. Oh yeah, I was riding on the waves of ol' Chronos, or rather I was fleeing him. I'm the irretrievable one he's the "meantime". All right.
Well I brought a few things back, souvenirs you might call them, a big grin scooped up near Oranienstrasse displayed in a photo from what looks to be the inside of a vagina, or as the Germans would have it, a "puzzy". Look, I'd tell you more about the girl and the strange fox in the picture, but that's not for now. The stars should certainly not, nor could they hide their fires, in this astral gaze I've returned; it's positively rhapsodic. Circling back from a deliberately short-lived trip in the ripples of time I plaster the memorypaint on my face just in time to catch my sinking awareness of the whole damn voyage back there. Imagine letting it slip through the cracks to find yourself fused with a rather befuddled smirk and stupid mirthless eyes, sitting on that chair gurgling on a pint. But I play this game often, you won't catch me off guard. Now, you might not know this so I'll tell ya: in the return from the past, in that sinking moment I just told you about, everywhere and when is breaking up and you need to keep your cool and steer clear of, you know, whatever and whenever. But inevitably, small slivers of the future present themselves. The little bastards are clever though, they always appear when you least expect them to, there's no predicting their trajectory; they ask you for a waltz and your compliance is immanent to their question. Once I believed them to have accepted my firm and stout 'non serviam' and sat back satisfied, whistling and humming Wagner's Tannhäuser Gate ouverture only to find they had crept up from the back, posing as the Past I'd just been to, having bent all the god damn laws. A suicidal twinkle in their eyes, guess what they said? wait 'till you hear this. Simultaneously 2 dwarf-sized bastards chirped: 1. "We're here as the future of the past.", 2. "We're here as the past of the future." If that doesn't leave spikes on your "Begbie" scale you might need to be taken out for an afternoon of electric shock. I'd be fucked to tell you the story of how we got out of that mess. Okay, all right, they became part of me and I of them, we all came to an agreement before raising the fucking question. Now I welcome their almost Catholic in size family whenever they appear and wherever I go. Returning to the now - oh and indeed there is a now but I'd much rather let it speak for itself, so to speak - memorypaint still in full flourish, sipping away happily, I strike up a conversation with the guys from the future. Straight off they deviate from common and ages abided by normal courtesy, ignoring both my presence and the now, heading in a zombie-like trance straight to the boys from the past who have been hiding in and among my souvenirs. They do really seem a perfect imitation of something non-self-identical, a sort of Derridean differance - yes with an 'a' - mesmerized miniature robots. I'm not making the next part up, but the sheer vulgarity of this scene might make it difficult for some to believe. I'm not even sure I do. Barman just returned with another pint, I really do have to return to the now of this now, time's flying and everything, I'll tell you everything later!

Berlin deconstructed

In hesitating I conquer hesitation

A neverending circuit is long

And in neither now or never

It isn’t what it is, it’s an Other.

Disrupting the exhausted

Stuttering in absence

And discontinuously constant

To a disagreeing in agreement.

Straying in our staying

Relinquishing necessity

And you are the intersection

Of an androngynous spark

Blindness is a seeing

And a seeing that is blind

You are the endless and moribund

Chaos of never deciding.

berlineulogy

Bypassing all hesitation
short-circuiting my wavering
and at each and every pause
your presence reverses my tapering.

Erupting with indulgence
glimmering in presence
and continually whispering
a sweet agreement with debauchery.

Meandering in fervour
enforcing our freedom
and you are the beckoning
of a female shade in the smoke.

Illuminating only at dusk
obscuring ever at dawn
and you are the infinity
of a spiritual connection in love.

Kærlighed

Jeg er endnu ikke udsprunget af altingets mørke,
mit kranies rå hvælving adskiller mig fra tilsynekomsten.
Som en flod strømmer jeg ustandseligt og beruset ud mod verden,
jeg møder søer men finder aldrig hvile i det store ocean.

Men nu er jeg det forplumrede, døde vand i voldgraven,
der i jagten på sig selv mister sin strømning og bevogter et tomt slot.
Men nu regner det så pludseligt og dråberne prikker hul,
i min forstenede overflades hinde, jeg går over mine breder.

Intet dyb rummer længere mig, jeg er ikke mig selv,
og nu forstår jeg ikke længere hvor jeg kommer fra.
I vandskorpen genspejles evighedens ansigt, det store blå,
som i sig selv formår at være mit genskin.

Sandheden skøjter i dobbeltfart på vores identiske overflade,
og i refleksionerne møder vi endelig hinanden!
Alene bryder vi aldrig igennem isen, men nu mødes vores læber,
fra hver side af uendelighedens spejl og smelter ensomheden bort.

Vi omfavner hinanden og bader i flodens rindende vand,
og strømmen bærer os endelig ud i det store ocean.
Her mærker vi for første gang hvor varmt det er og
de hvide søjler sender os på rungende himmelfart.

Kaffe og dialektik

Jeg kan mærke at træning og kaffe har forberedt min tanke til udfoldelse, det ene har fjernet intetheden, den for tanken uigennemtrængelige barriere, forglemmelsen man møder på kanten af hvad kroppen kan præstere, det andet trækker den ubegrænsede tanke ud af altingets urolige mørke, determinerer den og koncentrerer den.

Negativitet navngiver det fænomenologiske gab som ikke kan forekomme fænomenalt. Når alting indeholder sin egen modsætning betyder det ikke, at der kun findes et tilsvarende modsatrettet begreb transcendentalt adskilt fra begrebet i sig selv, begrebets negation er indeholdt immanent i begrebet selv.

Dialektikken er den underliggende, gennemsyrende del af logikken, dens dynamiske struktur: når tanken får lov til at følge sine egne bevægelser—fremfor at blive viklet ind i skematik—beviser den sin egen sandhed. Dialektikken som metode kan ikke adskilles fra objektet og dets indhold, det er i selve dette indhold at bevægelsen finder sted. Indholdet skabes, med andre ord, af sin egen indre dialektik (negativitet) når det bevæger sig gennem determineret negation til nærmere determination. Derfor ville det også være at tage for meget for givet, at forudsætte for meget at diskutere den dialektiske bevægelse man finder i f.eks. endelighed-slet uendelighed-sand uendelighed uden at vise denne bevægelse, dvs. i en metadiskussion af viden.

For at dialektikken kan bevæge begrebet gennem determineret negation er immanens nødvendigt, dvs. begrebets negation må være indeholdt i det selv.