From: Ariosto Raggo <df803-AT-freenet.carleton.ca>
Subject: Seriously now
Date: Mon, 30 Aug 1999 03:54:18 -0400 (EDT)


<smile>

 John, yes, you posted the story about your wife and the picture on the
Heidegger list which is more realistic and reasonable than this one at
times. So you have a wife eh. I don't, mostly it has been moving in
with a girlfriend, always it has ended up in separation and gradual
loss of contact except in one case, a friend now, she takes me
unconditionally.  I was packing today for a move into an apartment to
get away from what I have called my cell, may be offline for a while
soon. I am looking forward to my move. I found your comments on
marriage interesting in spite of my cynicism which I share with so many
people today. Back to the modeless mode, perhaps one could describe
this back-and-forth swing as unconditional, groundless love for another
no matter what she says or does. Well, as far as I'm concerned as an
old friend now, sure, no mere casual relation, too much time has been
invested to think that way; that's how I take Faizi. She is a poison
and a cure to me that troubles my imagination with anguish. I gave her
these written gifts and they lie there untouched as if the curse of the
imagination were bound with them. These are a sword I mentioned, a
wonderful black piece of cloth that has multiple properties and a
bottle of occult pills from my shamanic pharmarcy with
 magical properties. One of the side, elliptical effects of these pills
is that of a painful-pleasure(summeikton - Philebus 46a) , that's how I
take Faizi. She doesn't care for these gifts, they lie. I will wrestle
that shadow, for she is my stinging shadow, from month to month, that's
how I take her.  She sucks up the germinating seeds of my poetry she
just doesn't want to admit my formidable spell, that's how I take her.
I'm driving her crazy, she is becoming winged before my fingertips each
time I play the key-board of nomadic, ecstatic imagination on fire with
sharp reason polishing the blank page into the brilliance of a fictive,
fake philosopher's stone; a simulacra where I become while gazing, in a
certain mood swing and attunement, appearance without reality, and I
also become shadow. This written stone has been, already is, and will
be the gift that I ultimately value for her. It's not up for discussion
with realists who care nothing for the traversal of fantasy, royal road
of the falling of the scales, the shock of the Real.  Cliche pills, my
ass. John, she is so simple, you are gathering that by now, her
ignorance is boundless, infinite! Like the serious sounding realists
she has no appreciation for the pseudo-immortality I am offering as she
becomes and elevating list spiritual, virtual entity. You know, she is
right, we fire up this list together, you are becoming an integral part
of that fire in your own way, don't let her upset you on my behalf, I
can *take* care of her, no worries on my end. Canadians are the masters
of satire, this is our rugged northern gift of laughter, you are good
at it. Kierkegaard was good to, and Cervantes Don Quixote, well, that
was one of Nietzsche's favorite books. I have a sense of why, remember
that I pointed that what he valued ultimately was the mixture of the
satyr and the god? I feel quixotic sometimes as if I were abandoning
myself to a traversal of fantasy in a topsy-turvy reality but what a
life lost to an  orgy of books with cracked bindings like a raving God.
In this faker's messiah medium I sprout wings that lighten me up,
loosen my tongue to speak with habitual obscurity as if I were
listening to the voice of birds rising from the ashes of the operation
of reason, noise and nonsense invade without trouble my ability to
read, to say something, and so I write and keep my silence.I am
possesed to do this turn elsewhere like a maniac without a why, without
purpose pursuing a useless rhetorical exercise cut off from opinion
because unhinged from an ordinary use of the senses now out of order,
inoperative in order to dissolve the mental blocks hindering the
passage of writing finding its voice in the silence of periods (...)
that are the term, the idea of good writing traveling with dialectics
as its path breaking companion opening after traversing the fantasy of
sense the intellectual cosmos (Plotinus I,3). 

Ariosto


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