File spoon-archives/heidegger.archive/heidegger_2001/heidegger.0107, message 51

Subject: Re: Mnemosyne: thinking poetization
Date: Wed, 11 Jul 2001 11:51:59 -0400

> > And Heidegger is from Schwabia, as was
> > > Hoelderlin. The house (Anwesen) of Heidegger's
> > > forefathers stands or stood near the headwaters of the Danube,

By merely bringing our attention to the actual, paternal house of
Heidegger's forefathers you stay with the extant, with the present-at-hand
or a determination of the essentialization which happens out of dwelling,
out of building and crafting with thinking poetization -- as an admirer of a
curiousity, you loose yourself while  remaining in undifferentiated
indifference (i.e. without any inkling of wholeness or the separating unity
of mindfulness)   to the secret of the maternal homeland to which we re-turn
too when, in our obedience and out of an exilic imagination in the distress
of the sense of abandonment we follow the directives of formal indicatives
that point the way towars the manifestation of the whole as such.

> Hoelderlin
> > > wrote
> > > "Der Isther" and in the Abendlaendisches Gespraech Heidegger and
> > > watch this house, and, talking of Hoelderlin's poem, there is the
> > question:
> > > Are we
> > > walking here in the woods by the Isther, because Hoelderlin wrote 'Der
> > > Isther',
> > > or did Hoelderlin write 'Der Isther', because down there the Danube
> flows?
> > > A question, that doesn't need an answer. A good question is half the
> > answer.
> > > And rivers, the spirit of the river is the begining of things, the
> Indus,
> > > the Paktol,
> > > the Danube, the Rhine, the Mississippi. Heidegger liked Huckleberry
> > > very much.
> > > Hoelderlin: a river makes the land urbar, so that man can live or
> > > We've lost
> > > that. Now, that is cold. But nothing negative, in the petty sense.
> > >
> >
> > Poetry does give a positive determination to language, even in a cold
> color.
> >
> >
> > > You have no idea of the richnesses of Heidegger.
> > >
> >

How do formal indicatives operate as re-turning call to the craft of the
essentialization of  the mother language? Speaking with regards towards the
connection between authentic and inauthentic existence or between moments of
vision and their absence which are not something present-at-hand he says
(I'm in _Fundamental Concepts of Metaphysics_ German section 70, part a))
rather that concepts that open up this connection are "_indications_ that
show how our understanding must first twist free from our ordinary
conceptions of beings and properly transform itself into Da-sein in us...
the meaning-context of these concepts (death, resolute disclosedness,
history, existence, etc.) does not directly intend or express what they
refer to, but only gives an indication, a pointer to the fact that anyone
who seeks to understand is called upon to undertake a transformation of
themselves into their Dasein." These are kearkenings, a heeding of
directives, and only when we are obedient to them, supple in our passive
seeking that persists in questioning, do they transform us. When in looking
hard at what anyone says and challenging hard in the play of question and
answer we bring out the matter, the essence of the place of a conversation
which always evades us, steals away from us like the meandering of Hebel's
overflowing poetizing source, The Wiese, whose supple waters unites with his
supple songs. He tells us in his poem (die Wiese) that the Wiese is born on
the flanks of a rock and is nourished by mist and fog and no mortal could
have the impudence, the audacity to get to the bottom of this rocky dwelling
and understand the secret pathways. She steals away from all confident
knwowing, refuses any rational idea one might have when conversing with her
mother tongue, her localized dialect.... no concept can grasp her, all one
can do before her is to point with the finger in the absence of words left
deep inside the throat. For me conversations with people and texts are like
this. Sometimes it's only a friendly caring consideration but other times
there is more stirring motions that draw me to the rocks that stand firm
near what is truly profound and without depth as if the surface was enough
and there was nothing really hiding behind something phenomenal... then
there are no longer causes and origins and no goals either and in this
nihilation of my utilitarian concerns I find friends along the way like
Heidegger and Nietszche doing exactly the same thing that I'm doing when I
strech out fully and just enjoy the meandering passing of time twisting away
in its own enigmatic manner for no reason at all just as the blowing dust of
non-sense stings my eyes and makes me see the shape I'm in when the
accidents of my mother tongue returns to me what I have forgotten -- and I
remember what has gone away... writing is simply a letting go when it
re-turns to the stirrings of this  primordial birthplace, by attuning the
inklings of the swaying of be-ing which makes it de-cisive because it
separates on the one hand, leaves something behind, just let's it go and
then, at the same time, it gathers my thoughts into a brief moment where I
concentrate, retire my thoughts from concerns for anything present-at-hand
and so  I bind them into a naked unity. To care for... is just this
separating binding together of thoughts, a remembering-awaiting comportment
that points to the silent moments of everyday life that are pregnant with
the promise of more of the same attentiveness and patience which are the
essence of philosophical poetization and the delivery of its address, its
nuance tones are inimitable because the sayings are what is most unique and
singular of each one of us, what is most unfathomable, what is most
immesurable... the source of our ancestors has no geographical boundaries as
if it was something present-at-hand or extant. No, it is the endowment of
certain moods...

Gulio de la Blank

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