Date: Tue, 14 Jan 2003 06:57:12 +0000 Subject: gayscience & prescience From: "michaelP" <michael-AT-sandwich-de-sign.co.uk> > THIS MESSAGE IS IN MIME FORMAT. Since your mail reader does not understand this format, some or all of this message may not be legible. --MS_Mac_OE_3125372232_171615_MIME_Part Kenneth quoteth from gayscience: "...to stand in the midst of this rerum concordia discors and of this whole marvelous uncertainty and rich ambiguity of existence without questioning, without trembling with the craving and the rapture of such questioning..." Sometimes, often when walking home from the small town towards the ancient bay (soon to swarming with golfing peoples {the Open thingee} and their media circus), the vast skies and the historical sites, add to another overriding and overwhelming sense of the gentle but definite pressure (I cannot think of another more appropriate term) of the 'everything' about and surrounding me (and by lateral licence, everything else), the entire elsehood of beings, of the entirety of beings. It is not the things themselves that press in and out somehow, somehow it is their presence; this presence of everything, of all beings, is not, somehow of the things' doing; my pressure/presence is added to the rest and I have nothing to do with it in the same way that I did not choose to throw myself into the world, but, thrown and falling like planets and comets around/nearby a star, I am, swung betwixt birth and death, here and there, now and then... This presence comes and does not come from the beings, the things, themselves; it is somehow, perfect; nothing, no thing, could be ever removed or added, without everything, every thing, being other than it is, which it is not, so... This 'so' drives me mad in the same way that sexual desire can. Although this presence of all beings (that are, that ever were, that ever shall be) is tremendous (what could be more tremendous than: everything?) the pressure of such a presence is infinitesimally small, the gentlest caress of a fine feather, a tiny touch of an angel's wingtip, a merest change in the air... and all this leads, 'in me' (?), at times, to an ex-plosion (as in slow-mo) of desire, the desire of the 'so' (so what? ... and so? why the just so? and so on...). And, always, before this -plosioning reaches its peak, someone or something 'speaks': and the pressure of the presence dissipates, disappears, vanishes... and gets replaced by the need to answer, to say something, to make something, to... And so: we write. michaelP --MS_Mac_OE_3125372232_171615_MIME_Part
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Kenneth quoteth from gayscience:--MS_Mac_OE_3125372232_171615_MIME_Part-- --- from list heidegger-AT-lists.village.virginia.edu ---
"...to stand in the midst of this rerum concordia discors and of this whole marvelous uncertainty and rich ambiguity of existence without questioning, without trembling with the craving and the rapture of such questioning..."
Sometimes, often when walking home from the small town towards the ancient bay (soon to swarming with golfing peoples {the Open thingee} and their media circus), the vast skies and the historical sites, add to another overriding and overwhelming sense of the gentle but definite pressure (I cannot think of another more appropriate term) of the 'everything' about and surrounding me (and by lateral licence, everything else), the entire elsehood of beings, of the entirety of beings. It is not the things themselves that press in and out somehow, somehow it is their presence; this presence of everything, of all beings, is not, somehow of the things' doing; my pressure/presence is added to the rest and I have nothing to do with it in the same way that I did not choose to throw myself into the world, but, thrown and falling like planets and comets around/nearby a star, I am, swung betwixt birth and death, here and there, now and then... This presence comes and does not come from the beings, the things, themselves; it is somehow, perfect; nothing, no thing, could be ever removed or added, without everything, every thing, being other than it is, which it is not, so... This 'so' drives me mad in the same way that sexual desire can. Although this presence of all beings (that are, that ever were, that ever shall be) is tremendous (what could be more tremendous than: everything?) the pressure of such a presence is infinitesimally small, the gentlest caress of a fine feather, a tiny touch of an angel's wingtip, a merest change in the air... and all this leads, 'in me' (?), at times, to an ex-plosion (as in slow-mo) of desire, the desire of the 'so' (so what? ... and so? why the just so? and so on...). And, always, before this -plosioning reaches its peak, someone or something 'speaks': and the pressure of the presence dissipates, disappears, vanishes... and gets replaced by the need to answer, to say something, to make something, to...
And so: we write.
michaelP
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