posted January 13, 2010 02:56 AM         

Sequestered in confusion, so that I might be open to the suggestion of a stranger -- to a stranger suggestion; to music in the mind; to found words, I never knew the meaning of, and had to make my own; like alien instruments I could never play, but knocked against the rocks, and was happy if they only made a novel sound.

Ideas, that, in some other order, might harmonize the cosmos, I took for simple chalks and paints, and arranged according to my taste. As a metaphysician, I was no rigorous explorer and scientist, but a visionary; an artist. I did not seek sense in things, but demanded that things have no sense at all apart from the sense which I, according to my inspired whims, attributed to them.

Out of an apparently chaotic universe, I could make and unmake a thousand likely schemes. But what I could not allow, -- what I could never even permit myself to consider, for more than a trembling moment -- was the possibility that a truth existed; a single truth, which one must find, and endeavor, with all one's strength, to come into alignment with; or else, leave unfound, but governing one's actions nonetheless, albeit unconsciously and in secret.

If such a proposition was considered, I swear, it could only have been for an instant, and never in all sincerity. For the true artist's heart refuses to respect any authority but it's own. To be an artist is to create, but if there is a Creator, and a Creation submissive to His will, then what is there left to create?

If man is made in the image of God, then the artist must be made in the spitting image of God; jealous, and unable to abide any other gods before him. The artist dispenses with God in order that he may exemplify Him; in order that he may create, as God creates, but on a level congenial to himself.

Only for the artist has Creation not been exhausted. Only for the artist are all things superabundant still. Laws are not laws. Circles are not round. If he suspects it, it is possible. If he thinks it, it is so. If he doubts it, suddenly, all is dispersed, and it is as though the thing had never been. Worlds come into being underneath his ponderous eye, only to be annihilated, when he yawns and turns away.

While other men scramble with one another, like rats fighting over a clod of cheese, he is content to be a god in his own mind. And if the world should not leave him to his daydreams, he'll respectfully take his leave of the world (which, in any case, has never held significant value for him as anything but a grist and mill for his daydreams). Who does not envy, -- or is not, at least, tempted to envy, -- this radical freedom and detachment from worldly affairs?

Many struggle to find meaning in the world, and to defend the general faith in the importance of that search for meaning. But here is a type who irreverently insists that there be no ultimate meaning, and that the only meaning which may be attributed to the world must be a meaning which he feels in his own heart. And when he ceases to feel it, it ceases to be meaningful. And then a new feeling, and a new meaning is found.

The heartbeat of the universe is his own. The eye that creates is his own seeing eye. He sleeps under a sky which exists for him alone; as the Sabbath exists for man. He gazes on the tree of life, and basks in its shade, for it sprouts from his own navel.

Now he is Vishnu, but, quicker than the thought, he has become a flaming sword in the fist of Agni. He is a dervish whirling over mountain ranges, glaciers crumbling undertoe. He is ivory in the mouth of a furious tiger. He is polished shell in the riverbed. There he is, carried up into the wind, and pulled apart like a cloud.

posted January 13, 2010 04:11 PM         

quote:

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liminal
1884, a rare word, from L. limen "threshold." Related: Liminality.

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posted January 13, 2010 11:25 PM         

The idea of liminal space was suggested to me by a friend, when I explained my affinity with the Moth totem, and how it is related to an energy that exists in the borderlands, between order and chaos; like a drunken, dancing gypsy, always coming and going, but never tied to a single meaning, interpretation, role, or place. Like the Fool tarot card, or the sign of Pisces, all things seem contained in this abandoned, idealistic dancer, who wanders to and fro, yet always seems to land on his feet. All this, I think, is connected to this idea of liminal space which really appeals to me. I relate it to Pisces on my 3rd house and Sag Mercury in my 12th; mercurial, mutable, mystical, wandering, travelling, translating. The way various philosophies, traditions, cultures, and mythologies blend, mitigate, and influence each other interests me. The archetype of the artist, as idealist, outsider, dreamer, creator, and magician, interests me... The notion of objective "versus" subjective truth... And so on.

All of these are universal themes, and my positions on them differ or agree with the positions taken by various thinkers, but, taken as a whole, my worldview is my own. And what I choose to focus on and make central in my scheme of values, is my own. I see aspects of myself, my thinking, and my style, in Rumi, Nietzsche, Seneca, Solomon, Diogenes, La Rochefoucauld, Whitman, Novalis,... among others. But I've never seen a single artist or thinker who combines all that I combine, affirms all that I affirm, and negates all that I negate. And I cannot tell you why it is that certain thinkers, styles, or insights have resonated with me, while others have not. It's what makes us unique.

Honestly, it's difficult to distinguish between what is learned and what is "brought forth" without becoming aware of how these things are inextricably bound together. My mind doesn't work that way; it's much better at finding subtle connections and passing through walls. How do I distinguish who I am from the conditions and dynamics active at the time and place of my incarnation? How do you distinguish the essential characteristics of a plant from the surrounding soil, climate, and so on, from which it draws its substance and sustenance? In what ways do I arise as a personality from the collective unconscious, as a flower arises from the forest? In what ways is my particular orientation, as an artist or philosopher, acting to compensate (or overcompensate) for various imbalances in the culture or collective? Who are my kinsmen, among writers and thinkers? Wherein have I learned from them? -- and wherein have I merely agreed with them, recognizing an affinity with my own innate and intuitive understanding? Do I think this way because I understood Nietzsche, or did I understand Nietzsche because I think this way? It's kind of like the chicken and the egg, no?

LEXX, did you know that, if you mix Cap'n Crunch with Fruity Pebbles, you can open up a portal to a parallel dimension of sugary, crunchy, cornfruity yumminess? It's true. And I don't know how original that is, but its pretty cool.

I'm flattered to think you might expect, or encourage me to exhibit, originality. I'm mostly satisfied if my work carries a liberal dose of the usual spices, if I taste flavors reminiscent of the dishes I love, and can reproduce such fine and familiar cousine on my own. If my souffle does not collapse, I am pleased, and do not fault it for being a souffle; and not some new dish of my own invention. If my palate is inspired, my belly filled, and my blood vitalized, all is well. I'm just happy to have prepared a recognizable meal. Something that reminds you of home, or some exotic, distant land. If I ever created something novel, I think it would come as a great surprise to me. I set out to make vegetable soup! Or some variation thereof.

Granted, I'm not one to follow recipes, or remember where I learned of cumin, coriander, ginger, or mace; or who first showed me how to combine this ingredient with that, in order to produce such and such a result. I follow my gut, and throw together whatever seems tastiest or most appealing to me at the moment. If the result is something new, or if it is something which has been made a billion times before, I don't care. I don't require to know it's name, if it has one, or to give it a name, if it is my own invention. I just want to eat it, and know that it is good. Also, to share it with those who might enjoy it. Hopefully, dishes you've never tasted are not the only dishes to your taste.

Have I spawned a new cuisine? My tastes are certainly peculiar. Serranos in the Masala. But who's counting? Just as long as it doesn't offend my tastebuds or my intestines with some new or tired travesty, overspiced and undercooked, -- there's nothing to say about it. Nothing but "Mangia!"

Funny that you were also
thinking about recipes, koiflower.

posted January 14, 2010 01:03 AM         

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LEXX, did you know that, if you mix Cap'n Crunch with Fruity Pebbles, you can open up a portal to a parallel dimension of sugary, crunchy, cornfruity yumminess? It's true. And I don't know how original that is, but its pretty cool.

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posted January 15, 2010 10:48 AM         

My brother, if you are fortunate, then you will have only one virtue and no more: thus you will go more easily over the bridge. It is illustrious to have many virtues, but a hard lot; and many have gone into the desert and killed themselves, because they were weary of being the battle and battlefield of virtues. My brother, are war and battle evil? But this evil is necessary; necessary are the envy and mistrust and calumny among the virtues. Behold, how each of your virtues covets the highest place; each your whole strength, in wrath, hatred, and love. Each virtue is jealous of the others, and jealousy is a dreadful thing. Virtues too can perish of jealousy. Surrounded by the flames of jealousy, the jealous one winds up, like the scorpioin, turning the posioned sting against himself. Ah, my brother, have you never seen a virtue backbite and stab itself? Man is something that has to be overcome: and therefore you will love your virtues - for you will perish of them.

posted January 15, 2010 01:47 PM         

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Once you suffered passions and called them evil.

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