Panopticism

It goes constantly forward
then it steps back
and turns around.

It moves everytime faster
as if it were trying to see
how far the very ground can hold

It dissolves, and it leaks
through the sharpness of its own thoughts
as if it had never been there/

But it was there,
and it was tight:
regardless!

It dissolves again,
right when it seemed solid enough to hold:
the fog is too thick and all else is tight//

Narrow sidewalks get on the way
shimmering, enticing
unavoidably: it dissolves once more.

Cores de um fim de tarde de primavera

Will we notice in time?
Will our sight be wide enough?
Senses might endure
this blissful widening
of themselves/

Creatures of the world
scavengers of pleasure

How thin is the line
between meaning
and undermining?
As we see (it) it fades away
weakened and breathless

Creatures of the world
quivering for bliss!

Blissful uneasiness
stay close to all I see,
keep it going
steady and wavering
as meaninglessness

Creatures of the world
shivering under the stars

Dreamlike

Rubber bands lie
on the floor
when everything else
flows out of the window.

Mosquitoes bite
every piece of being
which is not
entirely torn apart/

There is a whole of it
that might never be changed
for it has never meant to be
any more than this glimpse

Wisps of light hover
over the gloomy bliss
of an empty sound!

Positive deviation
thrust into a senseless
non-functional whirl

Come back inside (x)


 

Post.

"There ir no overaching totality, rationality or fixed center to human life, no metalanguage which can capture its endless variety, just a plurality of cultures and narratives which cannot be hierarchically ordered or 'privileged', and which must consequently respect the inviolable 'otherness' of ways of doing things which are not their own.

Knowledge is relative to cultural contexts, so that to claim to know the world 'as it is' is simply a chimera - not only because our understanding is always a matter of partial, partisan interpretation, but because the world itself is no way in particular.

Truth is the product of interpretation, facts are constructs of discourse, objectivity is just whatever questionable interpretation of things has currently seized power, and the human subject is as much a fiction as the reality he or she contemplates, a diffuse, self-divided entity without any fixed nature or essence."

He might have been standing at the edge of infinity.

"He could see two ways ahead of him, and this appalled him, because hitherto he had never seen more than one straight line.

To owe his life to a man wanted by the law and to pay the debt in equal terms; to have accepted the words, 'You may go', and now to say, 'Go free', this was to sacrifice duty to personal motive. And now what was he to do?

Only one proper course lay open to him - to hurry back to the Rue de l'Homme-Arme and seize Valjean. Something prevented him. What was it? All the principles on which his estimate of man had been based were overthrown. Behind Valjean loomed the figure of Monsieur Madeleine, and they merged into one, into a figure of deserving veneration. Something dreadful was forcing its way into Javert's consciousness - admiration for a convicted felon. He did not for a moment deny that the law was the law. What more simple than to enforce it? But when he sought to raise his hand to lay it on Valjean's shoulder an inner voice restrained him: 'You will deliver up your deliver? Then go and find Pontius Pilates' bowl and wash your hands!' He felt himself diminished beside Jean Valjean.

But his greatest anguish was the loss of certainty. He was forced to admit that infallibility in not always infallible, that there may be error in dogma, that judges are men and even the lay may do wrong. All was chaos; and he, Javert, was in utter disarray. There were only two ways out. To go determinedly to Jean Valjean and return him to prison; or else...

The place where Javert stood was where the river flows in a dangerous rapid. He looked down. There was a sound of running water, but the river itself was not to be seen. What lay below him was a void, so that he might have been standing at the edge of infinity. He stayed motionless for some minutes, staring into nothingness, Abruptly he took of his hat and laid it on the parapet. A moment later a tall, dark figure, which a passer-by might have taken for a ghost, stood upright on the parapet. It leaned forward and dropped into the darkness.

There was a splash, and that was all."

Ora obscurecido, ora translúcido.

O problema da manhã é que ela torna tudo evidente, lúcido, transparente em excesso. Durante o dia encontramos tudo o que a há. Durante o sono perdemos as proteções que construímos ao redor do ego. O inconsciente, por meio dos sonhos, se comunica com aquele e deixa-o atento ao que, de fato, é. Acordamos e nos deparamos com a crudeza do renascimento, que nesse ponto torna tudo estrangeiro, uma vez que a psique, ao longo do ser, é saturada (quando é) de consciência do culminar, e não apenas isso, do almejar a tarde.

Somos o que sempre fomos e o que nos enganamos ser. Farsas absolutamente convencidas do "muito mais do que". Não fosse a fuga, o fim. Ainda assim: engana. Sofrimento banal.

14/07 - Good thing we die. Life suffering would not be bearable if not by the existence of death. Nevertheless, as we do what we do because of our endlessness and meaninglessness it would not be possible to conceive what life without death would/could be. It might be that everything we have conceived up to now is nothing but our misunderstanding of what we could have been if not for death that everything we put into this world is error and ignorance not by themselves but by our own error. Our errors that come out of a flawed logic system that is but a reflection of every previous aspect - as for what I have commented so far - of what we are. Good thing we live, therefore it is possible to wonder, and to dream overnight knowing that we are about to find out the absolute form of everything, the form which has already been found out by those who died. Language lacks expression. What a useless strive to wonder. What a waste to be. Let it be, though. For no reason.