I am afraid we cannot get rid of God because we still believe in grammar.
Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols
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@pepenator
I am afraid we cannot get rid of God because we still believe in grammar.
Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

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A zoom narrative by Aya Karpinska
In the future it will only be allowed to send one "tweet" and a photo to the Internet once in a lifetime.
In the future people will only have the right to send one "tweet" and a single photo to the Internet. In a lifetime. They will devote six years of their lives to meditate, with the help of spirit guides, what is that they want to say in that tweet, and some others, with the help of specialists and aesthetes, will choose what photo they will decide to upload.

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When I hear that ‘the scientists of Monte Palomar have photographed the moment in which the Black Hole MVX-25/88063008 swallows forty thousand million galaxies’, I remember an Indian myth which fascinated Hegel. It tells that the copulation of God X and Goddess Y, which occurs uninterruptedly for six thousand Eras, produces so much substance that from the constant crash of their divine apassionated bodies are dislodged the humors that create all the things in the Universe.
«Now this is the first time we’ve been alone and in a position to talk for years,» said Dean. And he talked all night. As in a dream, we were zooming back through sleeping Washington and back in the Virginia wilds, crossing the Appomattox River at daybreak, pulling up at my brother’s door at eight A.M. And all this time Dean was tremendously excited about everything he saw, everything he talked about, every detail of every moment that passed. He was out of his mind with real belief. «And of course now no one can tell us that there is no God. We’ve passed through all forms. You remember, Sal, when I first came to New York and I wanted Chad King to teach me about Nietzsche. You see how long ago? Everything is fine, God exists, we know time. Everything since the Greeks has been predicated wrong. You can’t make it with geometry and geometrical systems of thinking. It’s all this!» He wrapped his finger in his fist; the car hugged the line straight and true. «And not only that but we both understand that I couldn’t have time to explain why I know and you know God exists.»
(via Jack Kerouac, On the Road)
The phantom of desire is necessarily two-faced. That which presents itself as desirable is masked. Sooner or later the mask falls, unmasking anguish, death, the annihilation of the perishable being. In truth, you aspire to night, but you must follow a detour and love figures capable of being loved. The possession of pleasure heralded by such desirable possession of figures is quickly reduced to the disarming possession of death. But then death cannot be possessed: it dispossesses. That is why the space of voluptuousness is the space of deception. Deception is the basis and final truth of life. Without an exhausting deception —at the very moment your heart is weakest— you could never know that the burning desire to come is the dispossession of death.
(via Georges Bataille, Alleluia: The Catechism of Dianus)
via Marie Flaherty

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What I expect from you exceeds astute resolutions, desperation or emptiness. You need to let infantilism come out of the excess of lucidity that forgets it. The secret of living is without doubt the naive destruction of what is supossed to destroy our pleasure for living: that is childhood that triumphs without large phrases over the obstacles that resist against desire, that is the unbridled train of game, the hiding place where as a little girl it happened that you lifted up your skirt...
(via Georges Bataille, Alleluia: The Catechism of Dianus)
(via Charles Lebrun)
One day, the gods retreated. On their own, they retreated from their divinity, that is to say, from their presence. What remains of their presence is what remains of all presence when it absents itself: what remains is what one can say about it. What can be said about it is what remains when one can no longer address it: neither speak to it, nor touch it, nor see it, nor give it a present. (...) Truth and narration are separated thus. Their separation is marked by the same line which shows forth in the retreat of the gods. The body of the gods is what remains between the two: there it remains as its own absence. It remains there as the body painted, figured, and narrated: but there is no longer the body as the sacred body. (...) Do not abandon the bodies, even if the work is to be shunned. Such is the task. Do not abandon the bodies of gods without wanting to call back their presence. Do not abandon the service of truth nor that of the figure, without however, filling up with meaning the gap that separates the two. Do not abandon the world, which becomes always more world, more under the spell of absence, more in interval, incorporeal, without saturating it with signification, revelation, proclamation or apocalypse. The absence of gods is the condition for both literature and philosophy to be in. It is the in-between which legitimates the one and the other, both of which are irreversibly atheological. But they both have the responsibility of taking care of the in-between: of guarding its open body, and of allowing it the possibility of this opening.
(via Jean-Luc Nancy, Between story and truth)
The divine as it enters into the unconcealed. The daimonion: the look in its silent reception into the appurtenance to Being.
«Sight into the unconcealed transpires first, and only, in the disclosive word. Sight looks, and is the appearing self-showing that it is, only in the disclosive domain of the word and of telling perception. Only if we recognize the original relation between the word and the essence of Being will we be capable of grasping why, for the Greeks and only for them, to the divine (τὸ ϑεῖον) must correspond the legendary (ό μῦϑος). This correspondence is indeed the primordial essence of all analogy (homology), the word “ana-logy” taken essentially and literally. Insight into this analogy, in which a dictum, a word, a legend, corresponds to Being, i.e., discloses it by speaking of it as the same in a comparison, puts us into a position to finally provide the answer to an earlier question.
In our first elucidation of the essence of μῦϑος [the legendary] as the disclosive legend in which and for which Being appears, we asserted that, in accord with the essential dignity of the word, poetizing and thinking had the highest rank for the Greeks. This claim was bound to provoke an objection, and the foregoing elucidations of δαιμόνιον [the demoniac, the extraordinary] and ϑεῖον [the divine] have lent it still more significance. For the Greeks, beings appear in their Being and in their “essence” not only in the “word” but equally in sculpture. If indeed the divine in the Greek sense, τὸ ϑεῖον, is precisely Being itself looking into the ordinary, and if the divine essence appears precisely for the Greeks in the architecture of their temples and in the sculpture of their statues, what happens then to the asserted priority of the word and accordingly to the priority of poetizing and thinking? For the Greeks, are not architecture and sculpture, exactly with regard to the divine, of a higher rank, or at least of the same rank, as poetry and thinking? Is there not a well-justified ground to our readily-adopted procedure of forming our standard “historiographical picture” of the essence of the Greek world on the basis of architecture and sculpture? Here we will only be able to raise and clarify these far-reaching questions within the limits drawn by our meditation on the essence of the δαιμόνιον [the extraordinary, the demoniac].
It is easy to see that at issue here are the relations among the “classes of art” and their rank: architecture, sculpture, poetry. We are thinking of the essence of art here, and indeed not in general and vaguely, and to be sure not as an “expression” of culture or as a “witness” to the creative potential of man. Our focus is how the work of art itself lets Being appear and brings Being into unconcealedness. This kind of questioning is far removed from metaphysical thinking about art, for the latter thinks “aesthetically.” That means the work is considered with regard to its effect on man and on his lived experience. To the extent that the work itself comes to be considered, it is looked upon as the product of a creating, a “creating” which again expresses a “lived urge.” Thus even if the work of art is considered for itself, it is taken as the “object” or “product” of a creative or imitative lived experience; that is to say, it is conceived constantly on the basis of human subjective preception (αἴσϑησις). The aesthetic consideration of art and of the work of art commences precisely (by essential necessity) with the inception of metaphysics. That means the aesthetic attitude toward art begins at the moment the essence of ἀλήϑεια [the unconcealed] is transformed into ὁμοίωσις [the correspondence], into the conformity and correctness of perceiving, presenting, and representing. This transformation starts in Plato’s metaphysics. In the time before Plato, for essential reasons, a consideration “of” art did not exist, and so in general all Western considerations of art and all explications of art and historiography of art from Plato to Nietzsche are “aesthetics.” This metaphysical basic fact of the unbroken domination of aesthetics is not changed at all, provided we keep the metaphysical in mind, if instead of a so-called cultivated and snobbish “aesthete,” we have, e.g., a peasant, with his “natural” instinct, “experience” a nude in an art exhibit. The peasant, too, is an “aesthete.”
Thinking about this unshakable fact, the suspicion must arise in us, after all we have been saying, that in our present desire to determine something about the art of the Greeks the obviousness of the aesthetic mode of consideration might in advance be burdering our approach with improper and distorting points of view.
According to the usual opinion, there are different “classes” of art. Art itself is the forming and shaping and “creating” of a work out of some matter. Architecture and sculpture use stone, wood, steel, paint; music uses tones, poetry words. One might agree that for the Greeks the poetic presentation of the essence of the gods and of their dominion was certainly essential; yet no less essential and in fact more “impressive,” because of its visibility, would be the presentation of the gods immediately in statues and temples. Architecture and sculpture use as their matter the relatively stable material of wood, stone, steel. They are independent of the fleeting breath of the quickly fading and, moreover, ambiguous word. Hence through these classes of art, architecture, sculpture, and painting, essential limits are set for poetry. The former do not need the word, while the latter does.
Now, this view is quite erroneous. Indeed architecture and sculpture do not use the word as their matter. But how could there ever be temples or statues, existing for what they are, without the word? Certainly these works have no need for the descriptions of the historiography of art. The Greeks were fortunate in not yet needing historiographers of art, or of literature, music, and philosophy, and their written history is essentially different from modern “historiography.” The Greeks had more than enough just with the tasks given them by poetry, thinking, building, and sculpturing.
But the circumstance that in a temple or in a statue of Apollo there are no words as material to be worked upon and “formed” by no means proves that these “works,” in what they are and how they are, do not still need the word in an essential way. The essence of the word does not at all consist in its vocal sound, nor in loquacity and noise, and not in its merely technical function in the communication of information. The statue and the temple stand in silent dialogue with man in the unconcealed. If there were not the silent word, then the looking god as sight of the statue and of the features of its figure could never appear. And a temple could never, without standing in the disclosive domain of the word, present itself as the house of a god. The fact that the Greeks did not describe and talk about their “works of art” “aesthetically” bears witness to the fact that these works stood well secured in the clarity of the word, without which a column would not be a column, a tympanum a tympanum, a frieze a frieze.
In an essentially unique way, through their poetizing and thinking, the Greeks experience Being in the disclosiveness of legend and word. And only therefore do their architecture and sculpture display the nobility of the built and the shaped. These “works” exist only in the medium of the word, i.e., in the medium of the essentially telling word, in the realm of the legendary, in the realm of “myth".»
(via Martin Heidegger, Parmenides)
'A-theism,' correctly understood as the absence of the gods, has been, since the decline of the Greek world, the oblivion of Being that has overpowered the history of the West as the basic feature of this history itself. 'A-theism,' understood in the sense of essential history, is by no means, as people like to think, a product of freethinkers gone berserk. 'A-theism' is not the 'standpoint' of 'philosophers' in their proud posturing. Furthermore, 'a-theism' is not the lamentable product of the machinations of 'freemasons.' 'Atheists' of such kind are themselves already the last dregs of the absence of the gods. But how is an appearance of the divine at all supposed to be able to find the region of its essence, i.e., its unconcealedness, if, and as long as, the essence of Being is forgotten and, on the basis of this forgottenness, the unacknowledged oblivion of Being is elevated to a principle of explanation for every being, as occurs in all metaphysics? Only when Being and the essence of truth come into recollection out of oblivion will Western man secure the most preliminary precondition for what is the most preliminary of all that is preliminary: that is, an experience of the essence of Being as the domain in which a decision about the gods or the absence of the gods can first be prepared.
Martin Heidegger, Parmenides.

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John Frusciante’s cosmogony on God
John Frusciante’s mystifying musical power has been often marked out, unlike the role that poetic language plays within it. The temporality of poetry is very similar to that of music. As we know, the latter evokes a type of experience that only comes associated to a specific time and place determined by the moment in which we execute it or listen to it. Likewise, poetry appears held out of time as if it would inhabit some kind of eternal present.
The way Frusciante introduces us into his music as to a fluke of founding poetry whose function is almost sacramental, is mythological. Frusciante constantly employs myth as a resource to interpose a universe of retention —between our finitude thrown in the middle of a hostile nature blind to our hopes— where the unexplainable ends up making sense in one way or another. In God (The Empyrean, 2009), Frusciante uses myth to impound us from the horror inspired by the world that we unsuitably inhabit. God, incarnated in the voice of the musician, presents an alternative reality that stands out clearly from the ordinary world, the profane reality to which we only have access through our finite condition: «So each day would be new, I build you to sleep / that’s the idea of dying but you’ll just have to see». After this lapidating opening phrase, God presents an assorted rattle of unfolding events. These are derived from the pronominal game that Frusciante proposes insofar that its signs refer constantly to themselves, and find their determination in new relations that they establish with other signs which are present in the song and allow us to make multiple lectures.
A common attribute among Tibetan Buddhist monks, Aztec gods, some Christian saints and plenty of psychedelic substances consumers, is their unfolding capacity. Let’s say that it’s unfolded that the one whose soul leaves or projects out of the body —even remaining connected to it— always in the same spatial-temporal context. When, for example, Frusciante’s God says: «I’m each one of you», he is unfolding into his audience. From that moment, as if in the face of a mirror, each one of his listeners will be able to be and recognise itself before itself, and for so before God, as human being and as deity: «Be for me, before me» —John sings to the crowd and to himself, as a God and as a man. It is in that piousness that we can represent his poetic language to ourselves as a free flow of words that swivel upon themselves, like signs in rotation, since each one who listens to them gets involved in a game of unsettled purpose. As in the case of the English pronoun «you», which can be read as allusive to a group of entities in plural form, or to a single entity in singular form, depending on the context of its use. What Frusciante’s God proposes is to play with words in order to find alternative anothers who can be him or any of us: as deities and as human beings. For so, another possibility is that «you» can turn into the abstraction of the lover, and, God, into any of us unfolding into her or him: «You blaspheme my name / but still I love you / still I love you / I love you just the same».
Within this sacramental and amorous uncertainty, the only unquestionable thing for Frusciante’s God seems to be the immediacy of the mind between our existence and any aim to understand it: «You can do what you want or so you think / but till you stop all your thoughts / you are ties to your surroundings». Nevertheless, this reliance can be solved in a magic way if we tread into another form of unfolding suggested by God, whose mystifying power allows to reach, like in a dream, all that is unapproachable by means of reason: «When the fog spreads out in the rainy season / it comes from my insides / When the thunderous lightning strikes down / you’re seeing your real I» —sings God-Frusciante to find himself and another that like ourselves and him itself, as deity and human, as lover and now as thunder, befalls where and when the transfiguration of signs occurs; that is, at the moment when poetry comes to happen.
God operates as myth because it contemporises an implausible drama in a narrative present that is eternal and contains the experience of satisfaction itself. Within his cosmogony, Frusciante defines himself as an artificial creator of the world, and of music, by reaffirming his artistic vocation: «Creation’s not something I did / it’s something that I do» —exclaims God as he remarks his exhaustive condition within this unfinished world of his own authorship, speaking like a humble craftsman who perceives himself as an imperfect being and wails upon those who listen to him: «You know that I try to repair and repay»; for he is, after all, a very human God.
* I wrote and published the original Spanish version of this article here. Thanks to Andrew Jackman for his advice and help with the corrections to the English translation.