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of a whole (ii)

January 20, 2009

image copyright 2008 Michael TweedThe flower (the woman). Its final dissolution takes leave of its beauty and if it does not proceed towards this dissolution it does not attain such beauty.
The falling of its petals is its final opening, the ultimate form of blossoming.
Then comes the fruit.

One must obey desire or not. But one must obey only desire.

There is this world, this life. There is the world, the life and me, and you and us. There is absolutely.
There is. IT has what is there, in its power.
What is IT?

The sound of the sea is alive. It questions. That of the stream is perpetual.

I am here. I feel my body. I experience myself suddenly fixed in this moment, here and now. I am here.
There is: I; there is: am; there is: here. Terror and glory.
Threat to this glory: it comes from there.

I saw the tree.
It was not the tree, but a tree.
It was not a tree, it was tree.
It was anything but a tree, it was tree.

It must remain silent, being only fixed attention, suspended. Until the absence of the surrounding world slowly awakens.

The world is present, is only present. It changes outside of itself, but can only be endlessly in itself. It does not last. It endlessly consumes a continual, inexhaustible present.
We enter into this world’s present in order to create time. We know only the moment which, to be precise, is not the present. Which, not being the present is not, can only be pure passage, ceaselessly destroyed, from “past” into the “future.”
Man knows only time, not the present, like he knows only the word or the burning thought, not the silence. Like he knows only the doing, not the blossoming.

Presence is perfect and unequivocal in the bird. But it is only the bird.
It is perfect, but suspended, as if in vertigo, in man.

God is not in time, but rather in the present from which nothing escapes.
The moment appears with time, not the present.

Waiting, forgetting.
There is nothing to wait for. If that which is awaited is always there,
and there at the point of being forgotten, unnoticed,
and, set at a remove through inattention, incites waiting.
The wait and the forgetting are one. The wait results from a single loss, a single emptiness that created the forgetting.

There is no center.
There is only an infinite place, only an infinite milieu.

It is only when we do not know what is going to happen that something really happens. The unknown is never experienced as only the unknown. We never know it only as the unknown. The rest, which is reassuring, comes from us and only from us.
It is not maintained.
Visibility is maintained only because we focus vision. Only because we do not have vision.
Do not question vision.

Art alone knows beforehand, knows already, knows the coming unknown.

The present is Presence, just as Presence is the present.
Presence is everywhere uniform and the same. The imminence of Presence is uniform.

“It’s far,” he said. Far from what?
Everything is distant, separated, alone.
In the Only One.
Far from everything.
Far from nothing.

The yes is the no and the no yes.
Everything lends itself to both yes and no.
Lends itself only.

Nothing is false.
Any more than it is true,
except that which makes for nothing being either true or false.

The enigma seeks itself in all directions, like the tree through its branches. (And the enigma is also in the tree.)
Uncertain and yet oriented, as much as it wants to be. Like the tree.
All the boughs, including the most gnarled, form the tree.
One must see, not the branches, but the tree.
The spreading of the branches is particularly disturbing, apparently anarchic. But branches can only make a tree.
The tree can collapse under the weight of the fruit, not under that of the branches. For the trunk responds to the branches and strengthens itself accordingly.

Man creates meaning. It is a meaning, but a meaning which he creates. If it exists, is the meaning, anything other than that which compels him to create meaning? It is only an intention of meaning, open to interpretation, and is not exhausted by any particular one.
What renders a meaning close to the hidden meaning is what best agrees with the intended meaning and satisfies this intention. Some almost silence it, by satisfying it.

The enigma is ours. That, in the depths of man.
Oedipus did not understand that he was part of the Sphinx.
In overcoming the monster, he mortally wounded himself.
And, in the end, the pitiful visionary is blinded.
The horror has merged with him, who has refused the enigma.
The enigma denied, refused, becomes horror and blood.

Roger Munier
from D’un seul tenant
tr. Michael Tweed

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