Whole

We are all aggregate forms, made up in part of a vast number of discrete parts. Those parts to are made up of discrete parts and this chain of logic seems to run on ad infinitum – just like some atomist version of the infinite god regress. Much the same can be said for the rest of the forms within the natural world; that they are at most aggregates, both in so much as they are composed of smaller parts and that they are themselves smaller parts of a greater whole. The world is not only said to be made up of parts though. There are also the relations between the various parts. Here is the point were we either choose to view these parts as being truly discrete and bound together by an intangible network of relations; or we view these parts as simple sub-wholes, arbitrarily carved out from the greater whole by some function of the intellect.

Popular science tends toward the atomists view, generally because of the descriptive power of that particular system, but it is fundamentally agnostic as to the existence of relation. Relation is to science just another pragmatic way of accounting for and replicating events – just another tool on the shelf, to be dusted off when it fits the purpose at hand. Religion has given little direct attention to the issues related to form and knowledge, while Philosophy and Metaphysics have gone to great lengths to arrive at an answer, only to – in every instance – prove that we know less and less about more and more. Personally, I am of the opinion that we, you and I, have cut ourselves out from the whole mass of existence through an act of subjectivism wrought out by the intellect. As such we are unable to live without arbitrarily categorising everything we encounter – grouping together things that aren’t apart of the “I” of the intellect – the “I” being the most rudimentary example of the in-group versus out-group paradigm.

Perhaps that is why the whole as an expression of a physical infinity, just like the void, is completely incomprehensible to the intellect. Given that we are prone to this subjectivity perhaps a good way for us all to define ourselves would be as follows:

We are all examples of that group, comprising the portion of the whole, which views itself as being distinct from itself.

Surely, if the whole is truly a whole, then it must contain every absurdity.

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I think you’re shit, I just keep you here to pay the rent.

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

“Morning”, Thomas’ words barely crossed his lips, they simply hung in his mouth through lack of propulsion. He quickly made his way to his desk, switched on his computer’s and set about his business. His mind was blank, his expression was blank and then something happened. He died, his heart stopped beating and he ceased to live. He died somewhere he hated amongst people he did not care for, and was no longer in a position to pay the rent.

His partner was sad at first, though even at initially hearing the news could not fight away the feeling of relief, of freedom. Now she could go about her life unburdened, with no guilt. All in all the event was favourable and although some nights she wonders if she would not have liked for the young man she had once known to be around, she still feels she is better off having things transpired in the way that they had.

Jiji and Buttons, being cats didn’t really notice Thomas’ absence although it did take Katie a long time to keep up with tending to their litter in an orderly fashion. Although eventually she got into the rhythm of this and life moved on as usual for the pair.

Thomas himself was dead and as he did not believe in an afterlife, remained so. Not to say that if he had have believed in an afterlife he would not be just as dead.

His family loved him and missed him as families do.

But no one else. No one in the long-term.

Indeed he offered little and contributed nothing.

Except the rent…

Nice shit I once said.

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

Over the last few months my memories of you have coalesced in the back of my mind.

Distilling themselves into warm and beautiful thoughts that drip into my consciousness
at the slightest provocation.

I now know the feeling that inspired the phrase bitter-sweet.

You live on in my life through fond and intimate moments once shared.

The Penultimate Question

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

Lifting the covers over his head David J. Mires lay in an alert state of silence, the wind covered the muffled voices of anyone who might have lurked outside. He strained to listen for footsteps but he found that the harder he listened the louder the marching rhythm of his heart beat began to thud in his ear. He pulled his covers tighter around his head making sure that he was sealed in and secure from the unknown world that resided in the dark. The cavernous void which he occupied slowly filled with an air of suffocation, breathing the same breath over and over the need to breach would eventually force him out of hiding. He was aware that people or things may very well have been standing over him, watching and waiting for him to take his next breath of crisp fresh air.

The threat that night-time brought with it provoked certain trains of thought that inevitably lead to a fixation on mortality. Complete and abject fear, in the anticipation of the feeling of knowing we are going to die. It struck David down with anxiety and a cold confusion regarding the idea of being alive, it seemed pointless and inevitably horrifying.

As a child after suffering through this anxiety for as long as he could tolerate, he summoned his courage and made his way to his parents bedroom. Waking his mother he posed to her a serious question and was struck by the honesty of the answer. ‘you don’t need to worry about that just yet’.

David continued to lay in a state of alertness, his mind was racing again. The wind continued to whisper and murmur and his thoughts drifted to the question that had plagued his youth. Anticipation built and he continued to breathe the same breath over and over. This time there was no way to comfort him, soon he would have his answer.

Mutato nomine et de te fabula narratur

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

Music hummed in David’s ear, muffling the sound of the train as it clicked and ground along its line. Peering through the carriage window he could see nothing but suburban bricks, weather board and tasteless modern beach side facades.
They should tear it all down.

Suburbia seemed to hem him in from all sides. The soulless sprawl had washed up along the shore of the peninsula obscuring the view.
They should tear it all down.

Prelude to letters

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

Do you know what the problem with having a blog is?

You write something, what ever it might be you write it down because you feel the need to express yourself. Normally this happens because you want to have a dialogue with someone, and as you are alone a blog seems like a socially acceptable medium to have this discussion with yourself. You could write in a diary, but these days if your every thought isn’t splayed out for all to see things just don’t feel right. Assuming however that you succeed in producing the ideal outcome of a dialogue with one’s self, which is that it remains one way. You will inevitably feel unsatisfied.

After every one of these posts I am left feeling unsatisfied.

‘The only sadnesses that are dangerous and unhealthy are the ones that we carry around in public in order to drown them out with the noise; like diseases that are treated superficially and foolishly, they just withdraw and after a short interval break out again all the more terrible; and gather inside us and are life, are life that is unlived, rejected, lost, life that we can die of.’
— Rainer Maria Rilke

Father

This is a really old post I found on an abandoned blog of mine:

Facing a white wall, stainless steel tables are set forty wide and forty deep. Each table seats exactly four people. One adult male and female, one young boy and girl. The white wall is completely featureless. Exactly one meter from the wall is a thick white line. This line runs the entire length of the wall connecting two black steel doors on either side of the hall.

The hall is an enormous space. The ceiling looms above completely out of sight; in order to see the painting that covers every inch of it, you must crane your neck back as far as you can. In doing so blood will pool in the back of your head, adding to the dreamlike quality of the images above.

A tempest of black sea and stars roar across a grand landscape. Dark waters collide with a hideous red sky in a scene of cataclysmic violence. Burning cities are enveloped in foam pullulating with every kind of seaborne horror. Masses of people are scattered and dead before the maelstrom of dark water has even reached them. The moon is being torn from the sky, the sun swallowed by the sea.

6,398 white spoons are submerged simultaneously into light green soup. Each spoon is raised and placed into his or her mouth. This cycle continues in near silence, the hushed clink of white spoons play a sub-audible timpani.

Of the 6,400 people sitting in the hall, only two are not eating. I am sitting with my head back looking at the ceiling. I am trying to follow the gaze of my father who is doing the same.