And I suppose I should admit. It’s cold and dark and I don’t know the reason, and I don’t know the why, and I don’t know anything about myself, even if that exists, yet still any other in the world.
Yet I do know these things exist. Reason. Why. Know. Anything. Myself. Exists. Other.
But 2 is about the emotion of love. So easy, as we have done so far, to neglect the emotional.
What is emotion: a state of mind. Yet the term has a bodily component.
‘Doctor, I’m afraid. I cannot sleep and at times I cannot control my emotions.’
I cannot control. As they say. ‘I’ and ‘control’ are terms, if not yet substantiated, at least to designate the owner, the domiurge.
And so the term, emotion, becomes subject to this.
Sometimes we side step those little sins yet we’re still culpable. By “culpable” I really mean a contributing cause. Because within our ethics we will have none of that morality. Better reprhrase: sometimes we side step those little incidents yet we are still the cause to their effect.
That’s better, cause to effect, so much more relational. And, within this second fold we do not even dare to utter, relational = ????
???? Shines MANA upon the audience and Their most holy actor.
All we have said is rather esoteric. I declare it to be accurate: and to the best of our knowledge, a novel thesis that has yet to be articulated precisely in this way. Yet we have drawn upon, yes of course ironically, Gnosticism, the French line of the primordial and savage, the emergence of the imperium revised within the construction of the new household of the Age of Enlightenment.
But, as a single example (there are many), we may take the idea of the work wife, of the workplace affair. An empirical example of the 21st century human being’s nostalgia for this corecursive flow upon which it is caught, near as it is, to the final demise of the entire coinductive type, of the entire empire/external/body-imperium/internal/body type, that (still we are ironic) end of the universe, before it heads right back to embed itself again in a Roman origin and begin again. People have affairs in the modern workplace, and I venture every one of them takes a Roman form, one of Empire, in contrast to the Enlightnment form of Love and Romance. Yet there is Romance in the Roman/workplace form and Romanicus in the form of the Enlightnement/atomic domestic imperium.
There is this particular French mythos of a primordial natural state of man/woman/body that is superior in its hidden sublimation to that of civilization and language. This runs from Rouseau through Levi-Strauss, even, yes, even to Bourdieu though his sublimation is linguistic and his superiority is relativized.
Our point is that this line of flight is too simple to encompass the body-mind-soul trinity that coinductively structures the romance. Like some theories of cosmology, there is no origin point, which means one cannot speak of Sophia or the womb to the Caesar-God of empire. One can only allude, via the position of irony, which some may take as cynical. And like a fictional physics, time travel is a possibility, even within hagiography if, ironically, the origin gives birth to the demiurge of romance’s hagiography.
The Hagiography of Romance is such a bi-simulative coinductive record of flight. It’s a bi-temporal database of meaning: from body/external/civil to body/internal/domestic, and back again, one referring to the other, from the Age of Enlightenment to the Romanized World, and back again. Trinities each escaping the one via embedding themselves within the other.
Therefore Romance and its Linguistic Hagiography is a Coninductive Type that conjoins the Imperial (exoteric) Divine order with sign/law/verse and the Bodily order via a temporal reversal from our current understanding back to those very seemingly disconnected spaces. And therefore Romance is corecursively enacted as a living proof-term of its own Loving & erotic veracity through time traveling back to its origin and giving birth to itself as a Sophia/Womb beyond the Imperial Demiurgic narrative.
As the Gnostics say: “The the Demiurge said ‘There is no Creator but me!’ And the upper aeons replied ‘You are wrong, Yaldaboath!'”
They might well have meant all kinds of things by this. But if we were to perform a Bloomian gesture over this, in which we restrict our tafsir/Kabbalah to purely linguistic and literary notions of creativity, we have the same conductive form of Romance. In which the creator, the Demiurge, is of course narrative romantic invention which (in whatever Hagiographic fiction we wish) is created and originary with respect to its Imperial origin. But to which, within the very text of its exhalation is embedded the Romantic fetish as a Sophia that precedes the Demiurge’s creation yet He cannot help but enunciate, thereby denouncing his origin and yet purely ironically suggesting Her temporal reversal. And therefore the Love upon which the Age of the Enlightenment suppressed was also the Love thrown back in time to preceeed and indeed give birth via embedding to the the Caesar-God’s West.
The term romance, they say, derives from medieval French, where it connoted a refined style of courtly verse, with an origin in an adverb of the Latin romanicus, meaning of “the roman style”. Not bound to love in its origin, in its derivation, within the bounds of its emergence. A romance: a refined & elite flight of fancy.
Yet Love finds itself retroactively bound into this host term, like a time traveler, a temporally co-inductive inhabitant, thrown back from the sign regime of bourgeoise regulation, of its moral (not ethical) subordination of the erotic to the emergence of the atomic family imperium, thrown back from the emergence of individual self control (no god) back into the a universal family imperial, thrown back into the origin of a group’s yield to control (imperial god/Caesar). A court that Carl Jung referred to as the collective unconscious. He framed it as primordial, originary, beyond or before civilization. But this is not quite so: it is rather the origin of Western civilization, the pagan framework of control, sex, violence and therefore empire and therefore an logic of practice that is essentially ethical. Not the ethics we prognosticate audaciously to arise from our meditation, which necessarily is gnostically Christian (though we are not Christian), but nevertheless an ethics that was true to the body linguistic, to the body we recognize as a body of data. Courtly verse, verse/body/data that remains of the court of Caesar, under the control of the imperial god, paradoxically situated and instituted within a Latin sign regime, spoken and uttered in flagrant frankness yet still, yet more paradoxically, truly embodied, like the savage of Bourdieu or Rousseau.
Thinking, thought. Thought is like the air we breathe, like the water we drink. We don’t notice it, often times. Thinking about thinking: that’s the time it does happen, when we stop and reflect. Knowledge of the Self-as-thought: that most amiable and ancient and practical of the forms of philosophy.