Letters #1

I will simply pass on this cup, that overflowing cup in all its fullness and solitude, on to you. Shyly. That cup, usually sitting in a mid-night cabinet or left alone on an old wooden table. This might remind us of Dutch still-painting and Schopenhauer. Certain strange forms of communication across this silent cosmos, again, truly contain wholes, words, and worlds — and that’s how we get to know each other (there is no other way): in return for all your movies, I can simply pass you that midnight cup.

As shy as my little soul can be to unbelievable lengths and wet margins, I normally dislike to introduce myself to someone merely based on “what I do” instead of “what I am”, unless that someone knows intuitively the true wonder of communicating “already whole, word-ed, world-ed” meanings across this largely sparse, silent cosmos. Only those whose cups overflow — whether when alone or in company — can achieve this, and I know your cup (almost) overflows as well for insightful communication.

Real music must present “sound” and “silence” both, just as a real movie must simultaneously determine and sublimate motion, picture, and stillness. In this dumbest generation ever, and as is always the case historically, most of the things claimed to be “musical pieces” and “movies” are indeed “pieces” but, being mere “pieces”, they are never “whole” music or movies. They do not really represent life, for life need not a representation but a DIRECT presentation. They fail to interact with silence, with solitude, with all the reality and subtlety of difference-in-itself and contrast-in-itself.

This is an epistle called “Fatoia” (meant to be a furthermost synthesis of “Fatus” and “Aletheia”, of the existential-epistemic predication, tension, and sublimation ever-present in the synthesis of Object and Subject, of Past and Present, and all that, plus a wider perspective on the likes of Goethe’s “Faust” and “The Sorrows Of Young Werther”).

To merely feel and think is not yet reflection but only projection, just as to simply love is not yet to live (“I love you” is infinitely not yet “I live you” if not epistemically, existentially, eidetically qualified). Rather, to think about thinking is “reflection”, and to do about doing is “reflex/ion”. There is also what I call “surjection”, but that’s another story. I have written this much not to bore you at all, but to categorically unbore you in the Universe. Or simply because of the strange, skew whisper “Carpe Diem”.

Indranu

FATOIA: On Friendship and Marriage
(Or: On Being and Becoming)

Epistle/Script

Dearest Friend, and Friend of my Friend,

“Friendship”, as it happens to my fullest sense in my intrinsic quality and in my relational animity, is such a solitary, solitary word. It’s a rarest reality for a name and a most silent name for a reality.

Like between “sex” and “sexuality”, even in the profoundest sense, there’s this certain ontic-epistemic asymmetry between “Love” and “Life”, where “Love”, when not a mere subjective, temporary aberration, is a strong synthesis of thoughts and feelings, but “Life” is a most universal synthesis of syntheses — just as “Being” (eidetic-noetic), or at least “Becoming” (dialectic), overcomes and sublimates all the duality — certain tense object-subject predication, and multiple logical inconsistencies and paradoxes — in existence.

This is a letter from a brother, lover, and — above all — a friend (for he is the Friend’s Friend) about Love and Life delivered by a spirit, name, and breath that most insightfully and most instinctively knows its place in Reality’s psychology and cosmology, in Reality’s epistemology and ontology, in Reality’s pleroma and noema.

I celebrate this ontic (and not merely coincidental and societal) gathering of you and I from so close a Reality and Quality, no doubt, and from so far and isolated a place and so daring a time. Life must see us all through a needle hole in relation to this. Despite my financial abject poverty and the ever-immediate possibility of my body not lasting long due to this chronic obstructive pulmonary disease (often affecting the left vein of my heart in the form of severe necrosis as in the last 3 years), I am the most intricately proudest and happiest parent of this child of thoughts and feelings in this world, in the galaxy, in the Metagalaxy, in Reality and Quality, in Being and Existence, for a child of life fully invited to be born freest and most whole, and for the obvious, more than serendipitous fact that I taste and remember it the way you taste and remember it.

Your remembrance of me, any time, truly makes my day, like a dusty, lone mirror still capable of reflecting magnolias in the dark, for that subtle filament — that connection — of ours ever finds glow, sight, and sense… It’s like rain, all of rain. It’s like the morning light. And I can sense lemon thrills and tulips and topazes from the landscape we know. I really am happy. I seriously mean “happy”, and imagine how much happiness that is, when the same soul can also contain the greatest sorrow. In this world, of course, both infinite joy and infinite sorrow elude most people.

Despite certain awkward interlacing circumstances in the present background, this remains in the spirit, blood, and grain of true friendship we have always shared previously, once upon a time, among rustling branches and bending reeds, across the Universe. The way, once, our little souls turned entirely without residue into music and wakeful edges. And what is music, in the most pervasive sense, other than words and worlds interacting with our deepest silence? In a universe largely silent and sparse, we once shared so freely certain wholesome words and winged worlds for the infinity that pervades the unity of unity and the difference of difference. And they were not only words, but ALREADY words and worlds to forever speak, touch, and caress, reaching a certain zenith to even free each so unconditionally in understanding.

I chuckle — with half-merciless, half-tender sighs — over your occasional problem with your self and its mutliple attributes. Rest assured, unlike so many unfortunate men and women out there (whether they are severely imprisoned and limited or whimsically wallowing in mere petty freedom), you are much more than “putting your attributes through”. Of course, anyone would love to be told what he/she subconsciously likes the most to be told. But there’s more reason to me telling you that in order to soothe you, as you deserve to hear this the most in the ear of your ear.

Here’s the reason for the marriage of your self with your attributes, be they more essential or accidental. Just as you are putting attributes through their most dedicated goal of the present, despite certain accidents beyond your control, I am subtly sure your essence also knows best how to put you through it and beyond it.

I will encompass the meaning of friendship and marriage for you, in a way most parents, most teachers, most friends, and most lovers are incapable of perceiving and elucidating, as a future guideline and reminder of the qualities of the garden we once inhabited.

Let’s drop the epistemically ridiculous societal words “husband” (as in the perhaps cognate “house-bond” and “house-bandit”) and “wife” (as in “wavering” and “midwifery”) for a moment. They never make sense to me, but the word “marriage” profoundly does, especially when understood in terms of two truly independent, authentic individuals — not simply “persons”, but really already INDIVIDUALS, each being truly indivisible — merging lives together after having fully found the minimum full sense of individuation and individuality. I have no worries about the marriage of two authentic individuals, since the two are independent, not simply complementary. In such a case, of course, the complementary aspect often comes as a sweet bonus.

When it’s two independent souls, the two will always cherish and naturally empower each other’s sense of independence, while busying themselves with a life of already fully conscious inspirations and ideas. When two cups are already full, their conjoining naturally, overwhelmingly overflows. That’s sheer beauty, second to none but existential truth when one truthfully has it. It can’t be otherwise. That’s true marriage. This kind of marriage arises not from mere want, polarity, pressure, or societal conventions. Beautifully, the best partners are best friends since the beginning, and best individuals who happen to realize what “marriage” can mean in the full depth and strength of friendship, and will always be best friends in the sense of “Agape”. Soulmates — those who not just love each other, but who also live each other in the real-most sense, with a sublime reflexive individuation beyond mere selfishness — are certainly very rare, at least in the original Platonic sense, in this world. But when best friends happen to realize, and not just believe in, marriage in the fullest wisdom, understanding, and knowledge of pure friendship, there they are, like light finding mirror and mirror reflecting light. Like rain in soil and soil in rain. I say, such friendship, even if developmentally “tainted” with desire and opposite-sexual attraction, is the beginning and end of true love: subsequently it becomes a love that not merely is tainted by desire, but it also paints desire at will. It brings about not mere sex but sexuality (this, to me, is a solitary, fully sublime quality, hence the “sexual-ity”; while mere “sex” — as the crowd understands it — is simply “sexualness”, always a frantic, selfish contingency). This active intellectual, artistic, psychological, and spiritual aspect of “painting” is the life and light of true love, and it’s infinitely freer and truer, more independent and more authentic. It gives infinitely more than it receives for it gives entirely of itself.

I’m sure for you, there is always this ripe season of, and the most unselfish reason for, “Agape”, and not just “Eros” even if not always easy. To me, that in the most singular, indivisible sense is “Logos” — instead of being contrasted to “Eros” as usual. You two — if he truly be your soulmate, and not just a partner — deserve each other, like autumn and grapes.

Even if all that be like a severely difficult mountain slope, pine trees and cedars would still populate it.

They are wrong who say “I love you” but know not what friendship fundamentally means in the first place. Many such people are intrinsically bad parents, lovers, friends, and opportunists, no matter how well they feign niceness or how “lovely” and “likely” they start out together at first. Whether it’s between a man and a woman, a man and a man, a woman and a woman, a parent and a child, a brother and a sister, even between a profoundest mind and G[o]d (in the sense of a higher first-principle than humanity, the Whole, the All, the One beyond just the “total”), friendship is the most solid foundation of thoughts and feelings there can ever be. “I love you” can still be manipulative and deceptive, and it is like a shore (that’s why so many have failed, starting from “I love you”, though it all depends on the intrinsic quality of the one professing it). But “I live you”, being the ocean, is wholly more honest and requires much more swimming (with or without a raft), integrity and consciousness, very profoundly so. In both cases there are certain existential horizons and verizons that only the Authentic can make full sense of.

Thus, “Friendship”, as it happens to my fullest sense in my intrinsic quality and in my relational animity, is such a solitary, solitary word. It’s a rarest reality for a name and a most silent name for a reality.

Your Brother, Knower, and Friend,
D.

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