This will be a rant of the sort that seems trivial to most, in a way similar to the perception most have of philosophy. It’s the idle man’s game; as if the presupposition were discreet that any other discourse (most importantly theirs) actually does anything proper; that is, insofar as their “conscious axioms and premises” are concerned. And this will be their charge: you use jargon, whether conscious or not; speak my language! Let’s see you drown in your messy literature; I see you suffocating as if that were an art form (fumble the translation into a common tongue).
Despite those (supposedly) performative trips, the hidden premise is not so couched as one might think; through the fault lines of language, your discourse harbors calamitous wounds. My prayer each day is that proponents as such never see them; the feeling I bear is similar to the one the atheist carries in “defending” the theist’s psychological need. The lies reek of humanity, of humanism, as if the nature of man, supposing their is one, can defend legitimately the extensions of man’s trivial intellectual aesthetic crisis. But we call it now “rational”, now “emotional,” as if we’ve made any real move from our “collective source.”
We find ourselves in situations like the paragraph that precedes, ranting like mad fools through the day as if an engine of victorious wit. We rumble, roar, stomp and persuade from sources we think we thought we knew very well of and even the sentence has been given a “memory.” Language has no memory; what it involves is use. But I traverse the lines and I find no signs of my knowledge on my part or yours. Is language poetic? Is it philosophical?
One will say that it is a simple thing. The simplicity comes from the event of my saying it is so; where the contradiction presumably lies is therein what I say, rather than that I say it rather than that I not. So we stumble, so many think, and despite my shouts (to those naïve: as if I were shouting as a philosopher to philosophers, rather than as an indiscernible, an invalid, a part, like the rest), into what is called “necessity.” Abhorrent lines of philosophical and poetic filth follow like vomit from this concept, as if “necessity” were not only a more emphatic way of breathing, heaving, and shouting–”necessity! necessity!” No; instead, it tells you a story, so they say, of something grand but natural. In those eyes, a “way” is projected. It is a cacophonous event (because I have to repeat it aloud to ensure myself of what has transpired) to witness value prescribed and then transcendentally so; weeping is my reaction to the continual equivocating moans of agents. Yet I have to defend myself as if I had a position. Of course, I know this is where rants usually end up. Necessity is a motherfucker.
