O, my desire, that so many would strip you bare in public with their derisive and scornful words, that your greatness remains so far away from them, o stars, they mistake your twinkle for a ‘mere’ flicker of flame compared to the aethers through which you shine forth still!
As my gaze meets the vast diadem of the heavenly vaults, I recall ancient augurs and the company of navigators you kept prior to your imprisonment as ‘subject’ by the theo-logicians (is there any other kind of logician?), the philosophist-tyrants-in-training. These who’ve never smiled upon sensuousness which refutes every axiom, all argument. Leave the cheerless (theo-)logicians to ‘verify’ their own hands and feet through disputatio, laming their limbs, wasting their lives, every possibility of joy.
But, you, so many constellations of desire, send forth your light that I, this aperture, may interweave with you, and thus can become this shape; my desire. You may be held, but never groped with aetheric games and puzzles. You’re far too voluptuous for that reductionist policy of white-haired, grumpy old codgers: intelligibility.
Even martyring oneself for intelligibility (not even ‘God’) gives away the secret of this game, that it too is found in the singing stars. It’s just they were too busy formulating rules for the game to perceive the rest of melody, and thus they heard only half the song…and felt deeply cheated by their own sense. In short, their bad augury is of their own making.
Sense: that living verb which has become a conceptual shell game once our logico-soothesayer chants his values, his axioms, upon it. Watch his joyless hands! ‘Meaning’ will become separated from sensuousness, except in service as ‘evidence,’ and always through his rules, always by way of mentation. Which shell is ‘meaning’ hidden now? Under ‘sensation,’ the ‘impression’ upon ‘the senses?’ Under ‘mind?’ Or for those more familiar with this form: under ’empiricism?’ or ‘idealism?’
Bad omens due to interruption of each our star-and-earth song leads one head-first into the sewers of every old European city, under Rome, under Königsberg, under London, which spilled their contents the world over. (Sometimes they even tried to sell it for profit, and when this ‘exchange ‘ was offered it was promptly refused. Then coercion was deemed necessary in order to spread ‘the market place of ideas…and stuff.’) Every city believed that in creating eternal daylight, our plaited world, O desire, would become concealed from our sense in ‘the life of the mind.’ That we may only chase miserablist rats and thus, do as we’re told and even come to consider this misery as ‘normal,’ as ‘the way things are and must be.’
Will the pundits of life-constriction now ask: Are we to take it that desire is then ‘good’ and only so? Such a question already seethes with aliveness; with the motion, undulations, the music of stars and of earth, despite such tone-deafness, which for so many seems a chronic condition. Only those who’ve taken up the priestly dirge cogito ergo sum as an invocation against joie de vivre (is there any other joy?), even in the most insidious, although, subtle ways, could ask this silly question with any airs of gravity.
O, desire, perhaps the is ripe for those with affinity with my ken (my cunning?) to take up a poly-rhythmic dancing poetry of their own. Can they? The deliciousness of each our desire: sentio ergo existere.*
* I’m grateful to ’emile’ for aiding in a refinment of my previous usage of ‘sentio ergo sum’ and bringing this much more suitable phrase out of it. More constellations to weave together!