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May. 21st, 2014 11:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
proximoceptionPerson-as-place, or vice-versa, being pretty much the essence of the God people keep coming up with. Not necessarily Earth, but when not Earth Earth becomes our point of contact with him, the localization of his will for us: we join it here to be pulled to him there - there where he's as much a there as a him.
When he's Earth our goal's to become moving parts of him, which is where envy of animals often comes in, since we wonder whether they are. Might even be his only eyes and face.
The mindfuck movie genre's wholly theological, viewed thus, though what separates being God from being heaven tends to be antagonist. God's dead body is the spoils. Choosing the place over the person is as common a cleansing as the other way: either the island's corrupted its master or the master his island. "The desolation of reality" is the worst thing or the best. For poignancy we're most often left without a clear solution, with its being both/either/neither/no one knows.
In solipsism we become the place. In zealotry it becomes us. The notion of a union, of joining the place while staying person, falls naturally enough into sexual metaphor - woman-as-garden sexism is very common here, as is woman-lost-in-place used as metaphor for an uncertainly trustworthy, uncertainly joinable place.
For atheist messages this form works best as delivery system: the failure of totalizing hopes discovers what should, because can, truly be hoped for, that paradoxical smaller totality. Putting out the stars lights up the town. A place within the larger place is home, never the larger; a person inside of people needs our trust, not that whole crowd. Or the search for perfection of person and place in each other exposes the horrors of both.
General/specific, subject/object - these too bleed in, often as unfairly as sex does. The excuse, if any, is that these are scheme-breaking operations, tests you're supposed to fail, pharmacy fires and not new prescriptions.
What becomes of love if I am the God of this place? There is no love - hence Club Silencio, though that reverberates too on our worries that the guilty may be innocent of their own guilt, hence even further lost since guilt is their essence rather than their stain.
What becomes of love if this place itself is God of me? The needs of place are foreign needs to persons, may be dark, may employ life for death. The Ninth Gate, that's its feel. What are gates but assertions of place, peelings off of the layers of personhood? Lurid lights so low and bright they knock us into the freefall of our infinite extending shadows. Shadows: what people might look like translated to place.
What becomes of love if God is this place's "me"? It's him behind all love, all love is just fitting where he'd meant for us to be. The normative mindfuck is the mindfuckiest of all, is Videodrome. Well, Ninth Gate too: nothing but Calvinian humanism (one composed mostly of curses) is aught but the selfsame surrender, the same fact-murdering godhead getting stuck in its own head. All the easy answers are insane.
When he's Earth our goal's to become moving parts of him, which is where envy of animals often comes in, since we wonder whether they are. Might even be his only eyes and face.
The mindfuck movie genre's wholly theological, viewed thus, though what separates being God from being heaven tends to be antagonist. God's dead body is the spoils. Choosing the place over the person is as common a cleansing as the other way: either the island's corrupted its master or the master his island. "The desolation of reality" is the worst thing or the best. For poignancy we're most often left without a clear solution, with its being both/either/neither/no one knows.
In solipsism we become the place. In zealotry it becomes us. The notion of a union, of joining the place while staying person, falls naturally enough into sexual metaphor - woman-as-garden sexism is very common here, as is woman-lost-in-place used as metaphor for an uncertainly trustworthy, uncertainly joinable place.
For atheist messages this form works best as delivery system: the failure of totalizing hopes discovers what should, because can, truly be hoped for, that paradoxical smaller totality. Putting out the stars lights up the town. A place within the larger place is home, never the larger; a person inside of people needs our trust, not that whole crowd. Or the search for perfection of person and place in each other exposes the horrors of both.
General/specific, subject/object - these too bleed in, often as unfairly as sex does. The excuse, if any, is that these are scheme-breaking operations, tests you're supposed to fail, pharmacy fires and not new prescriptions.
What becomes of love if I am the God of this place? There is no love - hence Club Silencio, though that reverberates too on our worries that the guilty may be innocent of their own guilt, hence even further lost since guilt is their essence rather than their stain.
What becomes of love if this place itself is God of me? The needs of place are foreign needs to persons, may be dark, may employ life for death. The Ninth Gate, that's its feel. What are gates but assertions of place, peelings off of the layers of personhood? Lurid lights so low and bright they knock us into the freefall of our infinite extending shadows. Shadows: what people might look like translated to place.
What becomes of love if God is this place's "me"? It's him behind all love, all love is just fitting where he'd meant for us to be. The normative mindfuck is the mindfuckiest of all, is Videodrome. Well, Ninth Gate too: nothing but Calvinian humanism (one composed mostly of curses) is aught but the selfsame surrender, the same fact-murdering godhead getting stuck in its own head. All the easy answers are insane.
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no subject
Date: 2014-05-26 05:00 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-26 09:19 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2014-05-27 06:23 am (UTC)Oh and Borges went blind, didn´t he? I bet the voices in his head were loud.
Q.s, Q.s
But, I like to regard you as Bagheera. Hope you don´t mind my pulling your tail, too much. Btw, I can´t invite you to