William of Ockham: There is no Being. Being is a word, naming nothing
Wolves: She has, we should say, intelligence enough to attempt the quest of true artistry instead of discoursing pitifully about her stupid wolves at every difficulty encountered.
We should be on guard against progressivist illusions or visions which are systematically pessimistic. The machinic production can work for the better or for the worse. There exists an anti-modernist attitude which involves a massive rejection of technological innovation, particularly as it concerns the information revolution. It's impossible to judge such a machinic revolution either positively or negatively; everything depends on its articulation within assemblages of enunciation. At best there is creation, or invention, on new universes of reference; at worst there is the deadening influence of mass media to which millions of individuals are currently condemned. Technological developments together with social experimentation in these new domains are perhaps capable of leading us out of the current period of oppression and into a post-media era characterized by the reappropriation and resingularisation of the use of media.
While Medieval encyclopediaists were constructing the intellectual edifice, the cathedrals of stone were rising as a visible counterpart. It, too, in its fashion was a Speculum, a Summa, an Imago Mundi, into which the Middle Age put all its most cherished convictions. The cathedrals are one of the most perfect known expressions in art of the mind of an epoch. We shall attempt to show that a whole scheme of expression is found in concrete form. The difficulty lies in grouping in logical sequence the innumerable works of art that the cathedral has to offer. We have hardly the right to dispose of the matter according to some arbitrary scheme which appears to us harmonious. It is necessary to discard modern notions of mind. If we impose categories on medieval thought, we run every risk of error and for that reason we borrow our method of exposition from the Middle Age itself. The four books of Vincent of Beavais' Mirror furnish the framework for the four divisions of our study: the Window of Nature, the Window of History, the Window of Instruction and the Window of Morals.
"Would like to see more integration between the person[al] body and mind philosophical": Tglatz met Deleuze for the first time in the darkness of 36.5 mile 152.260' 64.840" mean -270. Hume was at the pool table, demonstrating no causality, "when cue ball x strikes 2 ball y". Nietzsche was dancing with a Red head from the Flat Bush arrondisement to clattering radio muzak between Falwellogisms. Truda was Boy Scout prepared. She had her Micro Uni-Ball pens and a stack of bar napkins for scribbling notes. She had three packs of Nat Sherman's cigarettellos unfiltered browns 5th Avenue NYC and Drum shag regular Holland. She had rum Puerto Rico and tea Korea gone and more on the Ruth-way, the bartender-ess, black magic liquor witch, north of the 64th who potioned Southern Comfort and honey Nenana in heavy mugs Taiwan without sticky smears on the Outside L48. Not sticky nonsense but a web of sense. And she was at her table, the one with Pete carved chessboard for Tglatz lost years ago. Sunken squares grime black with the fills, spills and thrills she had encountered, [in]event-ed at that table beside a visquean window breathed with frost. Deleuze talked: all the plateaus he had flown over the confluence. That was one part. Talked Nietzsche and Philosophy. Music to her hearing aids, intolerable and wordless joy of image, call it rather knights and weathers of her mind. She could not utter what she wished to say and yet the wild music of his words kept swelling in her and it seemed that she had seen a Laking Glatz, exploded the tenement of minds, glissading right through him. "It sounds like a meeting of the minds" understated a Voyeur of Secondary Representation. Each of us is the sum we have not counted: subtract us into nakedness and knight and you shall see begin forty thousand years ago the love that began in a shag bar in the Bush. This is the moment. But no words came. She only knew the image of the moment, wild mournful secret joy, longing and desire, as sultry and mysterious as the moving rivers of the frozen North itself, pull her suddenly and terribly, a wild strange pull and the fatal absoluteness of its world lost resignation. A feeling of release and realization of the incredible escape that now impended for her, she knew she was waiting for the window and that the "good life", the trajectory road to freedom solitude and the enchanted promise of the golden earth was now before her. Like a dream made real, a magic come to life, she knew that in another time bashed hour she would be speeding world-ward, life-ward, North-ward into the enchanted time-far hills, to the dark heart and mournful mystery of foriver. And as that overwhelming knowledge came to her, a song of triumph, and victory so savage and unutterable that she could no longer hold it in her heart was torn from her in a cry of fury pain and ecstasy. The whole earth reeled about her in a kaleidoscopic blur of shining forcefield down tracks, smoke curled reterritorialization and the weathered empettaled faces of startled locals.
And then she was sitting there among her people at the table of the bar. All things and shapes swam back into their proper shape again no more forever. She could hear the broken clatter of the radio and see, there on the frosted pa[i]nes, the imminent presence promise, the enormous bigness of what she read, what triads were snowflake fractured in the move. Nietzsche had left with Red. On the pool table were smalls wads of Canadian chewing gum where Hume had stuck causality 2 ball y to green felt. Deleuze had seduced her, a once in lifetime, last Red hot love, never to be-gotten mindfuck. Discovering a metaphysical relationship at some reeling mountaintop of Southern Comfort drenched personal experience is infinitely exhilarating.
Why shouldn't I invent some way, however fantastic and contrived of talking about something, without someone having to ask whether I am qualified to talk like that?