Critique of an as yet not-created book on Post-Modernity and the Suffocation of the particular

I am writing to you all again. I am not accessing my e-mail. I am not getting or sending you a post-card. This would involve only the particular.

"The current world is mired in the particular. Previous religious systems only wound up skirting the bloody mess, avoiding it almost entirely with some kind of circum-ambulation of the particular through the negative. For Jean-Luc Nancy the negative goes on searching after the particular. Round and round it buzzes like a busy bee round the flower of sex and suffocation, a theory of touch alright indeed. But there is a point where all this stimulation around the flower must meet a climax and an extinction once again, no?"
"Philosophy.... a clitoral agitation, buzzing round the particular like a busy bee. All this enacts the ritual of capital once again. Philosphy a calmative? A medicinal or therapeutic value? - Only in its raising the level of agitation till there is extinction, or else the dream of philosophy: the sagenhaftige druben. The fabulous yonder, escape from this extinction of death which is the devouring, agregating aspect of life.
"The sages speak of a certain amplitude of love which comes from having enough soul to get up every day and face the grind. It takes soul to get up every day and face the day. The very ordinariness of the day throws Dasein immediately into "being-towards-death." It does not take something special to do this, the very weight and agony of das Mann will be sufficient to do this. And man thus faces his death as his equal, the sum of his desires. There is no third from this agony of everyday man who must face, day after day the bitterness of his certain defeat."
"The sages speak of uniting the stream of the past with the stream of the future. A parable of two rivers (an allusion to Herzog's Fitzcaraldo). But the soul cannot unite these rivers through desire, which is always desire of/for the wrong thing.
"The bloody mess of the particular: a fragment of the blood and mess of birth, one can get fascinated with all of this. I spoke of the particular as a form of suffocation, suggesting the horror of Ted Hughes' Crow:

Crow's First Lesson
God tried to teach Crow how to talk.
'Love,' said God. 'Say, Love.'
Crow gaped, and the white shark crashed into the sea
And went rolling downwards, discovering its own depth.
'No, no,' said God. 'Say Love. Now try it. LOVE.'
Crow gaped, and a bluefly, a tsetse, a mosquito
Zoomed out and down
To their sundry flesh-pots.
'A final try,' said God. 'Now, LOVE.'
Crow convulsed, gaped, retched andMan's bodiless prodigious head
Bulbed out onto the earth, with swivelling eyes,
Jabbering protest--
And Crow retched again, before God could stop him.
And woman's vulva dropped over man's neck and tightened.
The two struggled together on the grass.
God struggled to part them, cursed, wept--

Crow flew guiltily off.

Dear God, what is this? Dear God, what is this bloody, suffocating mess?

"It is said by the sages that one who learns to embrace that all is illusion, including the wish to overcome illusion, becomes the one who is enlightened (theoria).

Last night I dreamed that things had finally happened. Somebody, some one among us had built a weapon that was so offensive in its nature that it just had to be destroyed. What do we do with all this wealth and excess? Don't we just build bigger and better weapons? And these weapons simply express further offense to existence, further offense to those who have not, we are the ones who build weapons that are offensive.

Defensive weapons never were as effective as offensive weapons. The force of a destructive spear has always outweighed the shield in the arms of the oponent. So much force is hurled in one place, and the recipient must guard their entire body against something that could enter them at any one of a thousand-million points. Modern surveillance society attempts to digitize the points, to render them discrete and finite, and therefore coverable. In point the spear however activates the fact that the body is in actual fact a field of possibility. It is that field which can be penetrated, since the number of points is infinite and our capacity to defend or cover a point, or create surveillance round a point is finite.

The building of offensive weapons may point to the current cultural obcession with being the predator rather than the prey. We continue to remind ourselves that we kill, and therefore in that moment externalize/exteriorize the killing. I have speculated that the matter of becoming a society that might integrate its condition as prey might be an alternative on coming into a balanced relationship with the particular."

The book of the issue of post-modernity and the suffocation of the particular remains a furtive explanation. It is this explanatory state that denies its status with thought. Every post modern philospher is currently engaged in agitating the clitoral discourse of the age. This happens through comparison, criticism and post-ulation. The question remains whether there is some creative (post-creative?) condition. The question of the post is "when will we be done with this ... concept/word/bloody-mess-like situation?" -The answer is either deconstruction: "never;" or the answer is fascism: some form of literal-mindedness: "now (burn the book/delete the post...)" (and everyone knows that these assholes simply end up doing one stupid thing or another, but fail to be exposed to the "laughter of the dream.")

Deconstruction: the deferral of sentencing and the sentence of deferring. Hegel puts this as "schlechtes Unendigkeit," says my friend Oppermann. There remains the question of the one one deferrs to. Deferring is delay in one sense, but it is also deferring to the other. Who is the one one deferrs to? Is this other the "Other" one might read of in some Levinasian or Sartrean philosophy? Is the other always already ...other than what we thought? And what if these words too, were in the words of Albahari "something else?" (That is an ecstasy indeed.) That is the issue with all this "deconstruction:" the interiorization of alterity. Contrawise fascism (and I am using the term "fascism" as a short-hand for a kind of impatience that insists on "security" the elimination of all fear at any expense) is the exteriorization of the other: one projects the other onto the other and then one has to convert or to exterminate the other. On the other hand, back to deconstruction, the problem with the issue of deferral as schlechtes Unendigkeit is that this however simply pulls a Hegelian "skirting" of the issue. In the midst of this suffocating bloody mess, are there conditions that look like sentences? Do we come to terms with some ultimate and very shitty or bloody "reality?"

I know that my dreams are posts against the sentencing of Kapital. My dreams gaily profess an apocalyptic tone: "we have had it will all your offenses! We are going to kill you!" And who are these "we?" and how did we get into an agreement with them in the first place?

The sages proclaim "rend the texts lest they should rend your heart!" (a familiar Alchemical parallel, where a stage of this insane intuitive process demands that we leave the insane and incessant babbling of texts behind: "do not let them bother your head! Turn off the web-logs and cease from writing, and for this moment enter into the river of images, clear your head of sin. When you come up from this river it will be another bloody mess and you will be born again.") Another parallel is found in Shakespeare's Tempest (Greenaway's Prospero's Books):

But this rough magic
I here abjure; and, when I have requir'd
Some heavenly music,—which even now I do,—
To work mine end upon their senses that
This airy charm is for, I'll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I'll drown my book. (Act V scene i)

I could be wrong in this "interpretation," but in breaking any spell (trench, trance or transference) we ask our conscience to act. Great things we think, and this takes us from the poverty stricken plight of our daily grind, our similitude with death "rounded with a sleep..."; but great things admit always to their affinity with our smallness: we will ourselves sleep but live with our fear, not dismissing fears or alleviating them un-necessarily. Our fears are the barbs of conscience, carried forth in futural doubt. It is the fear that confronts us on the threshold of any place of union, once I carry my fear with some "resolution" (nodding at but not entirely believing the term "authentic Sein zum Tode")then I can step through. But what is resolution?