To Her, And to the Reader

Struck down, we're able to rise; arisen, we can relax. Every horror has its countermanding and reflexive beauty. The only sorrow is mental inertia. Our only clothing, the Arts. We hold hunger at abeyance with thought while thought creates an ever-increasing appetite for itself never gratified and always so, like the Ouroborous. And that's what these counter-impuslive instincts mean, the whole dichotomous thought of dichotomy, Hegelian dialecticism, a dutchman's movie about welding together several people surgicially: the need for an acceptance of the self by whatever is not known to us, by something outside the physical confines of our bodies and the limitations of the mind held within them. It is a need to contact the source of us and our purpose, "nature without check with original energy"  (Whitman).  Humanisim, egocentrism, solipsism and its functionaries (humanists for example), the Cartesian division between spirit and matter, scientism--these are some of the terms used to describe the shape this need has taken, which is to say that our "original energy" is us and not to be found in commune with something not us, not individual, not just you and not just me. "Centipede" is actually an apt expression of this need for communion when it's shorn of any abstract or metaphysical and true kernel of vital, original energy...it's like mechanically having two dead otters (pick a creature) mate: nothing will be produced, no new life. The films talks about futility. It's the logical conclusion of the philosophies that have become in the last few centuries entrenched guides to our worldview: the attempt to reconcile the need for an Other who is the Self but not the Self, with the belief that there is only the Self. Do you not feel these competing energies inside of you? I know I do. I know the bewildering love of all whilst drawing from life life, and the sense of power in replenishing the gift with a smile or a story or a treatsie. I know at the same contrasting time the antithetical belief that I am in all ways alone, and that all else is but an illusion...you have dispelled that illusion for me. I am not alone. In your difference and in your likeness I find myself in love again and like only love can mean: for the first time. Your being purges all of my inertia. You make me want everything all the time, and everything is that thing that makes me want: you. There's not a gesture or glance or inflection or thought or moment between us where I am not happy or aroused or anxious or amused and prompted to exist. I feel myself fully with you. Excited, curious, grand, hopeful. I can feel our lips as one, our eyes closed as the world gutters into oblivion and is replaced by ours.

I have and always will favour creation, whatever its nature or guise. And I will always acknowledge the fundamentally corroborative :) nature of that creation. Because what comes through me is a new form but not a new essence. I participate in essence and create in form. The form does not essence alter; for the essence is to me itself the process of endless reformulation. Therein my personal dichotomies are reconciled on an artisitc and mental plane: being independent in the profoundest way, by making myself from myself and issuing it back out into the world to feed from again. I grow my own crops. 

I only want to eat with and you.

You asked me to love you boldly, Reader. Or you parents did (some animal outside my door did call, I remember). I do, will:  ardency razes all deterrence, all trifling indecision, with a want no other singularity could in energy and in determination compare. Alone not subject to the artifices of analysis and recommendations of carnal or imagined fear; alone my only song sung before I could speak; alone a primordial need I race towards, atop of Time, pestering and whipping its back, you are for me, and for me unique.

Your Servant,

Iphurthen