I am changing my blogging nick-name.

I've grown bored of permutations, and maybe He doesn't have that ONE name.
Otherwise cabalists would've found it. Its been centuries.

Pantomime

Sound of a distant trumpet exudes a soporific sensation. Let the fuck begin.
At overture, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of my discomfort burgeon.
What is more frightening—the lurking vestige of incredulity in theists or residue of faith in atheists? Or maybe faith and denial are crafts that need time for perfection.
And Time is never enough Rabbi.
You remember when I first entered Gevurah on the wings of desires and you abacinated me –the moment, the anagnorisis? For in darkness shall I find that light is a recursive illusion, only the absence of dark. And what doors you put me through, the Scourge of darkness and unbearable absurdity of existence. And there was this world dissected before me confessing its being as inconsistent chaos of haphazard instances, connected to each other by mere coincidences. And history, the wonderful piece of fiction, cried over its emptiness. Theology, a subterfuge bedizened by rhythmic rhetoric and glorious fables, shed off its clothes and stood in its grotesque nakedness.
You know Rabbi, the darkness of the blind is a misty haze, coloured in innumerable shades, changing every instance with the random permutations of seven colours mixing in infinite proportions.
But then arrived my first peripeteia—those insomniac nights spent with the recurring apparitions of demons and fires of hell, when you held my hands and reassured the rational me. But I couldn’t be solaced Rabbi, until you disappeared and I hymnhummed some prayers whispered in my ear a long time ago.
I don’t remember when I lost your hand and how long I wandered alone until HE came along.
‘And then there was light.’
And in ‘our’ two act play, I bathed in my second awakening.
Darkness became my avowed nemesis. And yes there was an ephemeral peace, eyeing harmony in dissonance and a pattern in chaos. Those strolls in the garden of hesed when love shined in on me and white light illuminated my naïve soul. He disappeared too Rabbi, as you did, just when my eyes were becoming his eyes.
I finally realize it Rabbi, the con-sequence of flawed longing.
In my exacerbation, I am tirelessly fluctuating between ‘what’ and ‘what if; for a perfect faith; for a perfect denouncement. To describe my plight, there is only fright, again, and this time, I have no daedalian wings.
Its grand finale, Rabbi, it is the catastrophe, because I know now. In the sterile soil of my longing, from the seeds of my reed, weeds of order/disorder burgeon.
Now I know Rabbi, Gevurah runs in my veins.
Now I know Rabbi, I am your amaranthine protagonist, destined to be un-destined.
Now I know Rabbi, He was you.
What would you write now, but a repetition of these two acts?
Hell… lay it all to rest.

Derrida On L'mour

Since I find myself incapable of writing anything lately, I am thinking of returning to the basics-to do what I was good at. Quoting people, questioning everything and talking about books and movies. That is to say, I am thinking of starting a movie/book review blog. An ode to the pieces that i adored over the years.

Well, for now, I have seen Derrida talking for the first time. Ifinally got my hands on Derrida The Movie, and yes it only fuels my fascination with the grey haired dead jew.
Here is what he says when asked about l'mour. (Reminds me of my long diatribe I had once. Someone somewhere must remember that :) )


Love is a question of who and what. Is love the love of someone or the love of some thing?

Supposing I loved someone; Do I love someone for the absolute singularity of who they are? i.e. I love you because you are you. Or do I love your qualities, your beauty, your intelligence?

Does one love someone, or does one love something about someone? The difference between the who and the what at the heart of love, seperates the heart. It is often said that love is the movement of the heart. Does my heart move because I love someone who is an absolute singularity, or because I love the way that someone is?

Often love begins with a type of seduction. One is attracted because the other is like this or like that. Inversely, love is disappointed and dies when one comes to realise the other person doesn't merit our love. The other person isn't like this or that. So at the death of love, it appears that one stops loving another not because of who they are but because they are such and such .

That is to say, the history of love, the heart of love, is divided between the who and the what. The question of Being, to return to philosophy- because the first question of philosophy is: what is it 'to Be'? What is 'Being'? The question of 'Being' is itself always already divided between who and what. Is 'Being' someone or some thing? I speak of it abstractly, but I think that whoever starts to love, is in love, or stops loving, is caught between this division of the who and the what. One wants to be true to someone - singularly, irreplaceably - and one perceives that this someone isn't x or y. They didn't have the qualities, properties, the images, that I thought I'd loved. So fidelity is threatened by the difference between the who and the what.