Phaedrus Beyond

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death drive / freud / love / socrates

Jean-Michel Basquiat, Flesh and Spirit (detail), 1982-83

The truth in code | Chronofiction | Ethicoaesthetics | Beyond the Beyond/Phaedrium

The truth in code

How would you code an answer to this problem after all?

The truth of time in code, the programming of truth

La verité, the favor of truth, its factorization into facts and factions

Internecine war threatens to destroy all polities from within, lines of severance that can nevertheless be made to ‘become’ lines of fusion or flight, can learn to exchange traits with these lines, combine in new ways, introduce a new ‘singular’ turn, a novel phase into the cycle, a ‘novation’ which stellates the consciousness-communication-culture plane of reproduction; which is perhaps to say: [(by these new stars) we can (begin to) construct] a plane of consistency, of ‘deformalization’ in repetition, repetition as it stutters its way across a pure ‘plenum’ of infinite gradations, [de-grade, to de-striate?] — (to introduce lines of transdifferentiation, as well as lift the repression of the strata and ease the agony of BwO)

The plane of consistency which is this ‘idiot’ flux of waves, this intensive flux of absorption, adsorption, abreact: conducting infinite waves of intensities through their ‘multitudinous’ within, discovering the lines that ‘wave’ the wavefront through the depths, the way in which the way/wave continues the ‘method’ of the depth, the movement of the depth, the way the mind, [(like) the way of the wind, (?)] extends or continues (e.g a geological movement etc), this is ‘continues’ as culture, sense of culture, extension, planting a flag, delivering the message, all this assumes nothing except that extension is position, presence, condition and collection of an infinite site of exchange which operates itself ‘without’ operation, an automatic fixation or repetition —

Automaticity in the first words of the beyond, is it any luck that cybernetics has found its way into the unconscious of all of us, such that it would form the relays and telegraphs of the machinery of delivery-(of)-messengers, condition of the fleet-footed relays which plug one machine into another —

This is the other thing that should really be revealing: the way in which the machines operating their ‘own’ form of time, their ‘own’ destiny — i.e. to HALT, to reach the infinite plane of inanimate constellation of pure becoming (inertia, inactivity, silence) —

The resounding of the machines in motion, all the whirling gears that accompany this overheating assemblage of complicated filters, a skin which extends the brain, which is the brain, Freud shows this neurologically, which is to say he delivers the brain through a ‘brainless’ automatic process, through the ‘ergodic’ inside-outside game (fort/da) of the skin, of touching; the eye and the ear and so on are perplications (invaginations and en-coverings?), specializations for certain kinds of stimulus-flux —

The flows and their management, the binding and the unbound —

The plane is the pure unbound form of abstract energy which conditions everything in the universe, starting from an infinite nothingness at the heart of the sense of time, a ‘nullity’ whose emptiness contains multitudes if only through abstract chaos injected into the ‘root’ of the system, a radical chaos of ‘foam’ which bubbles up and escapes through every nihilating preconception and image of time and forges (answers) anew —

Coalition of the willing-materials for the resurgence of temporal anxiety in universal consciousness, or transcendental subjectivity of the ‘superior’ individual of Time, whose ordinance we all measure out, like grains of sand ([for large-scale simulations] a meaningful [physical] model of the cosmos is a(gain) dust clouds, each dust particle being a galaxy…) —

The structure of time, the construction of time by human beings in groups forming ‘rhyming’ and ‘melodic’ structures: these rhyme-forms and melody-forces which operate unconsciously through all the machines of time —

Again i am distracted by the voice here, for it is the musicality of the voice, which articulates language itself, it is in this music that every light lives, everything breathes, tone himself is present in this tonelessness, this annihilation of genre from a brilliant multiplicity glowing with light, an assemblage of enunciation finally collective [we are each a crowd, but….]

The conjugation of forces-(of)-thought — this is a way of capturing one aspect of a nonphilosophical writing-machine, which is to say it does not write ‘automatically’ in the spontaneous style of the philosophical machine, operating in its way a machine log of all of history, a cryptologization of time [and annihilation of biolight]

The nonphilosophical writingmachine is a temporal dynamism which ‘rigorously’ is non-decisional: it non-decides, neither deciding nor undeciding, but posits-(without)-position, suspends the decision, as in a fiction (philofiction, photofiction, chronofiction)

The rigorous axiom of a nonmusic, which is to be determined, which prehends itself without apprehension — it is necessary that we be neither determined nor codetermined by the musical interpretation of time, this is still a philo-sophism, a ternary matrix where only a dualysis will do, the synthetic-(without)-synthesis

([that] which is ‘without’ temporization [and the thing we ‘only ever’ temporize])

…nonmusic, which can only be defined as the exteriorization of music without an outside, the forced-enclosure, force-(of)-closing that operates in music, which is its compulsion, its death, which beats ceaselessly; the inanimate lure is there in all its pristine and ‘hyperionic’ glory, hyper-sonic lure of hyperion, which is simply to say IMMAnEnce radical and ‘transitive’, transdifferential immanence of a life without names, the identity of nonidentity which identicalizes in the last instance, that is to say without identification,

The identity-function at work in music — this transformism, we need to remember the becoming halts, it has an end, only a totally self-enclosed conceptual loop cannot remember this; the impossibility of remembering and the matrix of forgetting which harbor and annihilate the worst destinies at once; the complex of reminding-veruss-remembering which is a matrix of all of thinking, all of ‘sending’ our time to each other in doses incremental enough to ingest without difficulty, the timely pains of conditioning every child for the world in any way that we can,

[treating every individual as though they were capable of brilliance, of genius; why shouldn’t society be organized this way? perhaps this sort of thing is why poets are considered ‘mad’ in their politics, their enigmatic politics; at once directly supporting the ‘worst’ and forging lines, lines that escape and connect up, everything leaks everywhere and its obviously embarassing, we are inanalysis (or perhaps should be (unanalyzable)]

We should be more generous with compulsion, we should… [not hold back…?] —

Does schizoanalysis tell the repetition to repeat itself differently? does stratoanalysis tell the resentment to repress itself differently? it’s not simple difference, just a change from before, there has to be a linkage between machines, things have to be made to work, to function — nothing happens without several things happening at once, in an almost paradoxical way, so that you are led to [miraculation, so it’s] —

Destiny has not hounded these folks, there is an utterly materialist explanation, we do not have to resort to religious in other words explanations for ‘possession’ behaviors

This is another thing that strikes me —

The endless process of these daemons, possessing and wreaking havoc, repeating and reproducing the world, configuring it in just such and such a way; the behavior is undoubtedly disturbing, unsettling —

We cannot in good faith produce an [schizo]analysis [or deconstruction etc] that says, give in completely to the repetition for its own sake, if anything this is the opposite in both cases, in all cases, since even Freud is suggesting there is something profoundly unsettling here, he raises the demons from beyond to hint at the beyond which the principle returns to (death, the inanimate, the lure of the plane of infinite conjugation-combination-exponentiation of the inert) —

The inert is capable of all the transformations, all the curious metaphysical productions of time, you only need heat, heat itself is enough for time, for all the interesting chemical machinery to start, it is inert but it is already a machine, it is thinking in pure material ‘rational’ structures, it develops an infinite variation for the raw ‘substrate’ of existence, it engenders in crystals for instance a whole repetition machine, everything is there in the crystal: perhaps we can thank Simondon for this insight, about the structure of transcendental subjectivity that provides the “real” source of the beyond —

Metastability is precisely an answer to the death drive, one that is instead faithful to production, to primary processes of construction and fluxion and tension-flexion, [in the last instance the] ‘material’ transformations of molecularity, the ‘roots’ of conjugation and assembly and replication, the first industrial era begins at the molecular level [life is ‘already’ q-life, this is perhaps the point behind the ‘radical’ efficiencies life seems to enjoy, to the point where primary processes have isolated certain energy transit processes that can seem ‘effortless’, like they’re conducting a VERY high intensity amount of information in a short time, a high burst of stimulus —

This perhaps forms the ‘high spiritual tone’ of the molecular elements of replication, the way in which all of life understands and reads this code, repeats according to it, learns its four letter alphabet; to write in THIS code, is this not the essential dream, to give [the] birth of a child —

Bodies come from the body without organs, this transcendental field is primary with respect to individual subjectivity


Freud, Socrates, Sophocles —

A sphinx. (Let’s riddle some things out.)

Time-fiction or fiction-(of)-time — the operant or ‘patient’ convoker of destiny, destination.

[everything collapses, ofc ofc — but the drives are themselves driven, they are self-driving, towards apocalypse, dissent, chaos — the infinite zero [hour] at the heart of the relation of time — ( collapsing into infinite time through a spiral line )]

A time fiction would condense the abstract eternity of philosophy into a singularity and ‘conjugate’ this singular ‘momenta’, this assemblage-(of)-enunciation which articulates an ordering of time; [is then] a reordering, a re-sorting [what is needed]? —

What happens to time when it is lost or sorted incorrectly, delivered in pieces? —

How do w e reassemble the assemblage, the elements of a time in the process of breaking down falling apart losing their powers? —

At the height of the machine operation an infinite soul of time operates the melancholy of the line of fusion: pure fusion within time, within its own timing and ‘your own’ phase of existence which you introduce so gently into the cycle, as though it were simply a repetition, when a vital difference has been introduced, everything grows from the smallest embryonic elements into what they will be, they become what they are, the skin becomes brain, it becomes what it is —

An envelope, a messaging system at the heart of a divine and infernal postal system —

Infernal because of the endless abyss of permutation, abyssal daemonic triangulators operating their dark-precursor fate-like hounding of innocents —

For we are all innocent, aren’t we? —

It is obvious to Freud that it is all of our own making, that we are writing all the stories, that our neurosis of “being unable to do anything” stems from the inevitable childhood failure of sexual development — our tragic failure to make a child —

Of course all this seems so different when we reach it in light of the Phaedrus, the child’s tragic seriousness and inevitable failure to reproduce the world (the words, speech and talk, about which socrates is sick to hear, that’s his sickness, my sickness too maybe, we’re sick to hear, to listen, maybe so much that it’s hard to listen, to hear [the sickness that heals and insulates us from the repressed content…?])  — the Phaedrus reminds us what children are, they’re these words, these documents, these ideas and elements of the pure idea that traverse the world like a particle across a plane of pure variation; and everywhere the words are unable to defend themselves, within the living speech and presence of their creators; but the words are better, they’re always better written down and carefully laid out, isn’t that the case? a letter is better than a long speech, even if the content is the same, but the letter says something different; the words and the speeches, it’s all talking, so much chattering, we’re sick for and of and in it, all the prepositional modalities which index the cosmos of discursive and disciplines and disjunctions —

Temporality and Thebes: we’re doomed to repeat the structure of time at least ‘the first time’, the first mode is always a repeat, a repetition, doomed to tragic seriousness and failure, at least objectively, though it also indicates something else, a new thing grows from the kernel, it starts slow and develops into something through slow movements, we recapitulate, create the convex plane of concepts over and over, reconstructing the assemblage in each case according to its unique mapping derived, drawn from the real, flush with the real: how to write connected, conjoined to a real flow? how to write well, finely, with the utterance and diction? this is a rhetorical technique socrates points to in the Phaedrus, as being part of the ‘review’ of existing rhetorical theories (really just some phrases, and beginning i guess with the ‘structural’ analysis of the speech, which seems to relate to the body, the parts of the body that have to divide and fit together in the speech, which have to collect themselves) — something about diction, that socrates points to, someone knows something about diction,

Freud says something strange about the tonic, tonic cathexis, the instance of tonality on the plane seems very important to me, it seems like the plane has to operate the same way in very different modes or moods, the same series, the same sequence, this seems to fit in with the idea that the psychical apparatus is machinic, even programmatic (ofc), composed of elemental functions or even ‘gates’ linked together end to end, or else in some other fashion, but simply that something of the message passes or does not pass, it is intercepted on its way or it is not, the same message has to be comprehended enough to recognize that it is incomprehensible, or that it must become, it must be made to seem incomprehensible; the messenger and the post, the state authorities who want to intercept them (our love letters naturally); who want to steal children, kidnap the words —

The Phaedrus reminds us of something important, but i can’t remember, you’ll have to remind me; the remembering is at the heart of it, and of course it resonates with the letters, know it by heart, burn the letter when you’re done, this is a daring boast, the dare to destroy the literature, the trace, the photogram, [photomaton/phantomaton says JD!] — we are cruel in this boast, i cannot bear to tear a single letter, i read and reread, it is compulsive, i cannot even bear to edit really, this will probably somehow get published but not if i delete it all, i guess that’s the idea, you could easily destroy it, i still have some memories, i still can’t forget, the numbness and the heart-rending ache of this war that won’t end and the world descending into madness and the dim light of hope that’s burning in the depths of the abyss, it’s not coming from outside, we have to find something here that’s rigorous though, that’s not spontaneous, and open to all propositions and evaluates them, we need a radically reoriented thinking whose order or sort is not determined, or rather radically non-decides at each point: a philo-fiction, perhaps this might be it: a fiction which cannot tell, which blurs the edges at each genre-fold, traversing smoothly, diagonally cutting out towards the universe —

Modelessness as the mode, a serialism in literature which already has so many ‘artificial’ assemblages in this endless series, a sequence of deceptions themselves a satire of time, […human history as a machine log, as Reza says] —

Can we give a tiny cybernetic reading of Freud??

Poetry and psychoanalysis and philosophy and programming — this mad nexus, this contingency-vortex of singular dice-throws and mechanical repetition — trans-differentiality…

The sense of cybernetics and Freud, this telegrammatic logic which orients all of the systems of mentation which order themselves in the last instance according to the sufficiency of the analysis (the beginning of the beyond… traces the analytic expansion, the beginning of interminability, the shifting of the machine into a new mode, self-sustaining in its efficiency of analysis) —

As always the analysis is operational, mechanical, an extension of a neurological, material analysis, finding in embryology certain hints as the vast superstructure of drives which found and organize consciousness around these two central principles (Love and Death) — love as the central figure of time as it slips away into nothingness or death, doomed love or we can’t imagine any other kind; the effortlessness of love is mirror in the horror, resistance to infinity of death, at least unjust death —

We have to image a different futurity, beyond these fortune-telling principles (death and the lover, tarot cards?) — the repetition and ur-drive to death, which Freud discovers beyond (or beneath!) the pleasure principle: what is there in all of life that surges relentlessly towards death? he admits a speculative aspect, he casts it in quotation marks, he adds note to distantiate, he resists in a certain way this hypothesis, even as he realizes, he is so close to seeing, the way in which the death drive forecloses everything, the way in which apoptosis is the mechanism which drives everything towards metastability — he cannot seem to see the metastable, the higher-order circuitry, only the conservative, a return to the past, an infinite return which cannot escape itself and moves towards itself of its own infinite destination

I cannot wait for plato to discover himself, what he has become, what has been made of him in this wild and weird world, what in fact has occurred since Athens’ day of doom, —

404, Athens not found — note carefully: infinite doom of time, it occurred one day, the state appears and disappears for no reason at all, it is sick and hungry for empty talk that drives this need to seek rational mechanisms at the heart of human behavior, or at least to impute deep structures to the unconscious, the world, etc — for in the last instance these are transcendental containers they don’t exist (except as higher order functions, cybernetic models of flow-diagrams, causal-mechanical hierarchies) —

in the last instance there is something beneath all the principles, an alien particle or flux which operates in secret and yet annihilates the order of the world, inverting it exactly, in a precise cloning of the horizon of time, ‘interfacing’ the infinite time of philosophy to the radical immanence of the humaneity of time, humanity in person, the victim in person

I cannot wait for plato to have found out, to have realized his letters would have made it so far, he knows, he knew all the time, unbelievably sly master of the dialogue, who could not have known, and yet it is by sheer chance etc that we are even able to read a word, it is hard to say what might have come of all of this otherwise, it is hard to say what might have been indeed if all of plato were lost, but say all the work of another series of writers had been found, but indeed we would not sacrifice even a word of plato, … not for nearly anything … for all of Sophocles? perhaps [of course]



Isolation or transience (trans-science) of the temporal injunction, interdiction, interjection — isomer, polymer, polyphonous explosion and emanatation and profanation and explication; how does the wind unfold

In the aesthetics of time, an ethics of ‘zero’ or the stranger from ‘nowhere and nowhen’, a utopia and uchronia, from the heart of time, from its singular essence or perspective, which is perhaps to say this empty time; but let’s slow down, what is an aesthetic, such that it could be said of a time, of a time which would be a time “itself” which encompasses and traverses all of the series of time (for of course there are series, there is an infinite sequencing of serialities, an immense conflagation of the ‘pyre’ of succession, a radical non-simultaneity or non-duration, which cadences an infinite rhythm(icism) and opens onto new dimensions etc)

The infinite prelate, pare-laden, pre-laden and pre-later —

Opening onto the apriori of the letter as it leads and loads us onto the leveling road of ancient encircling-endoubling-enspiraling —

The twin, twining and entwining which coalesces and coagulates in its possessive infernal diachrony — the daemon and the double, the message at the heart of the twinning which is not a cloning, which cannot ‘conceive’ the clone except as a special twin, when in fact it ends all doubling-(of)-twins and twining a new world from a thread… wires the telegraph deep into the labyrinth of death, the pure negativity of this drive, which obviously stems from this very ‘conservatism’ which we analyze and ‘discover’ there, this ‘return’ at the heart of the sending of life which re-sents itself, re-sends a death and gives [puts] (to death…)

The infinite resignation, glial, glowing, glaring from the glow of the beyond of the beyond, in this glial madness, glowing and glaciating, infinite un-engendered re-sending of the primary process, whose encoding is not really its fault

Lacan says in the psychoses that he, Lacan, as a student or something, had written on his wall, like a mantra, a slogan: “no one goes mad through wanting to”, this wanting-to which we can’t believe of others —

Mal says this is sweet, she is right, she understands the sense of it, (the charity, kindness; love of humanity in it?)

The primary process is ‘unburdened’ by this daemonic possession; Freud is at such pains to show this, to ‘demythify’ the zombies, the possessed, those whom daemonism has claimed through its regulation; registration, as in a course, waying

Opening the way-in, waying, weighing the cost — operating in the infinite, seamless [but still] infinite burden of unburdening — is analysis with us today, we are who still, perhaps through wanting-to, are still inanalysis, maybe also to say: unanalyzable

Opening the way, isn’t this the choice, the circuit, which tricks us in, into wind, into the plot and the seam and matrixing all of our dreams, desires, machinery-and-manifold: the theater is a platform, a factory for desires and dreams; in its way, the factory is a manipulation of time, in the same way as tragic drama; oedipus and capital: Guattari says we can *deduce* from oedipus everything about the structure of capitalism, everything is already there…

The infinite circle and the spiral conflicting-into it, hyper-dimensionalizing it, introducing new ‘vorticial’ dimensions amidst the generalized triangulation —

So several phases then: triangulation (regularizing-nominalizing-chaotizing) and vorticialization (anonymizing-deterritorializing-etc., but paradoxically bringing a new order, a ‘crowned’ anarchy, a sacred mon-anarchy, moan-archy, [ethico-aesthetics of time?])

The ethico-aesthetics of the sublime, the line of variation, to judge the world from the perspective of dynamization, genesis, creation — to have this position available for evaluation, at least —

But this positing is itself gregarious motion in place, it does not [do] every[thing], it only brings us everywhere at once, we become like anyone else, or at least, in principle this is now possible, what a relief, infinite relief once the glass has broken, the knell

Opening into the disaster of time, disastrology [as jd would have it, as i have tried to call ariadne-antigone, to name her vocation, which is anonymous-in-‘truth’] — the ‘truth’ as the demon which questions the world from a ‘permutational’ position capable of manipulating each element of the series independently; the ‘daemonic’ as a mode of permutation which regulates the forces of individual life in such a way that inter-dividual relations ‘combine’ to form a self-destructive, chaotic, intense, mad vector of passion consuming itself — which is perhaps in the last instance to say something like the ‘shaping’ of desire, the way desire is after all this consumption, this production-(of)-consumption, antiproduction in the madness of the vector which schizophrenizes all of capitalism at once, which deterritorializes the deterritorializing wave itself; antiproduction halts the assembly in terms of injection of certain modes of time, it is necessary for assembly otherwise, for opening space within productive relations for non-production —

The dialectology of product-antiproduct, this hyper-nexus of all thought, production-(in)-production, i stand at the surface of the mirror and i survey

The infinite overflight of survey from within production as its primary procedure of generativity unloads, unleashes, un-leads the series of time from its sequencing and introducing a new mode of temporality, a spiralling trajectory whose operation unfolds a new order of existence, a new mode of relating time through matter and conducting it towards this loading of time in new directions, transduction, which is in logic a mode of moving from particulars to particulars, taking a step without need for the cut, infinite transduction approximates this cut, this chat with time that we collapse inevitably into dusk, blankness, dust

A blanket of stars, the piercing eye of the sun —

The figures of light in our daily lives, they are endless metaphors of time, we are always fixated on their metaphorization of a universal order whose harmony we are necessarily inspired by, whose structure we are already conducted into, transducted from, a live moment, line of never-ending connections between particulars and particulars, we never do anything but that, every cut and every universe collapses, there are only steps, moving mapping modulating moding, mod out, modulate the integral divinity of time

The procedure of the primary process, the procedurality or programming of the coding flows which construct the identity matrix, how does this pleasure of the organism, the proto-pleasure present even in the tiniest cells, how does this pleasure differ from the higher order pleasures? they may be different in kind, Freud is not entirely sure, he speculates, he speculates on the structure, the possibility for deep structure, here he is weaving a new dream of love and death, that even these tiny cells, this molecular revolution can participate in, a new understanding of biology even is necessary then if Freud is right, but he is not exactly, he is so close, is it not clear how proximal he is to us here, how near and how far away his sending of this message is

How many times do we circle around the pleasure, delays and differentiations that discriminate and discolor, dissimilate — disingenuous movements of time in order to precipitate a new kind of time which could operate itself in-differently, without suspicion, a kind of suspect pleasure with delays and hidden discolorations — masking and unmasking, the singular pleasure of dissimulation, dis-orientation — operating at the limit and the orbit of the principles, finding the prince at the time of day when the sun is growing dim, the midnight sky soon to unfold a blanket of stars; we are blanketed in pleasures, it blanks us


Beyond the beyond // Phaedrium

There is a nietzschean kernel to the Phaedrus, the denunciation of the lover, however attenuated and ‘rectified’ by the later work, it is absolutely clear that there is something in the Phaedrus here that is modern, that is contemporary, in this recognition of the emptiness of love and at once [a rehabilitation of it, of ‘true’ love…], in a successive move which has to be thought and rendered in simultaneity, as part of a complex moment, a momenta imparted by a daemon, in obeisance to the gods of this place, who hold master, the daemons in wait beyond the margins, at the edges of these works, where their genres merge and meld and meet, that is to say perhaps that there is all the traces of a deconstruction in the Phaedrus as well, “already”, a manic-mantic conceit that socrates utilizes, it is already obvious it is not the point whether the etymology is accurate, we know very well how tragic the evolution of language is

The emptiness of time, of love, of light and love, the intrusion of death into everything, eating away at time, love, memories of light a lifetime ago

The infinite trace of the being that passes without passing, announced. We are all announced. The Phaedrus concedes that love is at once a nihility — and a full positivity

Nile unbound — these tranquilities of time, these pure emptinesses transposed into nothingness by these circulating waters of memory, reminding, remind me again

I’m lost and found in these waters that save without persuading, it’s only a ring we have lost, the one perhaps Gyges has left, the trait of invisibility which leaps between us, it seems random, the throw of the dice and the wager of love and death, it is always both at once, a risk which wagers everything, all the dangers of love and death, the risk is everything but inevitable, it’s only what we can predict, what about the infinite wager? The continuity of the monetary moment as it stretches across time and links up with a cybernetic ‘communization’ of the structure of time —

Uniformity, regulation of behavior, discipline, structure — the nihilation of the space of time in which activities operate in the ‘nullification’ or neutralization or negative-operation (subtraction, exhumation) — dimensional subjugation, subtraction, n-1 limbs: the future of eyes, of the eye, is not prosthesis or augmentation but radical subtraction, we can barely conceive this, the glare is still too bright, all this is too early

We are all too late for the part that has been thrown away in our absence, we are playing at the limit of all the modes at one and intolerably decisive

Determinating, that’s it: we’re the determinators. [Really we should be engaged, not determined…]

Phaedrus is determined, he is delighted to show this paradox of love, that it winds up in its opposite, the way everything does, latching everything into the madness of ‘parallel’ becoming, dualitism —

Phaedrus determination exceeds the limit of time, it is the same as the death derived, the death deduced through the matrix of time, its fabric which winds through us, the death which we are, in our blood or matrix, immatrix

We are coalesced at the limit from the transcendental field in whose structure we find figures of pure light, mentation is not in this way ‘transcendentally speaking’ any different than cosmogenesis, biogenesis, ontogenesis —

Psychogenesis is the last and first in the series, a series of machines which process signals and radiate information, forms, forces in movement and dynamic structures of activation (operation-modes)

The machine runs at a high speed, it kicks itself off: and then we are off (to) the races, the course, the way(s) have fallen away —

The Phaedrus collides, it coalesces these two and makes them conjugate, this conjugation subtracts a dimension, extracts something, at least in the negative-Nietzschean case, where the lover desires weakness, sickness, lack of development, plato says this is where resistance to philosophy comes from, he has socrates make this argument, inspired and egged on by Phaedrus into blasphemy, into saying that the lover will deny the beloved philosophy, because it makes the lover appear… weaker? What is the word. Something terrible, with a ‘c’. Not corrupt or corrigible, but maybe bankrupted, defaulted. There is a continuity of the economic model of eros-thanatos, of the plane of affection, affect-composition of words; between Freud and socrates, love letters between them (sort of retro presumably)

The opening of the Phaedrus into this equivocation, this balancing act between the lover-who-swindles, who cheats you out of existence, out of development and growth and… access to philosophy… —

And the lover who gives you philosophy, which is to say a higher world, the beyond the beyond, and takes nothing for himself, in this construction, this is not even a lover, this is already the non-lover, philosopher is a non-lover, even as he loves (you)

We are loved in not-loving this desire, loved in not-wanting to go mad, even as the philosopher endlessly whispers impossible things, he knows we are (be)loved, becoming-loved

It seems like Socrates is going a bit crazy, of course we are always beginning to like him

Nietzsche knows how to read the greeks, what gives him this special insight, wrestling with the riddles of the ancient world, i think it still is Sophocles, whispering the sphinx insights about the inter-dividual relation —

In the Phaedrus, eros and ‘dividuum’; how is the share divided, how are we collected? Dispersed together into a transcendental line, a love which is also philosophy

Love of time, and the wisdom of love, the love of time-remaining, time-recovered, time-regained, like everything was rewired, conjugated, revitalized

Transdifferentiated, like the motor vector of philosophy which diverges as it collapses, passes for itself, passes by, lived in the past, perhaps, but yet, but yes

The Phaedrus is still here, it is with us, we are still trapped in this dialogue between time and the spirit of love whose adventure and be-coming is already transposed, present at every instance

The spirit of love as it moves through time, we are first presented with the cruel betrayals of love, the bad lover, personified and qualified as all lovers, but socrates protests, not-all-lovers

There is a lover who wants to make you a thinking-mother a thinking-beloved and give to you the levels and levers and ladders and ladder you up so that you don’t need the ladder and socrates’ ladder goes all the way to the eleventh floor, (11)

Phaedrus, brilliant or radiant; a singular incandescence

The Author

mostly noise and glare

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