The Philosopher’s Attic

To bring the fire back into your eyes,
to make the walls around your heart tremble and then break,
to see the life in your eyes once more,
to feel your trembling touch on broken skin once again,
to solicit that special blush, that unbearable shudder,
to light the sky with one single look,
one single well placed kiss,

I will love you without a word or look,
without touch or nearness,
with a passion that will remain,
painful, eternal and unreal.

I will love you while you will conquer the world,
your fear and darkness.
While you become the one you were meant to be,
go where you’re meant to go and
love who you’re meant to love,
and sparkle the world with laughter.

To die in solace,
to suffer in twilight,
to end it all in one single thought,
to choose what cannot be found,
to hold on to your dying look,
to love at last.
With every heart, every fibre and every inch of my mind.
With every seed of heavenly lyrics and harmony,
with every eye and tear…

I will love you.

For all the people unconsciously wishing me the best,
for all the thoughts sent into this direction,
hoping for me to finally get up and make that choice.
For all the well mannered and discrete inquiries,
the undecided and unwanted partaking,
for every whim and expression only barely disguising that one last question,
for all it matters and all it doesn’t, this is what anyone would have to say…

Get out and turn around, because you’re not helping anyone.
Breathe out and let the projection rush out of you, because you’re not bringing any clarity.
Keep going and don’t come back.

Let me tear myself up into the tiniest pieces,
without rhyme or verse,
my future and my past.

Let me cry my soul down into an endless pit,
into the depths of what you would call your hell,
and I simply call… my own heaven.

- To an absolute Extreme, an Idol of Inspiration, D.M.

There’s something that needed exploring: the theme of an unrequited love that has been loved and been precious for such a long time that it is like an old friend in your mind and your way to look at the world. And what if that old friend suddenly changed in the face of hope, even the smallest one. That’s what needed to be discussed and that’s how I fulfilled the premise.

It’s over. All done. All said. All payed for (at least I hope so…) and all counts closed. The Colloquium where I had to play out all the cards I had, is done and over with. I really went to hell and back this time to make it happen. Bordering the nervous breakdown, exhaustive depression and the Super GAU. I worked over 12 hours a day to come to terms with the text and the philosopher I was supposed to rehabilitate, tore my hair out over my decision to quit my well known topics for something new and cursed everything and everyone around me. Sounds like fun? Well, it does, and really now it all seems so futile. And there lies the danger. But I heard the call and I will take it to heart and step down a little to get my energies up again.
So. The congress went GREAT. It was amazing. All organising was up top (thanks to Tristan - the loyal - of course). The people attending were impressed by our work and our contributions. And then the most amazing thing happened: the ones without their PhD and degrees rocked the place. Every single one of our little group that joins together some people from Paris (Sorbonne), from Switzerland and Italy, offered brilliant texts and insights into some of the works of the next years. And me? Well, so did I. And I would not have done it without my love. He stayed up with me until 1:30 the night before my talk to finish up the conclusion, held my hand, calmed my feverish breakdowns, lifted my headaches and made me tea throughout it all. And again, without him, I would have simply stood down and told AdL what’s the what: Boss, I’m ready for the asylum.
I didn’t. I came through and it feels very good. Some were so impressed that I am now with several invitations across the world for congress attendance, conference tours and some job prospects along the road. *sigh* But, really now, I have to take care of my issues. This call was just too close to ignore it. And it all starts with some days just filled with sleeping, reading, watching all three seasons of Grey’s Anatomy and reading Lynda Lemay lyrics. gt;

Dr. Mark Johnson at Thomistica.Net made an interesting point a while ago when he published a list that explained to the world (and his peers) why he was not to be considered a Thomist. (Sidenote: A thomist as in either a specialist for the theories and writings of Saint Thomas Aquinas or a follower of said Mediaeval thinker)
In relation with the above Sidenote such a declaration begs a question: so what kind of Non-Thomist is he? A non-follower or a non-specialist?
The list makes it quite clear that it’s the second option. And then you get to thinking… Mark Johnson (reading his CV and Bibliography makes that cristal clear) is a CHIEF specialist for the writings of Saint Thomas Aquinas. And he’s really screaming his doubt about the non read books into the blogosphere…

So what on earth am I then? I guess I am just picking up the breadcrumbs of some non existent metaphysical bread. ANYWAY… back to Saint Thomas Aquinas. What is philosophy and what is theology? What are all the academic theories worth anyway?
The answer can be quite simple: they’re a shot a the right and the most accurate way to explain the world. Which basically makes the History of Human thought a huge Mall where you get to choose the theory that personally suits you the best or is the most attune to your own way of figuring out the world and the comings and goings within it.
By choosing it of course you expose yourself to being filed under some “-ism” or “-isticism” or any other filing tag that suits your opponents. And at one point you go out there and shout “I am not a …” to anyone who wants to hear it.
Truth is (as far as text knowledge for qualifying as a specialist in something goes): it’s impossible! We go on the things we know and the Hermeneutic Circle states clearly that the process NEVER stops. Never. Ever. It can’t. It’s a perpetuum mobile that once it has been set off, cannot be stopped. And I guess that after some runnings of the Hermeneutic Circle the time calls to some pretending…
Let’s face it. You go to school, to college, you start a PhD and somewhere in between people start to notice you. Suddenly what you say matters. Just because you have the degree making obvious that you’re smart. And the you want to live up to it and you start pretending. That’s why it is virtually impossible for academic professionals to confess to not knowing something or a text. In that way I am quite refreshed by Mark Johnsons ‘confession’ and his ten reasons that make him a non-thomist.
And for some unfathomable reason, I am NOT sent into eternal doubt over his statements. I have long accepted the fact that the world is a box of chocolates… not in a Forrest Gump sort of way. But rather like this: eat the first top layer of the chocolates at ease… there’ll always be a next one after that.

I got to taking about the sense and meaning of writing once more yesterday night and how revealing that has been…

I have always resented the post-modernist view that the text you write as an author, isn’t the same after being read by others. That the text, story or character somehow gain a personal life apart from their creator and thus are almost unrecognisable should the two ever meet again.
Apart from the fact that I always thought - and still do - that post-modernism is like Pop-Art a terribly overstated line of thought that tends to limit all things that have been and thus has a wonderful excuse not to produce something of its own, I have also gone through a thorough structuralistic boot-camp at University and both theories are like cats and dogs: nothing good can come out of the fight for power.

The talk from yesterday somehow set my record straight… or rather turned my categories upside down. My writing has one single objective: finding the right expression for the things I see. Detailed, overloaded, overcharged and as sticky as melted chocolate. I had somehow made the subconscious assumption that the more precise the expression and description would be, it would leave lesser room for an interpretation or understanding completely detached from what I intended.
I obviously thought completely wrong.
Things aparently do tend to develop a life of their own. Not only fail the pictures to trigger the right reference of response, they shockingly enough are not what I supposed them to be. If I go back to one of my favourite solitude quotes by Rilke - that we are desperately separated from one another and that sometimes bits and pieces of a stolen dialogue drop between us, start building up until obstructing every dialogue completely - one could easily adapt this to fit the ‘writer’s situation’.
If a text, a poem, a story, a description, even a simple line of a letter of encouragement is something you throw in the air and hope that the someone or the right person catches it, then the worst that can happen is that either it falls to the ground.
So probably not being understood the way you expected to be is not the greatest danger.
Maybe not being listened to in the first place is worse.

The only thing I am wondering about after this terribly cold shower, is on how this is going to affect my writing. Am I just going to stop? Since I have failed in being either original or precise enough to be understood? Am I going to undergo a sudden change of style, like when I started to work at the newspaper? Or is the the way you look at things and absorb them into your inner world the source of your inner speech and thus your writing? Can the style be changed at all without losing a complete range of subtlety?

Maybe we simply are, what we are and not who we are supposed to be. Maybe all the dreaming and the striving just comes down to this: me in this world, and everything around me.
Maybe Silence is the greatest enemy of all…

I woke up this morning after maybe 4 hours of sleep and I am not feeling that less sombre than I did yesterday.
The difference to my normal mental state, is that this time there is a good reason for it… or at least it is good enough for me, although some people might beg to differ.

‘The end of an era…’
How right he was to put it that way. I wonder if he was even aware how much he honoured me in including me into this era.
But since this is internet communication and it takes place on different levels of narration (hmm… my Lit. Prof. would be amazed at the number of levels this can reach…) it is quite possible that the person(s) in question are reading this right now, and thus they will know about the honour and my feelings behind it.
Of course that’s rather my vanity speaking than my actual knowledge of them. But let me have the nice thought that actually some people are reading this. Goes well with my morning coffee.
The era is ending while everybody is getting scattered halfway across Europe. Some of us went off to learn Arabic in the sunnier parts of this world, others went to see the Teutons and hone their discussion-battle skills. Others - such as me - only stayed for a moment, before being swept off to go where the work, the interest and the funding is. And the last two of our little group - the three maids (1) - well, they’re leaving soon. *laughs* We had a wonderful time and it’s possible that neither of my former peers will ever really know how much that time meant for me. After the seclusion and the envy of my Home University, they were the breath of fresh air that gave me back some faith in Academia. It was a joy to work with them and around them. Something that will quite obviously always stay with me. I learnt more in those 12 months of sharing an office with those two fine men than in the years of solitude at my former Departement. About the easiness of sharing, about the mutual fears we all have in this work, about literature, sarcasm and how you can relate to your students without missing the main aspects of teaching.

The truth is, we never finished our project for a portal on resources for the studies of Medieval Philosophy. I still have the drafts and tryouts here. And in fact, I was going through them only some days ago. But who knows, unburied projects are still live projects - as a friend of mine would say - and maybe we’ll get to do it no matter where we are in the world.

And I still haven’t hit them with my book project - well, not how it presents itself now - and that would certainly be a nice next step to keep the relation to those people that were the first ones to show me the way on my long, long path towards wherever I am going…

Thank you.

—-
(1) Following the traditional Medieval saying that considers philosophy to be the maid of theology, we - the unsufferable trio - too considered us to be maids… historians of philosophy, condemned to watch rather than to offer new systems of thought or contributing to political debates, chosing the rather ironical stance of the moraline saturated of contemporary philosophy…

I just had another one of those moments that can only happen when you live in a big city… one of those occasions where from the crowd (and I mean crowd) of faces without sense or meaning, someone comes up,stands out, looks at you and you slowly emerge from your own misty look upon the world…
Where all of a sudden you meet a neighbour you never knew he lived there in the first place… and when on top of that he tells you he has been looking for you…
I’m walking up the stairs to my appartement corridor (think about Gosford park and the two sided life: the backhouse and the shiny fronthouse… I would live behind the tapestry door where the servant’s rooms once where…) and someone stands in front of my door.
The guy turns around (I have my keys in the left hand, immediately readying them as a pointy defense, just in case…) and says ‘Are you the philosopher living in no 16 ?”

HUH?

“That would depend on the definition of ‘philosopher’ now, wouldn’t it?’ I say before I even start thinking… and at the same moment a thought of ‘Where the hell did that come from, Y.??!!’ passes my mind.
“Well, you see, I have a question for you… if you have five minutes…”

Again: HUH?

Since I just got home from a missed appointement and my head is racing I don’t really have the force to say no, and following the habit I took up in this impersonal town, I will not turn down any hand or look that is offered me. Just to be clear: I won’t do anything. Not here, nor back home. But, being here and being the way I am - frightful and distanced towards people to say the least - I swore that if someone took the time to address me personaly I wouldn’t turn it down beforehand like I most certainly would in Switzerland.

Some minutes later, coffee in hand, we’re off to the heights (or depths) of the human mind and the great questions.

His was as follows: “Do you need to love at any price - and risk losing everything - or do you only need to live for yourself?”

My inital answer of course was that this was rather a poetical question before being a philosophical one. Defiant snorting.
And it’s true. Dont’ you at first need to rid yourself of the poetical content of ‘living for love only’ and romantic feelings, before addressing the philosophical meaning of the question?
One talk later I’m not much wiser. But that’s a hazard of my profession. Sweet talk and no reward.
Even worse, isn’t it the question of my life? The one I always get back to? The one that always leaves me doubting for the next day, the next relation, the next terrible downfall to bring be to my knees? Am I not ready to give everything up in an instant, just to savour a true link to a true person? Am I not the one who’s ready to just give, and maybe hope to get some warmth back in return? And what if I have missed my chance in one of my lost loves? What if the ones I have left and the ones that have left me, were the best shot I’d have ever had at solace and peace?
What if my inner torment was of my own chosing - the last consequence of my actions - rather than just coincidence?
And how many conflicting assertions can you even pack into a question? Or several ones for that matter?

But without knowing it, he might have offered me an answer to my own conflicting feelings. A rather clear answer, and that makes him the true philosopher, not me…

Like I said, another one of those encounters you can only have here… Because you try to be much more open. So different from what you really are… And then you close the door to your appartement, your inner sanctum… and what remains is but the memory of a nice coffee and a good advice. And in that… still nothing has changed. Not really anyway.
I am still left with my fears and doubts and there is still no hint of a solution… just good advice. As if I hadn’t had those myself.

Paris was under the snow today…
… that’s not really astonishing as a news line now, is it?

Well… maybe you don’t know that this city has not a single snow vehicle, nor any salt to prevent the snow from icing over, nor do they send out any maintenance people in the morning to make some pathways on the streets for people who should be so bold as to try to get to work in the morning…

400km of traffic jam from the peripheric to the center is all I am saying.
Here… or here or here maybe… or here or then again (even made CNN, haha) and again HAHA!!! (The Rugby fans for the Six nations cup are grounded in Cardiff… Airports of Paris closed…)

I’m sorry, but this really makes me laugh… and I am sure it would have Krystin up in the Great White North laughing on the floor.
Er… hello? Weather control to the pompous French…? There is another load of the terrible alien white headed your way… What are you gonna do? Have a 10h week? This’ll be your end… muuuuaaaaahhhh….

Not even half of the students came into the seminar today. Lol… OK. Let’s get real. It did snow quite heavily. And it was about… well, 10cm. Pathetic… and this is supposed to be one of Europe’s center pieces of a new society? Hmm…

I had my enjoyable moment with the snow this morning at 7:30. I went out spend an hour to get all ’snowed up’… with the wind from the boulevards I was white when I got to my café at the corner to get some smokes. “Ah, Uh… vous êtes toute blanche…??!” the guy said… He hates snow, just like every one in this town. All I could manage was a “Alors… je me sens comme chez moi en Suisse…” - He looks at me appalled and timid, stating: “Ah… alors cela ne vous fait rien?”

Hahaha…

I’ll better stop laughing, because it’s possible that I have opened all windows and doors to that flu bug that has been bothering me for the last weeks…

Trying my best Penkala: “I am shakin’ so goddamn much…I feel like I’m dancin’.”
What a YYBWBOBTM moment… *sipping hot tea with lemon*

More impressions of Paris under the snow
1 (the angel of the Column of July, Plc dl Bastille)- 2 (bvl Richard Lenoir towards Plc dl République)- 3 (same)- 4 (still the same) - 5 (the angel again… ah)
If you want to know where that is… go here…