hwithumalut

Who wouldn’t leave eyes of flame wandering this globe? As if the simple insinuation that his once free Jabberwock, was lost between boards, silenced him? Avaunt tonight he grasps in his arms my heart born of the requiem! Dost see not the dirge that I’ll upraise softened by the poor shuddering child howled in plays about the sea rolled up with waves? How shall the ritual then be sung with crown and with train? How? by the elk queen trying with the original raw mystery polished and returned as a pretty trinket? He holds the grandfather beside the king of heaven The sweet child hath keep him to a golden throne with hope that grandfather is good

In a video lecture by Graham Harman he predicts that in the future there will be something called Philosophy criticism. Philosophy criticism will not be disagreements with philosophies but aesthetic criticism of philosophy itself. Now it is unclear if he means...

1: Literary criticism of philosophical writing,

or 2: criticism and aesthetic appreciation of philosophy as an art form in itself, separate from writing, like a wine critic, but for philosophical ideas?

Because the first choice is a real craft, I will choose to look at the second in this essay/dialogue. But also I will ramble off path a fair amount.

What does this definition even mean? No seriously, tell me: A short dialogue.

The Voice: Philosophy criticism cannot exist. This second thesis implies that you can have criticism of an artform without a medium of presentation. An Aesthetics of pure ideas is too abstract and ungrounded. This is similar to the idea that worldbuilding is an independent artform. It’s hard to argue that worldbuilding is an artform on its own. Worldbuilding is always presented through a medium (writing, maps, movies, music, ect). Setting is a literary device or a genre not an artform. Philosophy likewise is always communicated. Philosophy is a type of writing. You can’t give criticism of ideas directly. Whatever that means.

The Paracosmonaut: No. I could invent a philosophy in my head. And experience the ideas as beautiful. Furthermore, I feel the ideas that I read. Successful communication results in a transfer of ideas, so I can then criticize them. I would even go as far as to say that your position is somewhat ridiculous. To believe in what you say you must claim that literary critics only talk about language and never about themes, plot, character, or worldbuilding. Criticism of philosophy is just as possible as criticism of worldbuilding. https://farkascity.org/thctt2aop7/edit#publish The Voice: You betrayer! Aren’t you undermining the distinction this essay is premised on. You’re arguing against the distinction between options (1) and (2). I can’t expect to hold good faith debate if you are disagreeing with our agreed subject of debate. Everything just breaks down.

The Monocosmonaut(the pair of cosmonauts broke down): Yeah I am. I guess I have to to fight for truth, or something…Like I do disagree with the distinction. I don’t think pure solipsistic idea criticism is very useful. It’s more interesting if you communicate with other people. I don’t care about the criticism of something only you have acess to! Like an idea in your head!

Other Monocosmonaut: I do agree with the distinction. I want to ideally sit and navel gaze all of my days. Concern myself wholly with beauty and not with pathetic things like truth. Ruminate on pain and death. Useless stuff like that. Tasty tasty tasty. Each idea I have tastes like honey and feels like god. Just think of how good sitting around feels.

The First Monocosmonaut: okay. That’s cool. I do that sometimes too. But I don’t think other people care that I think that “God is an illiterate dragon made of Mountain Dew and asphalt” but I think too much of that is bad for my brain.

The Voice: Y’all are so lame. Argue for the criteria of the debate next time.

The First Monocosmonaut: Sure. You could do literary criticism of philosophy that never once mentions the medium itself. Also i keep saying literary, you could have a philosophical movie, or piece of music.

The Voice: it would still be tainted by the impurity of the medium.

The First Monocosmonaut: If the only copy of The Great Gatsby that existed and could ever exist was one embroidered onto a piece of fabric with massive text. Some people would still read it. Sure, the medium gets in the way, but ultimately some people will care enough to escape the high Mountains of the medium.

The Voice: why would you avoid talking about plot, and language while practicing literary criticism? What is the point of escaping the rocky hills, instead of embracing and loving the medium?

The First Monocosmonaut: none really. The philosophy enthusiast would love philosophy to the point of forgetting discussion of language. This is more of a thought exercise meant to bring to light what one is doing. Isn’t it nice to have a fresh idea like aesthetically based philosophy criticism? Maybe many literary critics wish they did not have to speak about metaphors and plots. Maybe they instead preferred monologues of ideas to and descriptions.

The Voice: No! This stuff will just remain speculative nonsense.people care about truth!

The First Monocosmonaut: but like it exists already. I saw something like Karl Marx as literature as a course title once.

The Voice: grumble grumble I am interested in the idea of philosophy criticism. I am very interested in art criticism in general. The idea that ideas are beautiful and can be cultivated for aesthetic effects, is endlessly intriguing.

Fin

There is of course beauty in non-philosophical ideas. Art is everywhere, so are ideas. Think about how much of popular discourse and politics is based on the demagogic aesthetics and beauty of ideas rather then reason. Ideas can be captivating, seductive, and pretty.

You can in fact have an aesthetic reaction to an idea. The idea has nothing to do with the method of communication. Though it can be influenced by it. Really ideas can be experienced by an open mind, separately from their communication.

A heroic crown of cut up poems is a series of poems generated from cutting up other works with scissors, assembled like the old form called a heroic crown of sonnets. That form features a circle of 14 sonnets each having the last line of the previous one as its first line. Like a wreath of words fit for the head of a queen. Then there is one extra sonnet, the Mastersonnet, which is formed of all the first and last lines of the lesser sonnets who make up the wreath. I particularly like the cut up technique because it can form completely new poems without much labor. It’s almost like cheating! But it’s more like arranging flowers.

First cut up poem Without any methodical study or knowledge of nature Coming for to carry me home through the marsh Drest beautiful with all the flowers of spring

Second cut-up poem Drest beautiful with all the flowers of spring With you we wander through primeval oaks and aspens As thy sweet music stirs the sylvan leaves

Third cut up poem As thy sweet music stirs the sylvan leaves To a mist-clogged summit fading by the impartial neutrality of your eyes Without any methodical study or knowledge of nature

Master cut-up poem Without any methodical study or knowledge of nature Drest beautiful with all the flowers of spring As thy sweet music stirs the sylvan leaves

I thought it would be amusing for me to try to find the sources of these lines. I’ve actually read a few of the sources just sort of using old texts as a place to scope up words.

Line one of the first poems is likely from Kant. I randomly grabbed a bunch of his sandy sentences to fill my cut up jug a while ago. The second line of each of the three poems is edited. The second of the first is from an African American spiritual. The third line is plucked from a poem by Thomas Chatterton. That line in the middle of poem two is from Lovecraft’s poem dedicated to Lord Dunsany. I really butchered the center of the third, and I can’t find its writer. Originally it went “to a summit faded by the identical neutrality of the pit” which I imagine would be findable if someone was truly curious. But I can't do it.

In the land of the evergreen trees up past Long Island Sound There are six stars that can be found. Like Texans or other statesiders you can find, We, the New Englanders, don't claim to be a special sort or kind. My land is not some great wild forest or a place that could even be the best. Each state and country is a football team on tv. Each citizen sat down to watch, not rooting with glee Then became a cheering fan by arbitrary habit and happenstance. Suddenly all sucked into a willing swirling trance. Your busy friend missed the whole last quarter but won some dough from you from the lucky bets made earlier.

Now Racing heart. Sweat cut by the misty chill. Running away with great speed.

¿Howling from far off cars, or wind? Street lamps and fullmoonlight just past clouds look like little rainbow stars, cause astigmatism. Barefoot on damp blacktop sidewalk. Chilly soles and toes hoping up and down. Each time toe hits ground yelp inside. So cold.

Can’t stop thinking of past hour. Of orange many headed-ogre. Of crashing noises. Must focus on escape. Instead of thinking, run.

Alert eyes jump side to side. Outlines of trees, all black. Some nearby lamps clothed in green lichen, but otherwise greyscale. No people and no monster. Only occasional rushing cars with starry headlights blazing their way.

¿Should I find place to hide? ¿To avoid and escape? ¿Maybe throw rock at car? ¿Stop it? Maybe stupid idea would cause angry driver. I stop running and panic on ground.

Earlier

Nameless little cousins whine and my ear buzzes. Sitting at Christmas dinner with family. Honeyed ham. I quiet and alone at table. They chat with liveliness and seasonally appropriate jolly voices. Normal order of things. I even utter politenesses in my timeless monotone.

Each evening with this big family—mostly not real family since they only here at Christmas—as I saying, each evening with this big family chaos and noise. Brian don’t mind. I mind.

Everyone talking about honeyed ham and how their year been. Drinking eggnog. Good stuff, but so much noise. Not muttering under breath, because can’t hear own thoughts.

Brian and all demon cousins play with toy train. They loudest and worst. I’m watching everything and each buzz sound and each word sound lingers. ¿Why can’t music this loud instead?

Eyes open. Windows at least look quiet, but usually there’s snow at Christmas. Mom says I can’t leave room. Stupid.

Looking at peaceful nature in window. Something moves.

“Something moved outside the window”

Uncle Marvin chuckles.

Clunk. Orange slime smear on window obscures sight of tree. I get away from table and walk toward window. Big eyes appear in window. “There’s an eye in the window”

People look up and I start to run away from eye. I’m at other end of the room.

Shatter. Has six cyclops heads on ten foot body. Squeezes through window. Gross oozing tentacled thing. Dripping orange. Dripping translucent mucus same shade as pale blood. I run as it stands to full height.

See no other escapee.

Now

Sickening. Tired. Just sitting on side of road and waiting for something to come. ¿Live through the night?

In short you should believe false things because it's more honest. Everyone believes in false things. It is less stressful and more honest not to pretend correctness. Really everyone’s beliefs do not objective absolute founding. So just believe some beliefs. After doubt worldviews have nothing. Since they are based only on assumptions and leaps of faith.

In short you should believe only in things you know are true, because it is more honest to do so. Everyone believes in false things. You need to cut them from your skull. Only beliefs with rigorous grounding have value. This is possible. There are true statements. Saying otherwise is sophistry.

All beliefs can easily be doubted. Doubting beliefs is just about the easiest thing someone can do. Positing a belief is much harder because you could be opposed. Humans are constantly critical creatures. At least I am a critical person. I can’t stop telling myself that my beliefs are wrong. I am afraid of being wrong because I am afraid of being stupid. I am afraid of criticism. Imagine doubting all of your beliefs? You can easily imagine this, because you do it everyday.

It is rather difficult to doubt a belief. Doubting beliefs is one of the hardest things someone can do. People die for their axioms. Those beliefs are next unshakable. People have strong faith. Faith is dangerous and can get other people killed. Faith is dangerous because it allows you to legitimize your past misdoings. Faith is irrational. I am not skeptical enough of my beliefs, and this makes me harmful to my friends, and the world. Doubting beliefs is like getting out of the warm bed on a cold day. Imagine holding all of your beliefs to make them immovable. You can imagine this easily, because you do it everyday.

People should tell other people what they believe. Honesty is important. You just have to straight up tell the facts sometimes. Other people need to have their beliefs challenged, because they are wrong and have not considered alternatives. Open their mind with a sledgehammer and a pickaxe. They need to know what you think. They are going to hurt themselves, or hurt someone else. You need to save them.

People should keep to their own beeswax! Hey! Keep those thoughts to yourself, didn’t your mother ever teach you that! You rude asshole! Honesty is important but you don’t have to speak all the time, because no one wants to hear you speak. Why do your lips keep on moving? You're just as confused and lost as everyone else. Open your mind with a sledgehammer and a pickaxe. You don't know what you're talking about. You could hurt someone’s feelings or make them panic by throwing irresponsible criticisms everywhere. You need to save your thoughts for yourself.

(extremely vulgar sexual humor)

The god of autism in the Middle Ages making kids hyperfixate on the Bible and start writing bible fan fiction.

The god of autism getting hired by the ceo of hasbro to make folks buy toys.

The god of autism in the future making people hyperfixate on the machine-god of technocapital, just like in the first joke.

A Roman walks into a bar. He can’t order anything because he only speaks Latin.

Gotham Project walks into a

“Gotham Project cum maleo in popinam ambulat” Gotham Project in Latine clamat. Gotham Project ex popina ambulat. The bartender is dead, what happened?

The god of masturbation was having sex with a jagged glass bottle when the god of sex walked in and said “hey you! You stole my thing!”

“What do you mean this is not a person! It does not count as sex.”

“Wtf! It totally does” said the god of sex

They proceed to have a sex contest to see who would win.

The god of sex was the god of sex. They won, duh.

The god or masturbation said “It’s over” and they proceeded to write a long poem about the subject. It provided them with catharsis and dignity.

The god of cum and the cod of gum.

Constant creativity not coasting, that's the way to go. Just keep on making things. Though this was a bit of schlock the narrator admits as the credits roll…

Author: hwithumlaut Editor: hwithumlaut Publisher: self-published on Farkascity Thanks for watching!

There was a small boy in an illiterate stumpy field. Are you the Pope of Rome? said a priest Trembling at curious words that seemed to shipwreck, He spoketh thusly the following tale and provided a list.

We shall not sleep. Fury—Souring—ever in pain. Perhaps one invades the bursting head? Far, a place loosely gripped in my hand in tangles of old alleys. A bay port with altitude and an Armada runs out of interest, and I don’t think these feelings in Catholic Quebec! I was a lumberjack turned sailor a wood hauler and weary worker… But they don’t call near the quay but a voice that laughed. I could find this cold in piles like twisted trees. The scenic solitude! Just showed the books the sums for that one! The Beard amalgamated crumbling elder lore at little cost. Keep also bowed down claims that cannot forgo except subjected cunt’s flames lick my cold constellation of forget. Will stagger not as much as it entered chaired from lower madness. Reeking of strange disuse... Guess I’ll quit now.

My most prized possessions from that time The nearest tome the seas the phantom of fires ablaze cobwebbed heap nothing axe without blade a gesture

“Jabberstach” said the head stricter To the lasses of latin who purduked her Something about the blue sludgidge That was bubbling the broke bandage That imprisoned the meanie’s claws Set by a healster following some goodity medical laws

The poppies blow, in form of god on high. Huzzah! It’s a gala day, for sincere performance, in fields, in veils, and drowned in tears. Mere puppets they must one day vanish away All over that motley drama, a toss of death’s dice. We shall not sleep within the lonesome latter years Yes everything is vain, even the scenic silence. Vanity was the good cause on that fateful day. Bunches of damp flowers and makeup by a con artist. Corpse with the isolated arm of the painted angels, all pale and weak. A funeral pall over a once many faced form We lived, felt friendship, and saw when the loss or gain is cast upon their judgment day.