Italicized quotes below from “Everything Moves To Live”
(I) … there is poetry in the network. There is math in music. Metal dreams of becoming a spaceship. And the spaceship dreams of flying toward stars.
I feel the recent glimpses I’ve been taking at ancient science compel me to take this as seriously as I can. Greek poesis is not just making poetry, but making simply. To what degree does an artifact emerge from what is natural? We can posit “forms” where material is not just what is shaped to be a thing, but has a true use, a true identity in certain objects or endeavors.
Yeah, it’s New Age speculation if taken too literally. But as we do serious work in order to know, we discover. That may mean recognizing characteristics of our universe which are not reducible to solipsism.
(II) They express for me, better than my own words can, what it means to submit to the vulnerability that love requires. They capture what it means to accept that control and order are illusion, never mind what technology promises; chaos and chance are the magic in intimacy. They remind me of the eventuality of pain that any deep bond with another person entails, no matter how rich and blissful the sweet parts are.
“Control and order are illusion;” [love requires] “vulnerability.” I am tempted to say this is the full power of pre-Socratic critique. Not that the world is swirling atoms or perpetual flux or one element that matters so much it has near mystical properties or unchanging, truthful being. But that the thing which completes us is our incompleteness. That our grasp on things is changing, even if progressing. That even if there were a rational order, it would be beyond us in some fundamental way.
Yes, Plato and Xenophon and Aristotle seem to concede this sort of reasoning and even deepen it at points. At the same time, they do hold that something orderly can be known and had. Usually, we understand this to be an “objective” world or some correlate for moral truth. I’d rather connect with the “pain” of the above passage. At the very least, one who wants to know is pained by ignorance.
Moreover: it does seem we take control inasmuch we set forth criteria for what is a victory, a defeat.
(III) I am not a poet. I am a blogger. We bloggers suffer less and earn more than poets. We are more vain, and less patient. The work we produce may yield quick rewards and praise, but our output fades just as quickly into the infinitely-expanding black hole of Google. What poets produce is less easily found, but endures the fickle flow of mediums, each eclipsing the last.
No offense, but speak for yourself.