Security

What is security but being free from the care of those things which the object of our security has been entrusted to by us? If our security is based upon something which in and of itself is free from us, then perhaps this could be true; under the condition that this object of security actually secures us and not those things which we ourselves secure. Do we understand this delineation?

We secure those things which we claim as ours (the claim itself touches upon another interesting topic: that of the Moral Word, and its power over objects -in a sense; the security of objects as is maintained in morality), so those things which are claimed have been secured by something outside of themselves. In the same way, we ourselves must be secured by something bigger than ourselves which must, in effect, claim us. For a more theological interest about this thought one may always refer to Containment. Yet, to maintain a resolute and less-than metaphysical relationship here, we can refer to what some have called the Practicality of Haecceity.

Haecceity has the meaning of "the aspect of existence on which individuality depends; the hereness and nowness of reality." Now, the practicality of haecceity is seen in that, there is no moment in time or place in space which is not wholly individual or unique. This conceptualization of uniqueness is what allows for there to be this following understanding: If I possess the ball, you do not. If you possess the ball, I do not. Yet, while neither of us may possess that specific ball at the same time, we both can claim it at the same time.

This is where the practicality jumps into the theoretical (and consequently where I get back on track); for this reality exists: to claim something is actually to place one's security in one's ability to secure that item. In effect, since I have the ball I may (with sound mind and logical resolution) claim it as my own. However, if I claim the ball while I do not possess it, I have stepped over the bounds of our discussion, into what we mentioned before; the power of the moral word (for in the power of the moral word, the ball may be placed in my possession and therefore is mine to secure and claim -yet, if my security over this ball is lost, the power of the moral word has the ability to return this ball to me, based first upon my claim of it, but also, (and more importantly) upon the power and timing of the moral word -in this case known as the Law. My ability within this law of the moral word only extends far enough to claim that which is mine, and secure that which I claim).

Now, back to the subject at hand (taking into account the fact that we can only claim those things which either we, in our ability can secure, or those things which the moral word may, in its ability, place into and return to our possession); those things which are our security should have the ability either through some ethical word (morality has no place in a discourse of things greater than human invention) or through some claim which in and of itself must be "free from care."

I must admit that this original entry in my journal was much longer and perhaps enjoyed a bit more proliferation and consideration of the classics and those theological and philosophical considerations which often reach my eyes via the large and full shelves of books which around my desk do crowd themselves most rudely. Yet, even so, I do wish to remind the reader that my final part of this entry is maintained in that place and I do not shrink with fear that I should be misunderstood -only that I may be left unheard. I think that what I reached in conclusion is still true, though in its current medium it is concise and bereft of all its progressive supporters.

So then, this is the place in which I find myself. Security, is the object which in its ability is able to place one (in this higher ethical discourse) in the reality of being secure. Further, secure is the one who has been claimed and maintained in a position where the Security is free of care for this one and the one is free of care for his own security. Therefore, I would submit that the one who wishes to be secure in this life, must earnestly seek God, for only God can (in His ability) claim, and maintain our being in a secure place, and only He is free of care for us (yet full of love for us). And in this freedom from care, I would even go so far as to remind the reader (and myself) that being "free from care" is defined as the state of being Carefree. If we are secured by God, and He is carefree, what have we as beloved children and imitators of God (Ephesians 5:1) to keep us from being the same?

Containment

When containment sinks within us its deep and suppressed absolution, much like an arrow of similarly intentioned completion; we do not -as with the proverbial arrow- reach a quick witted death of wisdom's expression within our reputation; instead, we reach a conclusion much more fitted for the dying; one that refuses the freedom of death, but at the very same moment compels us to life- to a life which is not our own. As we claim our own life, we forget what we never knew; the value of our existence. Only when we forfeit what we think that we have, can we realize the actual value of it. Thus, this principle is at work within our bodies: its preservation is desired because of its apparently great value. The Pride of Life therefore being a great and common transgression, if not the root of most transgressions themselves.

We must realize our own foolishness. The preservation of our lives is desired so much because of how much we believe it is worth; yet we forget that until we place it in comparison with something else, this life is out of context and is lost in nothingness. However, the powerful and debilitating truth is that as soon as our life is put into context it never even budges an inch from the nothingness it was already. In fact, I think that as soon as our life is put into context, it becomes even less than nothing. How can we expect to move beyond the containment which is itself contained within our souls if we never get past our own boorish tendency to think that we are worth something -even to think that we are worth a great deal? We must step beyond this pride, and recognize the necessary trading of our life into the currency of value and its consequential and immediate decimation.

Yet, when decimated, I think that we may find what we were looking for; as we realize the less-than-nothingness of our life's value we will be able to admit our own inability to change that status, and thus, in the most dire need, cry out to something which can both claim and retain some value for our lives and person; something which does not have an obligation to make something of the nothingness of ourselves, but rather something which can move beyond the containment we naturally maintain to deadly perfection within our mortal bodies into a place where the containment is a constant acceptance of the absolutionistic terms of peace we have been offered -no- commanded, by the One who lays claim to our nothingness.

And who alone, my soul, can rightly lay claim to nothingness but the One who can make from it something? To this One I do myself repair, most diligently and urgently, for if I tarry- I am lost.

Sybaris

Debating along the western shore,

Sunset colors sweetly filling the sky,

Ionian waves softly doing their chore;

Whispering news from the bridged Gallipoli,

Its beauty due not only to its name,

But also its taste, its touch, its prize;

From its aging wine, and oily fame,

Praising its Island beauty and limestone thighs.

Taranto also speaks softly through,

The idyllic waves of the Mediterranean Sea;

Calmly they report the stunning view,

Its eponymous founder once felt on knee,

As he rode dolphins near the Appian Way,

Neither also must one cast a worried glance,

For the Theraphosidae keep away;

The Tarantella thus a superfluous dance

Pleasure dribbles across the lip,

And the opulent musings of the mind,

Keep the body closely to the sensuous script;

The song the sea that with wind combined,

Follows the hips in their regulated,

March upon the beach of mystery,

Its fields behind, its waters ahead,

Nearly all is washed away through history.

Politicians, bureaucrats, and those lacking zeal,

Gathered as one, and sought with success,

The scorn of the nations –oligarchic ideal–

Drowning the beauty of happy excess;

The passion of rage and resentment,

Raising Telys, their demagogue devil,

Who would free them of contentment,

Unto their lowest and darkest level.

The sea, mapped closely, does run,

As do fugitives from pleasured simpletons,

Along the grave of Dyrrhachus’ son,

The way to the Panhellenic Olympians,

Safety was sought in power, in discipline;

Away from the tug of luxury, of vanity;

In exile then, contented Crotona within,

From the voracious Telys, from insanity.

Reaching strong gates, housing men of the same,

Seeking surrender and completion of the death,

The luxurious citizenry, sought to regain,

Those gasping through the blood for breath,

Into their hands, bloodied by the greed of security,

Calling down curses upon their sober opposition,

Preparing to draw the sword even against purity,

The seekers of indulgence pined for deposition.

Unable to stand by and unwilling to yield,

Those strong Crotoniats, upholding the right,

Boldly they, to the partisans of doom, themselves revealed,

Heavily outnumbered but in strength not slighted,

The defenders of plainness battled the aggressors of lavishness,

While the reckoning of pleasure saw insufficiency;

The science and strength of the simple saw success,

Over those with a distaste for pleasure’s deficiency.

Down at the river Traeis did the armies meet,

To decide the graceless end of this sudden war,

Which leaned most powerfully to the defeat,

Of the seekers of pleasure with their luxurious rapport;

Reaching their own gates, gasping for breath,

Even the devoted could not deny the demonization,

Of their own personal Angel, whose name is Death,

And who sought with success their complete annihilation.

So ended the army of the city, pleasurably inclined,

But the simple in life, could not be simple in mind,

Destruction of this pleasurable place, determined,

As they were, that no human within should any ever find;

Turning the course of the river Crathis with spades,

The victors drown the ruins of the city of brutalities,

As they turned the battle with their blades,

And buried the aggressors in their own fatalities.

This divine punishment, the luxurious ignores;

Drowning the pleasured in their complete inability for restoration,

Allowing the survivors refuge on the Tyrrhenian shore;

A temporary base for the unsuccessful reparation,

Of their prosperous city of fantastic lore:

Complete was the punishment and swift the retribution,

Keeping dark the streets of pleasure forevermore,

Under the watchful and sharp eyes of the solution.

The questions of time weary the mind,

While the sun slowly ceases it dozing,

And bumbles to that to which it is consigned:

Dipping itself into the hills, dark enclosing,

Its rays slowly receding from the troubled tide,

Slowly moving over the finality of appropriation,

Appropriation of pleasure debates with one’s pride,

Misunderstanding simplicity and reservation.

This mysterious shore, near the sunken city,

Its somber message to the listener whispers,

Queries of the value of luxurious prosperity,

As does the wind in the ear and through the firs;

Those who hope to see its profound combat,

Must move beyond greatness enjoyed,

For this city of pleasure, was that, and for that:

                                                Destroyed.

Absolution

I could not recognize him. But I must. He knew –but how? I did not ask him what I knew was the question, because I had forgotten it. Looking at his face, my worse fears, even if I did not possess them before this very instant, were realized. I was realized. I was understood. I was known. My soul sank in a disillusioning type of déjà vu; I currently recollected that I had feared that this would happen. Far back in my memory, I knew that I had wanted this, but not until I saw presently did I know what it was.

“You–” He was there, but he could not see that he was; but he knew. He knew that I was there, but he was blind. I could not see myself, but he could. I did not want to believe I was there, but I was, for he was the one who knew it, and so –my consciousness was held captive by his. I was present in the place because of his knowing, and because of my seeing of his knowing. Am I really this contained by what I think that I see?

Around him, a world of people I knew, who he should not have known, but he did; he does. But I knew them, and I could see them. So how could it be that he knew that they were there, how could he know them, knowing I knew them, but not him? But I did know him, for he knew me, and there was such a knowing in his presence, that my presence leaned upon it for support. He knew that I did not know him, but he knew that I do, that is, that I would, but I know now that I did, even when I thought I did not.

“Will–” Inclining my body to receive his slow and deliberate speech, I attempted to comprehend the words which I could see he knew I already knew. But how did he know this? How could he possibly know that I already knew? How could he say “you will” and know that which I know to be untrue? Where could he possibly have obtained the notion that I knew what he was going to say, or that I knew it was right? But I did. Though, even in the moment of recognition that he knew I knew, I could not remember what it was that I knew –I only knew that I knew it… or that I know it now.

What will I do? What will I be? What will do I have? Or do I have a will, or is it what I would? Could it be that he knows what I, in the future seek to be? He cannot, for I cannot know, nor do I –but I knew at that moment that I did, or do, know it. Perhaps he knows what I, regardless of my seeking and desiring, am. But how could he know presently what is still future for me? How could he know now that I “am” in some other time, especially when I know that I “am not” now, yet then, thought I would not? I do not know, but he did.

“Not–” Could it be he would so understand the ridiculous nature of this dialogue? He knew as well as I that it could not be. At no time was this possible. At the exact moment that I could possibly not be, that was the precise moment he would not know me. If he knew me so well, he also must know that with his present knowing there was no possibility ever, in any time, that I could “not.” His supreme knowing, his surety of my presence and my future existence presently negated the possibility of my ever ceasing to be. My presence in this strange place was proved and upheld by him.

His words sought to give me an identity, but he knew not his place. I knew it. It was in a park, near a shoreline. And along the gravel path which I had followed there was a tree positioned on the right, beneath this tree was a bench, and upon this bench he sat. I knew this; I could see it. He did not know it, but he knew me, he knew my presence. My present ability to see him gave me confidence that he actually was –but he is, or did, tell me that I would not be, that I “will not!” This is logical, so why am I trembling, –not then; but now.

“Find–” This he could not know! How ever could this man know my seeking? Could he ever assume that he knew there was something which I sought so dearly and completely that my very existence and entire identity was so precariously placed upon it and upon his knowledge of it? Yet, how could I know that this would be? How could I know then that which I know now: that it is, and that is has always been? But I do. And so did he.

But how? I could not be in so precarious a place except through the words of this man, yet by his very words “You will not find it.” Is there the slightest chance that if I was, and he knew, that I could be in the future what he knew me to be then? If so, then how in that same future, in which I presently am speaking to him, could I “not”? For, how then could I be placed in existence so heavily upon my apparent seeking of something which I could not find? Unless, –and I shudder if this is what he knew, yet I know now that it was what he knew then: I have been seeking the only thing upon which my entire existence and identity could be contingent upon; myself.

In utter confusion, I, even now, damage my brain with the seeking of where exactly I could have possibly missed this thing which I search for, seeing as I currently exist. Yet, is this existence more than just of trick of my eyes? Is what I see, actually existing, or, in my search for myself have I actually created it within my mind’s eye, so as to actually obtain it? If, I have created it within my mind’s eye and have begun to seek it, did this man say these things to me so that I could understand now what he already knew then; that if I have created the goal and the means with which to reach it, I could also render my possession of that goal impossible? Maybe this is more possible if I am seeking myself, for if I do not find it, I could not ever finish the journey, nor find my existence.

“No matter how hard you try.”

Then yes, he must know. He must know, for I fear that he was correct; I will try –but I will fail. I know now that I did fail, because he knew then what I know now; the impossibility of my success. And all this because I sought to reach a goal which we both knew was impossible. In that moment I realized that I had not been seeing with my own eyes. He was not blind, no, he could see exceptionally well, and he could see himself, for he could see what I saw; I was seeing through his eyes. This whole world, all these people, even this man, all that I thought I could see and which I thought that I knew, he saw, and he knew. But what did I know? Did I actually know this man?

It was then that I recognized him. It was then that the face which was twisted with the chains of lies and pain, both received and given, began to familiarize itself with me. His face searched mine with the knowing of a friend. –No, more than a friend. At that moment my memory was gripped by the reality; he was not my friend but I knew him and he knew me.

I knew him to be who he knew me to be: myself.

Context

Context needs itself to exist. It is the penultimate surreal word (after surreal itself). Curiously enough, surreal was originally a back formation from surrealism; the mindset existed in a literal form before the literary meaning was even reached. So it makes sense that it is the ultimate surreal word (e.t.e. literally). But I am getting lost in the description of the context; let's get back to the context.

Try to describe to me the meaning of the simple noun. To do this, you must first describe the rules of grammar, which is the foundation for language (the foundation of words). But underneath this, you must describe the foundation of language, which is thought. Basically, the context gives you everything that you need to describe this word -and I have not even given you the word yet!

If I were a crueler man, I might ask you to define context, but that would defeat the purpose. You know what is odd, I am writing this in my journal. And I have been trying here to capture part of the banter which is bouncing around in my head. If I do put this on my blog, it will probably confuse people, since they will think it is written to them. Interesting. This context is kind of beating me in my attempt to overcome it through my description of it.

Why cannot people seem to grasp that no thing can be defined in an verbal or literal form without a thorough exploration of the reality within which it rests? See, to be a bit of a poet; I would say that reality is always at rest, it is never stressed or pressured, it is either ignored or championed. Humanity's weakness is found in its belief that it can affect that rest or increase what could be called the "heartbeat of reality."

Words develop in the same way that we encourage order. For instance, look at a filing system: we begin with larger files and then delineate all the way down to a specific fact. In the same way, we educate through broad areas, increase our knowledge towards a specialization which we believe will fit, or be useful, to us in the area of work by which we often identify ourselves. This downward descriptiveness is the way that our brains work. When these facts begin to weave together with what we experience now, as well as what we have understood to be the past, we are beginning to touch upon context. And as we touch upon it, we soon lose ourselves in it, for once we have focused upon it, it begins to fade; as our minds seek to describe this thought which is so cleanly described, we must forget the word in order to understand it or to experience the identification which it gives to us.