Every human being is a summary of the entire universe, and contains within itself whatever it was that created us or brought us forth. The great love we have for the chaosmos should contain the splendor and varied wonder of these fleshly jewels, refracting still the primal flicker of existence out into the ten directions.
We are visionary beings, and visions are for us an element like water or air for fish or foul. Our visions are thrown to us as we are thrown into our visions. They are inescapable sendings of something that is not us, but determines us, guides us, warns us, shocks us. We can never be sure, when we rise or when we lie down to rest, or any time in between, what daimon will infest us and make of our lives a chapter in their immemorial tales.
Every vision, like every soul, demands to live forever and to expand to every corner of life. There is no vision without this tyranny of vision, no soul without this megalomania of soul. And this goes for the seemingly most trivial and even embittered perspectives as it goes for noble ones or enriching ones. There was a time when shopping in malls was envisioned to one day cover the globe and to become the craze and cherished pastime of families everywhere. We want all of our ways to be like good plows, and etch and mold the earth accordingly.
Many are the wonders, but none more wondrous than Dasein. Or uncanny. Homeless. Wild. Crazy. A saying like this can only be right. For how could we prove Sophocles wrong here? In order to do so, we would have to wonder our way out of wonder, as we wonder now what it even means to say that we are wondrous. Or we would wonder if we wondered once upon a time or perhaps wondered with more wonderment. Or we would definitively close off the wonder--and that would be a wonder. Wonder wonder everywhere, even where you do not think. Sophocles' vision of our Dasein is unstoppable like the visionary itself. In fact, the tragedian's vision is a window to the visionary.
It is as though Sophocles glimpsed at or gazed into the space of visions. Not the mere space visions themselves create and maintain, even while this is an important space. Rather the space in which, or as which, the visionary may occur. May. Just might. The space of the possibilizing of our visions.
Whether we like it or not, we are visionary beings, and inhabit the visual like an element.
Every realm or perspective or methodos is a bubble, and all that happens, including lives, including us, happens in the space between these bubbles, their seams. Especially life, especially us. All of our deeds and misdeeds and our visions into and out of them happen in the seams of these bubbles. All seeming or being this way or that is a function of the seams between these bubbles, these spheres. Seeming seams, seaming seems. Seeming, a seamstress. The whole affair is like a friction of realms, and we ourselves are like the lubricant or jam between the spheres, or like the impossible fire aroused by their rubbing together. Every vision we have or endure or entertain is a matter of some sphere or spheres grinding against or caressing some other or others. A frenzied bacchic orgy of perspectives, in which every bubble seems on the brink of bursting, where the best and the worst and light and dark are crammed together so tight that they cannot help but puncture each other. At the same time like a collection of unspeakably priceless rounded jewels held in incredible steadiness in the palms of some cosmic hands.
We always want to know what to do. Our reason demands to know it, Kant saw. With or without reason, we want, we need to know what to do, and we look to this, scale that height and plumb this depth, in search of something to guide us, or in confidence that we have found it, or in dismay or some cultivated solace and ease in the face of the fact that we cannot. But we are limited here, and we do not turn to the visionary. Or if we do, it is merely to the visions already at hand, the visions that were thrown to us and into which we have been thrown. We do not turn to the space of the visions, that liminal space of the friction of realms. We do not see what the all is, even the question of the all, as pertaining to us, nor do we see ourselves as its summary and fulfillment. As we are. This constant rubbing together of realms is the perpetual opening up into other realms, and we are the pointers to these places.
Human beings are each and every one of them a summary and consummation of all that has been. What this great festival of light and shadow is set to become consists of risks, and risks not only for our Dasein, but for the all. Our visions and the sense-defying array of possibilities they unfold go to the heart of things, and transform that heart, as the heart of the earth is trembling due to birthday parties and weddings and wars. Each and every one of us is living some vision now, a vision that could swallow up the whole world. All of our zealousness or apathy or fear of our visions is haunted not only by a particular vision or particular visions, but by that ghostly possibility of there being visions and the visionary at all. Another vision could swallow us at any moment, all the sights and sounds we cherished at once transmogrified into the unimaginable. All this friction and rubbing together could mean that we and what we condider ourselves to be and to be doing are rubbed right out of things, smeared out of the painting like misplaced characters.
Whether we like it or not, we are visionary beings, and inhabit the visionary like an element. To love ourselves and this world we share, we have to love the visionary and our shared visions. Even the most terrifying and unsettling visions. For the source of all things is some vision, whether a big bang vision or a vision of the breath of God, or some primal joy or dis-ease giving rise to things, or a bowl of pasta, or a pink light beam, or a fly on your knee, or the everlasting relationship of three divine personalities. Maybe it is a vision of terror itself, or the vision of a laugh when we realize the wicked joke the terror is.
Love the Dust 