10,923. RUDIMENTS, pt. 357

RUDIMENTS, pt. 357

(plato in Avenel, pt.2)

One thing I learned in

Philosophy class, oddly

enough, was that if you are

holding the bomb, you might

as well throw it. It's at that one

intersection of time and moment,

never to be recreated, that you

hold any real, personal power.

And it's one of the strangest

concepts ever. As if to say, a

lit fuse should never just be

appreciated by gazing; for it

will go off. Some things possess

their own meanings and powers.

That's how wild revolutionaries

throughout time  -  right to the

present  -  have always done

things. Yes, we still get startled,

or feign being startled anyway.

I've held so many metaphorical

'bombs' in my life as to make it

legion  -  everything I've thrown

thrown has been right and pointed.

But all metaphorical  -  for I cannot

be bothered with the physics of

animation.

-

And anyway, what is life, really,

but a fine-point conjunction of

various 'caught' moments? I once

wrote a paper detailing how, in

my view, we all and each live

deeply within 'structures.' Bad

choice of words, but I used it

for utility because otherwise

having to explain 'formulated

sectors of time/space assumptions

about what's around us,' would

have gotten too tedious and glazed

over the entire point. I hate stuff

like that. The 'structures' I meant

were the super-functional outlines

of all things by which we operate.

Everything that we do comes out

of our own structure. Every word,

space, detail, and premise. In

looking things over, I've concluded

that we ought to be ruled by elites,

intellectual elites, without excuse,

and proud of themselves. Not

by the raft of pig-herders we're

led by now. Even here in

Woodbridge, as fine an example

of squandered power as any,

we have, at the top, (and believe

me, it's far from being a 'top') a

complete 'entitled' class of

know-nothings who revere

nothing but money and process.

That's pretty hideous, and the

lunkheads who put them in 

office, time after time, are 

just as stupid. There's no 

intellectual quality here to 

anything, and that's what's 

so clearly missing. I don't

mean in an 'Arthur Schlesinger'

sense, like from the Kennedy 

days either. Those weren't 

intellectuals; they were 

sycophant academicians.

They flavored society in 

style and form, slavishly 

following the dictates

of their own fey crowd. Like

the Wilkinson debacle we have

here now. Troglodyte gay

people distressing the fabric

of 'culture.' Ladies and gentleman,

as the curtain rises, I present

to you, the latest show in town :

'The Foibles and the Treachery - 

8th-grade John McCormac,

in Power!' Key in the theme

song  - stage front, dancing boys

in tights : 'Bring on the Big 

Cannons! We're Soooo 

Ready For You!'

-

Does anyone see where this 

gets us?  Gets us to? Brings us? 
Plato was a revolutionary, and
that was in a time before they 
even knew about that stuff. But
at least they'acted' on things.
We don't even do that now.

'Plato somewhere compares 

philosophy to a raft on which 

a shipwrecked sailor may 

perhaps ride home. Never 

was a simile more apt. 

Every man has his raft (and 

for God's sake you'd (I'd)

better stand up for it and 

honor each our own), 

which is generally only 

large enough for one. It 

is made up of things

snatched from his cabin  -  

a life-preserver or two of 

psalm, proverb, or fable; 

some planks held together 

by the oddest rope-ends 

of experience, and the 

whole shaky craft requires

constant attention. How 

absurd, then, is it to think

that any formal philosophy

is possible  -  when the rag or

old curtain that serves one

man for a waistcoat is the

next man's prayer-mat! To try

to make a raft for one's neighbor,

or to try to get on to someone

else's raft, these seem to be the

besetting sins of philosophy and

religion...Plato was primarily

an entertainer, a great impresario

and setter of scenes, and stager 

of romances great and small 

where fact and fiction, religion 

and fancy, custom and myth 

are blended by imaginative 

treatment into  -  no one knows 

exactly what the mixture should

be called. As a work of art, 'The

Republic' is atrocious, but as

a garretful of antiquity it is 

thrilling. It is so cracked and

rambling that Plato himself

hardly knows what's in it.'

-

So, let's view this evidence (in

light of me, here, on the rocky

dead island Avenel). What in the

world was Plato up to? About 

him? Yeah, I always felt about 

myself. (Pride goeth before the

mall?). His own poetic gift, his

moral enthusiasm  -  they left out

'inextinguishable' moral enthusiasm,

enormous curiosity, his miscellaneous

information, his pride of intellect,

and  -  his greatest merit  -  his

perception that spiritual truth

must be conveyed indirectly and

by allusions. 'In spite of certain

clumsy dogmatisms to be found

here and there in him, Plato knows

that the assault upon Truth cannot

be carried by a frontal attack. It is

the skirmishing of Plato which makes

his thought carry; and all the labors

of his expounders to reduce his 

ideas to a plain statement have 

failed. If they Could reduce his

meaning to a statement, Plato

would be dead.' You see, that's  

the key : To keep that (those)

bomb(s) from settling  -  continue

to throw them; let no other 'explain'

you, keep others at bay, keep them

off-step, by attack; confound; annoy.

Have wit enough, visions enough,

and courage enough, to elude them

all. THEY are dead. Their thoughts

and conclusions are bankrupt.

-

His age  -  the times he lived in  -

handed him his vehicle : Imaginary

Conversation! Is there anything

that evaporates quicker in this

world than conversation? But

'IMAGINARY' conversation is

protected from cross-examination, 

it can live on forever. No one can

pin him down. The street is his

corner. Dilaogues and discourse.
Any 'Order'  -  imposed from the

top down  -  never holds for very

long. And, lastly here, in conclusion.

that's what bugs me the most about

Avenel : Me. Right here, in the 

midst of so much, yet powerless,

voiceless, and without a recourse. 
The fools have me here, and refuse 
me. Oh Athens, where is thy sting?

A voice, crying in this wilderness.

(OK. Time for Revolution School).

Forget Murray and Martha's, we'll

have it at the old Shop Right. Or

maybe even open-air at the new

public seating area at 'Station

Village' while we sit on their 

benches just waiting for trains

that mostly never come. Or maybe
right there, on 'Jazz Night,' while 
all the fake hipsters in their baggy 
pants and lawn chairs are over 
in Eric LeGrand Park groovin' to 
Dexter Gordon. Good a place
as any to mass for Plato power.
Smile for the cameras, kiddies.
We can explore the forbidden sign.