This blog does not aim to attract a wide audience. In fact, it is meant essentially for one person - namely, myself, the self-styled provincial philosopher, a title chosen in jocular appreciation of my current situation as well as scope of my ambitions.
One is always free to think that the unrequited self-love hides beneath the veneer of respectable motivations. I won't remonstrate with this, conscious of my susceptibility to vain praises. Yet, what impelled me to start writing a blog - this blog - at this particular moment is the ever-growing and admittedly frightening realization that the backward-flowing "river of Time" (banal! banal!) is carrying me towards the frozen sea of the past - das Gewordene - without giving me the opportunity of offering even the purely symbolic resistance. When using this word - resistance - I do not talk of stanching somehow the inevitable, for that is unimaginable and foolish; I only speak of a choreographic act shaped in form and content by the awareness of the necessity, a gesture, which despite its appearance actually serves to accentuate one's desperate predicament, filling it up with elements of human meaning.
The absence of shores in sight makes no difference to somebody endeavoring to pounce upon the non-existent salvation, with the victim and the elements having long worked out a tacit agreement whereby they provide each other with the source of principal pathos: to the latter goes the glory of illimitable might whereas the former are honored through the valor of tragedy. So do I, comprehensive of this dialectics, try to reinsert my consciousness back into the assailed and decaying body, straight into the fatal fray, and mark thus the relentless descent of a mountain river with the rapids of private significance.
This act holds no promise of redemption, the latter having long vaporized together with other appendages of solace, but it will keep me from succumbing to the ignominy of passivity. I hope to outlast my form-bound insecurities, learn to spew out insufficient phrases while adjusting my stomach to the successive bouts of aesthetic indigestion until the boredom, the last and most impartial judge, would pronounce this project dead and turn away from its ramshackle grave in stolid indifference.
One is always free to think that the unrequited self-love hides beneath the veneer of respectable motivations. I won't remonstrate with this, conscious of my susceptibility to vain praises. Yet, what impelled me to start writing a blog - this blog - at this particular moment is the ever-growing and admittedly frightening realization that the backward-flowing "river of Time" (banal! banal!) is carrying me towards the frozen sea of the past - das Gewordene - without giving me the opportunity of offering even the purely symbolic resistance. When using this word - resistance - I do not talk of stanching somehow the inevitable, for that is unimaginable and foolish; I only speak of a choreographic act shaped in form and content by the awareness of the necessity, a gesture, which despite its appearance actually serves to accentuate one's desperate predicament, filling it up with elements of human meaning.
The absence of shores in sight makes no difference to somebody endeavoring to pounce upon the non-existent salvation, with the victim and the elements having long worked out a tacit agreement whereby they provide each other with the source of principal pathos: to the latter goes the glory of illimitable might whereas the former are honored through the valor of tragedy. So do I, comprehensive of this dialectics, try to reinsert my consciousness back into the assailed and decaying body, straight into the fatal fray, and mark thus the relentless descent of a mountain river with the rapids of private significance.
This act holds no promise of redemption, the latter having long vaporized together with other appendages of solace, but it will keep me from succumbing to the ignominy of passivity. I hope to outlast my form-bound insecurities, learn to spew out insufficient phrases while adjusting my stomach to the successive bouts of aesthetic indigestion until the boredom, the last and most impartial judge, would pronounce this project dead and turn away from its ramshackle grave in stolid indifference.
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