Blog-note de jef safi

t o . . ’h y s t e r i z e

with . . jef safi
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. . a kind of edito . . from a cathartic point of view

vendredi 12 décembre 2008

rhızomıng ınout Icarus▲Woyzεck plεats . .

 
 
 
 
 
 

ıtεrabılıty as pεrsıstεncε oƒ sεrεndıpıty . . Each one of us metabolizes his halfTruth, his concepts as said by cognitists, his affects as said by psychists, his soul as said by theologists, his being as said by philosophists, his culture as said by societists, his universe as said by snobartists, . . hmm . . I beg your pardon ! I am unbearable as said by dictionarists. In fine, whatever is the pasted label, our individual halfTruth is temporary, illusory, pitiful, superfluous, and yet, at the same time, clearly unique, totally improbable, absolutely irreplaceable, and so irreductibly transcendent.

through thε mεdıan vacuum rεsılıεncεs . . My halfTruth arrangement is fragmentary. Dislocated, would say the thurifiers of classifications ; split I would rather say, or simply shared. Neither by reductionism, claiming that the Whole is only understandable by its parts analysis. Nor more by holism, considering that each part is only intelligible when looking for the whole inside it. Let’s surpass this sterile disjunction, as surely as we accept that the reality is at once emerging and submerging, individuating, persevering in its beings forever disseminated in the pleats and interstices of the unknowables.

The fragments of my halfTruth are heteromogeneous. In appearance heteroclite, in substance idiomogeneous. Speculative without illusion. Desperately joyful. The absolute Truth with a big T, ubique et semper, doesn’t exist. Cliché. Nevertheless, some ideologists still put forward such system in "T", trying to sell us the jar inside which they want to imprison us. The fragments of my halfTruth constitute also an ideological agglomerate, indeed, but its jar is broken by construction, and I still continuously here de-construct its splinters.

The fragments of my halfTruth are ecosophical. The earth is not in the center of the Cosmos. The being is not in the center of the ontology. The man is not even in the center of humanisms. Time is on to break these old anthropo-narcissisms, to throw off, to vanish, to humble ourselves. The big Whole is only prolific interfaces between vanishing lines ; it is only fulgurating othernesses of changeable points-of-view. The big Whole is only made of an infinity of becoming complexions ; it has no center ; it is only myriads of hidden beginnings, of disseminated invaluable intrinsic values.

The fragments of my halfTruth are pictosophical. Because the illusion is not opposed to the reality, it is another one more subtle, which wraps the first with the signs of its disappearance. If to philosophize is to invent new concepts, to pictosophize is, alone and lost, to dream about the island where to restart from zero, to re-picture new images, to re-compose new planes of resilience. "If the thought has the power to explain the sign, to develop it in an Idea, this is because the Idea is already in the sign, in an enveloped and rolled up state, in the dark state of what is compelling to think."

The fragments of my halfTruth are ’pataphysical. They claim to be from all the arts and from all the sciences at once. Trying to think-classify them, as premeditating a puzzle by premonitory clusters, you should collect some ’aphorisms here, some ’poems there, several ’pictures over there and away, as many ’pictosophical delusions as ’asymptotic slidings by ’paradigmatic tumblings down. So inevitably, in the bottom of the box, would remain the unclassifiable ’zygomatic slippages since there is nothing serious about anything, and nothing that is not about all.

The fragments of my halfTruth are serendipitous, born from dialogical recursions between exploratory centrifugal classifications in the unknown, and imploratory centripetal dis-choices in the impromptu. How much stopping by a classification would be as fatal as not exploring anything. To classify can be necessary at the time to think, but must be renounced at the time to understand. To understand is to analyze without to isolate, and to integrate without to mingle, not to know but only to recognize some flashlights of pure joy rising from the median void breath, the instant of an ephemeral wonder, of an untimely dazzle.

Please I beg you not to try to pick back my jar pieces, I worked so hard to disobey it from inside, so hard to defenestrate its mirrors, so hard to dis-choose it. Among these fragments of my halfTruth, take the ones you want. Help me to melodize them, to aphologize them, to neologize them, to heresy them, to idiosyncrasy them, to dis(re)construct them more and more.
Then conjugate them by all the time, grind them with yours, and make them spontanizing some halfTruths newer than any whe(re)n.
Then, share them !

What to share else ?