aybe you think you are something else. This “something” never reveals itself, of course, but you demand I
respect it. I cannot. The politics of your feelings, thoughts, your mind and soul—the subject—all of it you can only ever speak of, and you can
only ever demand I listen.
Keep it. The subject is a lie. The subjective is false. Your "true colors", your "true self", are not true at all, for it does not even resemble the
thing I see before me, and is a fiction. Your primacy is apparent—it is felt, it is held, it is kissed, while your subject remains eternally
missing. You are engaged in the dance of objects, and it is that with which we will dance.
Now that I have you alone, dear object, perhaps you and I can speak freely about our kind, but let's not do so without a little nod to those who
cannot be with us. Seeing as how our perpetually late company never seems to arrive, let's burn something in his honor, as he himself is wont to do,
and perhaps the light of fire will help lead him to us.
is not unlike any sacrifice insofar as it is for the consolation of crowds, whom while taking part in a ritualistic burning or
torture of a fellow object (perhaps of the human kind), find a sadistic subjective comfort in witnessing penance, or whatever else they have convinced
themselves they are really witnessing.
Penance or not, the fact remains that they are burning an object, a particular, an original and one of a kind, and something the universe will never
witness again, for the sake of their fleeting feelings. A shame, of course.
Nowadays, if a particular object is not available for a good old fashioned lynching, or if we are of a high enough civility to forgo ritualistic
murder, an effigy or likeness will have to do. We have at least advanced that far. Nonetheless, the effigy serves the exact same function as the
object it is meant to represent—that is, so long as it is affixed with the same labels, the same ideals, the same stories we often pretend are so
fundamental and real that only burning something real will suffice to be rid of them, we at least have something to destroy and feel better about
ourselves in doing so.
Still, an object burns, an object is broken on the rack, a thing is sacrificed to the cult of our subjectivity, for something stupid like blasphemy or
heresy or witchcraft. Someone's tender feelings were assaulted by someone else's tender feelings, or some criticism, some stupidity, belief, or other;
and hence he, or something representing he, must burn. The object itself, the human being, or the effigy, in all their immediacy, are not at any time
considered primary to any feelings or stories told about them. As usual, subjectivity is a euphemism for solipsism.
Imagine instead that they threw their subjectivity to the pyre, condemning their feelings and thoughts before anything else.
But first, a horrific truth about the subject and the subjective, our perpetually missing friends. If the Milgrim experiment is any sort of evidence,
we would rather participate in the torture of another object than to receive any rebuke or reprimand from authorities, giving us a taste of the
precedence of our dear subject over the object. We would rather wallow in our own experience, our own perception, our own desires, our own safety,
our own feelings, our own thoughts, as if in our very own dung, than to risk ourselves for another object, whom we just so happen to be torturing.
The mere subjective thought of reprimand is much more fearful than submitting another object to 450 volts.
An object in the world never becomes an object in the mind, experience or thought; it only ever evokes a mishmash of thoughts, feelings and
inclinations in thinking objects. In order to experience an object, the object must first be there to experience. For instance, to shine a light on a
rock requires there is a rock to shine a light on. The same with perception and thought— every object precedes and is primary to every experience,
perception and thought about said object. Despite this, it is all too common that the subject confuses the primary object to the secondary thought as
if they were the same thing, leading him to, in some way, prefer the illusion of this mishmash to the immediacy of the actual object.
But this subject too is an object in the world, an unavoidable certainty, but a fact he rarely admits. He begins and ends, he has a surface, has
gravity, he is finite, he moves as a whole, and has the power to affect and be affected. Outside of the surface, his feelings, his thoughts and
inner-story never appear. They don’t even appear beneath
the surface, and we find a subject is an object through and through. Even so, this
object would rather identify with something else, perhaps his feelings, his thoughts or instincts, cowering from his object into something he can more
understand, something he pays more attention to, something he is more familiar with. In this confusion, the subject demands more, too much more, than
what he as an object has to offer. And what else can he do but force his feelings and subjectivity beyond his skin into a more visible and
intelligible form, almost like a sculpture of his feelings and inner-stories, something like a journal, but essentially a symbolic representation,
some word describing his intentions, desires, beliefs, and other such petty nonsenses. He embodies it in some way, so that when he or another needs to
acknowledge what he “truly” is without actually doing so, he can point and refer to something other than himself and say “This is me”. A
It is hilarious but no joke when something as benign as two pieces of lumber nailed together to form a cross can become a symbol of divinity and
sacrifice. It brings a false sense of comfort to those that stand in its presence, while if the same exact wood was put together to make any other
shape, it wouldn’t make a lick of difference, and would likely be discarded in the trash. What matters to most is not the object itself, but
whatever symbol we can make out of it. A parable.
The ease with which we can pin a story to any object and either condemn or deify it with the splattering of a few words or brushstrokes can be
comforting, but when we finally behold the object in its sensual glory, its immediacy, its reality, it never lives up to our painting of it. One look
in the mirror can prove this. When we stare into the eyes of the very object we are, nothing we say or think will change it, no cloth or adornment
alters it, and every story we’ve told about the figure staring at us in the mirror doesn’t change anything about it. It is much easier to lie to,
or at least fictionalize that figure, than it is to tell it the truth about it, finally making it real.
edit on 5-7-2016 by LesMisanthrope because: (no reason given)