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a prologue
February 7, 2010

What feeling, what loves, might happy creativity bring to its own humanity?

Who we are seems to be a narratological condition of a dimly articulable evolving in the planetary metropole according to kinds of conceptual space we enown: from trOpical up through thematological to a discursivity that returns as figuration again, rhetoric and trope in days going by.

Beyond metaphysicalism (with no pretense of Absolute Concept or Fundamental ontology), can there be clearly with us some discursively well-formed, comprehensive comprehension as a philosophically artful realism without relativism; and which educes its own advance?

In orienting a very Project-ive life through a centrality of high valuation, it’s bad form to navigate aspiration as hope for exemplarity in that. But, in all humility, I aim for exemplary hope.

To have climbed away from the mirrorplay of social confidences (though destined to return to where we belong) was to be left so ever changed that fair self portrayal seems impossible anymore, and there you are, another generation, one after another, far away, though here.
The bell curve of The Conversation is an eternal return of the same condition of mediation.

Pluralization of culture becomes pluralization of self. Manifold hybridity plays out tensions of our evolving humanity as some ecstatic embodiment of self-begetting out of undesigned assemblage.

Intellectual love, what is the material good of philosophy? Is discursive life ultimately some romance of aesthetic reason (metonym of our evolving), conceptual Literature, academic enchantment in a dark pointillization of ephemera? What virtue of comprehensive singularity, some ultimate pleasure of the text, is possible in a “literary” love of the world?

When we are a library of night, dreaming through some bricolagic eloquence all human presence as a singular story, can this be more than archetypal fantasy, a garden of ontologistic simulacra?

That elated embodiment of Self, a sweet autogeny of voice given to wandering “after” “postmodernity,” might express some instinct in our haphazard evolution of mind, merging art and intimacy into anewing geneses of values, though beyond Romantic individuation (yet a “persistence” of Romanticism, as a horizoning child may persist in high aging), expressing another self-begetting of our mental nature by some art of scenic mind staged in the eternal quotidian.