I was prepared and not prepared at once. To arrive in Saas-Fee is to become a machine in contrast to that of a Homo-Generator and yet to live it is something altogether; it is as Wolfgang suggests a constant negotiation with death. The purpose of being here is challenged at once in the mind, "is this what i am worth? to be here with these abject minds", on the surface it a place of broken toys. Who can say if i have escaped here because i am a heathen to the cosmic economy of consume, produce and excrete or if i am a first order simulacra for those who's production has little utility.
And so I meditate in this middle space bellow the mountains yet above the sea, I stand somewhere at the knees of giants. This town seeps with a legacy of abject minds and abject oxygen; a place where people vacation to be removed from the everyday but only to be once again steeped in it like cold tea.
Here the hegemonic economy is present but at once it is also suspended. It too simple to say that one consumes, one produces and then one excretes, one forgets to invoke the expenditure; or that which is wasted in a Being being-in-the-world; or the production of 'thinking-being'.
i am wrung to the bone that the act of considering production is far from my mind, there is no amount of consumption that will alleviate the expenditure of life here lived. This will be the third mo(u)rning that I drag myself from bed by by which i can only reasonably reduce as a masochistic will-to-truth, the second night to which i have found myself in a bar discussing the consequences of an academic life, and the first night to which i have been able to write. To me these words are of little value, they fall from me in a hollow like manner absent of meaning greater than that of a subjective expression.
But alas it occurs to me that a symbolic death as an ends to a machine that consumes, produces and excretes is not a heuristic but an inevitable ontology of being. Thus consequentially the question is asked; not how does one 'die' but how should one 'die'.
There is a nostalgia in me; a yearning of the past to stay present that i continue to become a machine that which something is inserted and that which is removed is of some utility but here that triangulation is in question for me. For i feel like nothing more than that of excess or simply put an excrement of ideas.
not entirely able to step aside from this subjective obscure expressionist prose, i may attempt to state that it is at once comforting and offensive to be around people who do not tip toe nor are apologetic. I have around 30 hours of a negotiated intimacy with Critchley, intimate in the sense that it is somewhat orgiastic between the other 10 or so individuals in the room and that it is a negotiated debauchery between 6 others at the bar. The man is a brilliant philologist; which he'll resent me for saying (he'll label himself more like 'something in progress'), he spent the day railing on Baidou, presenting an experimental lecture on Bowie arguing distopia as utopia, while 4 hours earlier presenting a clandestine project on sophistry and skepticism towards the history of philosophy.
And so I meditate in this middle space bellow the mountains yet above the sea, I stand somewhere at the knees of giants. This town seeps with a legacy of abject minds and abject oxygen; a place where people vacation to be removed from the everyday but only to be once again steeped in it like cold tea.
Here the hegemonic economy is present but at once it is also suspended. It too simple to say that one consumes, one produces and then one excretes, one forgets to invoke the expenditure; or that which is wasted in a Being being-in-the-world; or the production of 'thinking-being'.
i am wrung to the bone that the act of considering production is far from my mind, there is no amount of consumption that will alleviate the expenditure of life here lived. This will be the third mo(u)rning that I drag myself from bed by by which i can only reasonably reduce as a masochistic will-to-truth, the second night to which i have found myself in a bar discussing the consequences of an academic life, and the first night to which i have been able to write. To me these words are of little value, they fall from me in a hollow like manner absent of meaning greater than that of a subjective expression.
But alas it occurs to me that a symbolic death as an ends to a machine that consumes, produces and excretes is not a heuristic but an inevitable ontology of being. Thus consequentially the question is asked; not how does one 'die' but how should one 'die'.
There is a nostalgia in me; a yearning of the past to stay present that i continue to become a machine that which something is inserted and that which is removed is of some utility but here that triangulation is in question for me. For i feel like nothing more than that of excess or simply put an excrement of ideas.
not entirely able to step aside from this subjective obscure expressionist prose, i may attempt to state that it is at once comforting and offensive to be around people who do not tip toe nor are apologetic. I have around 30 hours of a negotiated intimacy with Critchley, intimate in the sense that it is somewhat orgiastic between the other 10 or so individuals in the room and that it is a negotiated debauchery between 6 others at the bar. The man is a brilliant philologist; which he'll resent me for saying (he'll label himself more like 'something in progress'), he spent the day railing on Baidou, presenting an experimental lecture on Bowie arguing distopia as utopia, while 4 hours earlier presenting a clandestine project on sophistry and skepticism towards the history of philosophy.
