As we know, everyone is a metaphysician, nor can man not be one short of a literal psychosis that results in no order to anything, both inside and out.
The qualified metaphysician is simply someone who reflects on this implicit order, not just of this or that aspect of reality, but of the totality. Metaphysics "aims in the first place at the comprehension of the whole Universe” from top to bottom, i.e., "from the Divine Order to the terrestrial contingencies” (Schuon).
Not so fast, Gagdad: isn’t that a bit presumptuous? Who said anything about a Divine Order?
Fair enough. We may or may not call it this at the end of our discussion, but for now it’s enough to call it the “vertical dimension,” or just “verticality.” But so long as you are truly open and minded, you will realize that this verticality is neither self-explanatory nor reducible to something else.
Indeed, the very first thing we know is actually two things that necessarily coarise: objects and our knowledge of them.
This is in contrast to animals, who perceive a world of objects which they cannot penetrate. They see only surfaces where we perceive essences. A man who sees only unintelligible surfaces would be a severely autistic nominalist.
Man as such turns walls into windows. But only because there is a skylight, more on which as we proceed.
So, it’s not possible to say or know anything about anything without presupposing this verticality. To say “there is no verticality” would be as nonsensical as saying “I am not speaking.”
Whence the desire of our class of pseudo-intellectual imbeciles -- or worse, intellectual imbeciles -- to bury the vertical, and metaphysics along with it, over the past few centuries? Why? What’s the motivation? And what’s the payoff?
I don’t recall ever posting about this question, but I suppose I have only to interrogate my former Bob to find out.
For example, if you had asked me back in the ‘90s what the conscience is, I would have assured you that it’s just a colloquial way of talking about the superego, which is a kind of internalized voice that punishes us for not going along with the more or less random rules of this or that culture, and rewards us when we do.
Morality itself is relative, but the superego makes it feel absolute, almost like “the voice of God,” if such a thing existed. Indeed, the existence of the superego is a big reason why people believe in God to begin with, since it is as if we are under the judging eye of an interior Other.
And if you had asked me about the ultimate source of the superego, I would have said something about the introjection of the father. Come to think of it, this is why people refer to God as “father,” since he’s mostly the projection of a big superego in the sky
It wasn’t until I started listening to Dennis Prayer in the 1990s that I realized how ridiculous this was. Take an obvious example: is murder wrong, or do we just imagine it’s wrong because our superego says so?
As obvious as that is, it couldn’t penetrate my stupidity at first, because there were other, equally important factors at play — all the usual leftist ones such as social status, moral and intellectual superiority, secular gnosis, class conformity, etc.
It’s almost Christmas, so I’m giving you a break: a short post.
14 comments:
I don't need a short break from reading your posts, I need a long break from shoveling snow. Blizzardy conditions are sposed to continue in my neck of the woods until Christmas Eve evening.
'would be as nonsensical as saying “I am not speaking.”'
modern buddhist would rage over this comment since they think that makes sense.
Who is raging, and why?
John, it sounds like a lot of the country is going to get a white Christmas, good and hard. I hope you and all the other folks here have a lovely Christmas weekend even so.
Whence the desire of our class of pseudo-intellectual imbeciles -- or worse, intellectual imbeciles -- to bury the vertical, and metaphysics along with it, over the past few centuries? Why? What’s the motivation? And what’s the payoff?
Trillion dollar question, there. People attuned to the vertical are a lot harder to control. Plus how else are you going to convince large numbers of people to sacrifice themselves and their children on the altar of the pagan god du jour?
Here it's a brutal 73˚, but it feels like 74.
It's a brisk 69 here, I'm wearing a sweater inside.
My daughter is a little disappointed that it won't be raining on Christmas.
Here it's 7 degrees, with steady 20 mph winds out of the west, and gusts to 40 mph just to keep you on your toes and cut your vision to 40 yards or so. Wind chills are around minus 20. The lake effect snow machine is continually adding to our accumulation count, though the wind is constantly moving it around so its hard to get an accurate count of inches. My evening cigar and bourbon is going to require an extra layer or two, and I'll have to sit on my back porch, instead of the front, to protect myself just a bit from the wind. No more shoveling snow tonight, but with two Christmas Eve masses, tomorrow, I'm gonna be a tad busy.
Brr! I think my favorite part of snow was being outside at night when the flakes are so flat and shiny they look like sequins raining down. Once we had to drive in it, I was over it. Saw more than a few winter car accidents in Ohio, plus the terrifying night when it was snowy & icy and suddenly out of the darkness we saw the reflector of an Amish carriage materialize directly in front of us. Somehow we missed them. The adrenaline kept us focused the rest of the way home.
Re. Christmas Masses, we're only doing one but it's going to be a doozy. Kids choir singing carols, plus a full pageant in place of the gospel reading, and of course my kiddos are doing both. Plus rehearsal in the morning.
In some ways, I like seeing the final rehearsals better than the actual performance, you get all the nuances without the pressure and the audience.
Reminds me, following on the music discussion from the other day, I was watching the choir practice yesterday afternoon and the girls were rehearsing Silent Night. The director had them run it though once a capella, and the moment they switched from unison to harmony, with just that bit of reverberating echo through the sanctuary (won't happen tomorrow because the house will be packed) was transcendent; full-on chills down the spine. Adding the piano back actually seemed to take something away from the composition.
It's noteworthy that Jesus when teaching us the Pater Noster didn't tell us to say Jesus's Father which art in heaven, but Our Father. That's understandable being made in His image and likeness and who else could be the Father of walking talking miracles, but unfortunately even at this late stage we reject the Divine aspect of Our nature and being demigods use our freewill to side with our lesser nature and behave as beasts.
I was born and raised in Ohio. Not much regular snow but it certainly happened. I fondly remember our own blizzard situation. Six of us kids shoveled driveway and sidewalk and with wheelbarrows, had enough snow to build a monster snow pile which with water poured on it, eventually became a bitchin snow fort. The best ever built, so we thought. It even had a slide!
I noticed our evil neighbors watching. Two ugly teenaged girls they were. I knew they were plotting yet another attack on our turf. And so devised plans. Military plans. We did play a lot of army together, after all.
When the attack came the teenagers tried to collapse the fort by climbing onto it and stomping down. But it was ice. Unfortunately for them, so were our snowballs. Four of us strategically chased them off into a narrow space between two houses which would seem an appealing retreat route towards the safety of their home. But two of us had run around the house and with pockets full of iceballs, pegged em both right in the face. And then the others arrived with even more iceballs. The ugly teenagers both left crying.
Anyways, that Saturday the three catholic boys attended mass. And on Sunday my own family went to our own church. I never saw those teenage girls going anywhere.
-5* here this morning, felt like -*25 with a thin layer of white stuff, but... that's OK, no way I'd even consider trading it for a *73 that feels like *74 - born there, done that.
In case family distracts me later, a very metaphysical Merry Christmas to One Cosmos and all!
Sonny Rollins:
A lot of slurdy and long versions, it is very bad. I told you to be clear. At first I thought it was herohero with drugs or liquor. I'm not playing Rollins. It will be quite a bit of time to blow. I can rest with a single note.
However, when I listen, I feel like I'm thinking desperately about how I should blow in my head rather than being boiled down to the ad-lib. It might be a patrony. Do not blow (do not blow), but do not give solo to members at all.
Hancook in Nauz the time “let's finish soon” and ending style solo start to play solo, endlessly and only continue solo with the potulipotri, what is approaching pretty demon there.
Perhaps the songs on this album are mostly rehearsal? However, in the appearance of Rollins who always strive in the inexhaustible adlib in Noh weather, I felt some kind of touching. Adlib... I don't want to practice. I think that the prototype of the act of expression is in this two-sheet set. It might be a patrony. However, if you are not interested in the prototype, it may be more painful than listening to Coltrane Ascension.
I think this reviewer hated the album, but then again he could be saying bad as in good, in which case he really loved it. Maybe a little too much.
Good Morning. 12 degrees, here. Still snowing here, this morning. Received another 5 inches, I'd say, overnight. Still windy, too, but only blowing at 18 mph vs. 20 mph yesterday. Time to move some snow.
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