A storm is coming in. I haven’t written much in the past year; often I hesitate to write at all. Yet, we may surmise a good reason to write and to …
Hopefully, taking this in-the Spirit, that is intended, I will have a Comment.
For now, perhaps read his first….
I am not usually open to being vulnerable. My way of life as been very spontaneous and without restraint, but I would not say intentionally or knowingly vulnerable. This is to say that my life was lead being vulnerable, but I did not know it. This manifested as a life of nothing, really; offensive as such a life is to most people, they take advantage without even knowing it as well. So unconsciously most of us live. And I had no means to understand what was happening; my understanding was necessarily withdrawn and reserved from anyone else’s view. Perhaps this is why I am a Counselor now, and why my life is the process of learning to be vulnerable as a life, that is, in and as a move of strength, reflective of a substance of Self.
This person’s reflection today struck a chord with me, and as I have a surprising two weeks off until my next life begins –this being the first day of my vacating my previous liminal living, of learning process, of growing conscious, of gaining distance for an intentional life — I am moved to comment more deeply, with more vulnerability, than I am usually am in my blogging here.
My resistance to the subjective life has lead me to, what I feel, is a more substantial life of truth. The vulnerability here is in finding that substance, one becomes able to show themselves without worry that others can take advantage. This, I think, exposes the problem with an expressed subjectivity from the perspective that subjectivity is the most intimate and thus legitimate means through which to encounter the world: it leads to nothing but more material subjects to consider.
Where would I be if I were nothing but a subject? Well, I wouldn’t be modern. Taken with complete reference to the phenomenological explorations we are so inundated with in philosophy and its social-critical theory, I have to say that the substance of my life is not modern, and yet, I indeed must contend with all of the modern world in which I find the subject of my Self.
There, I do not find my Self, but rather, I find that subject of myself.
Confirmed by the laborious mountain of 200+ years of phenomenal subjectivity founding everywhere and everything, from the basis of modern empirical science to the capitalistic products of our consumption, I believe that indeed the alienation so heavily explored as being a modern human is founded in the discrepancy between the subject reality of my Self and the actuality of my Self. In my work, I refer to this situation as concerning orientation.
But that is for the rest of my work.
Here, I am trying to be vulnerable while also commenting authentically on the feelings conveyed and aroused from the author’s post there.
I feel that the issue they deal with is that they are subsumed in finding their Self through the subject of themself, the phenomenality of historical texts as they appear to inform a real history. I feel they might be involved with a strange sleight of hand ideological trick of misdirection. I believe that François Laruelle is less a reference to the long history of subjectivity than the marker of a break with that tradition, and that to come upon Laruelle and his works in that specific context of history is to miss his point. As well, I see much of his works as increasingly having to deal with the biopolitical tide that works to pull the Self back out into the sea of modern, relative semanitc subjectivity, when what we are really attempting to achieve is the finding of the shore. I believe Heidegger referred to this shore in his works as home. I call this home-that-is-the-shore: the substance of Self. Or, the Object of the Subject.
I can appreciate this author’s wandering style of prose. Indeed, maybe I am doing it here as well, inspired by them.
Yet, as well, In reading the post, I felt a most unsettling drift. It is as though I could feel the author’s struggle to swim against the modern riptide, as though they are coming to the realization that they are losing the battle and are about to give up and just sink.
“Maybe at the bottom of this churning ocean, I might find rest,” I seem to hear from them, floating in the winds.
…And I wanted to offer a source of strength.
Maybe I have.
La ruelle: the small street.
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