When I see a candid photo of myself (a Department event, not having known I was being pic’ed), I know that the outward twerp hides me, as I’m inwardly not him (though I’m a creature of bad physical breeding).
Look, I’ve got decent aesthetic sensibility: I see that he doesn’t have a cute face (anymore—though his little smile can be cute).
I’m inwardly seen firstly through my eyes (after taking off the awfully thick lenses): aging pretty well. Inwardly, you’ve met me secondly (or firstly) only here.
My oral voice would have more manly resonance if I talked alot.
Anyway, I have a mind that’s singular, if a bit weird in its (my) sense of humor.
His unsolicitous face protects him from others’ ordinary fusion of outer and inner (“Stay away!”) and avoids my unwitting confusion (I love ‘unwitting’) of another’s unusual interest in me, as such interest must be about something I said.
Take me as I am or leave. I can’t surrender what life’s done to keep me laughing. For example, impersonating (fictioning) forlorn love to a “humorless” degree that might scare the hair off a princess is fun.
But hey, there’s no loss in learning what love has been in some lives by imagining a validity of It All in longing.
O-kay, I’m evil—well, no, a little daemonic.
Ha, after I one day show how all my conceptions of Better Living Through A Garden gel, I’ll die laughing (not that I’m the type who’d intend to ever die—never).
Isn’t it hilarious that, before T.S. Eliot titled his great poem “The Wasteland,” he wanted to title it “He Do The Police In Different Voices”?
It’s not my fault I have several heads. Though philosophical acuity is a wonderful thing (Don’t we agree), so too an intimacy of flourishing that’s erotic.
You’ll readily grant great appeal to a synergy of elation, infatuation, and inspiration (which isn’t manic—I’m never manic, just possessed on occasion by Woody Allen’s youth—when the voice was fresh). So, trust that high claims about conceptual gardening advance the Eros (which, you might recall from an earlier discussion, C.S. Peirce associates with the appeal of science—love that).
Yes, psychal highness is a fine affair—good for philosophy, good for joyous, beautiful living—through which I would enrapt you with the body I “have” (though embodiment is our way of being, not an accoutrement—notwithstanding The Market’s dependence otherwise). I would enwrap us as I’m given, into a slow making of love that lasts forever (given that you won’t die, too—or first—otherwise as textual trace).
“My complex subject is how love makes novels, how novels make love, how faith makes art, how art makes faith,” writes R.M. Polhemus, beginning Erotic Faith: being in love from Jane Austen to D.H. Lawrence.
Voices play to weave novel lives, whose threads (worn tropes) are narrating lines (threads speak for themselves), anticipating and recalling to amuse, one’s love.