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a horse with no name

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  • Trinidad Cruz
    It is a flat and direct thing to live. One has not actually begun living at all until one has had no hope and no dreams. That is where life as an
    Message 1 of 1 , Dec 1, 2005
      It is a flat and direct thing to live. One has not actually begun
      living at all until one has had no hope and no dreams. That is where
      life as an existentialist begins, empty of hopes and dreams, mind and
      body broken on existence. From there the view is laser straight, and
      utterly unobstructed. It is a flat and direct thing to eat, not the
      thinking of it, not the planning for it, not the effort of obtaining,
      not even the taste of it, just the difference between hungry and not
      hungry. To eat otherwise is to dream food, or hope for food, and be
      still hungry, still unfed. It is a flat and direct thing to love, not
      the thinking of it, not the planning for it, not sacrifice, not
      satisfaction, not kindness, not goodness. For Sartre being for-itself
      and being for-another cancel each other out, explode each other,
      vacate each other, nullify each other. Giving love is dying for the
      individual. Receiving love is dying for the individual. Love is the
      set of voids, the new individual, the absurd individual, the couple,
      the family, the tribe, the community, the nation, the species. Mere
      hopes and dreams dissuade, devalue, denigrate, deter, and drive it
      from the flat and direct, leaving it empty and broken. Love vacates
      the individual. A child is born, a child on a flat and direct line
      toward adulthood, a potential individual evolved of the death of two
      other individuals, born to vacate, to null, to dissipate itself and
      another, to love. We are canceled as individuals because two other
      individuals were canceled for us. Love is an inevitable flat and
      direct cancelation of the individual in existence. It is because alone
      cannot be. Being for-itself and being for-another are the same thing.
      One may not be for-another without being for-itself. One may not be
      for-itself without being for-another. It is this a child is
      practicing. A child does not love. It grows to it; toward a set of
      voids that is adulthood. For Sartre the human species is utterly
      connected by free choice, a flat and direct line before, through, and
      out of the individual; an absurd choice, a choice for presence and
      presented, there and not there, a choice for love. It appears of its
      own accord, cannot be sought or provided. It is or isn't. From this
      night and day, this here and not here, we remember we are free and
      individual, presented on a flat and direct line toward freedom and
      individuality as a species in a cosmos, as well as single human
      beings. One is for-itself, then for-another, then connected together
      as one individual for another, and ultimately into the void. We are
      marked out and remembered as another. We cannot help one another cry
      unless we are childen, and grownups can choose tears or not. Life is
      like a glass of water. You either drink it, give it to someone else to
      drink, or dump it out. What good does it do to give a drink of water
      to one who's thirst can never be quenched?

      For Sartre: to limit another is sadistic, and to allow oneself to be
      limited is sadistic. If we are to overcome this natural sadistic
      nature we must be flat and direct in living. If we live without dreams
      and hope, without transcendental expectation, with nothing to believe
      in but ourselves, destitutes in existence, there is nothing left to be
      sadistic toward. I do not attack another's joy. If it is a joy that
      can be taken away; it is not joy at all. Once I was dying of thirst.
      Someone gave me a drink of water. That joy of quenching my thirst is
      something that remains with me for however long I will be. It will
      never change, flat, direct, indescribably delicious. If you can
      describe the taste, the motive, the hope, the dream, of thirsting, of
      quenching, you have never had either. Philosophy tends toward Derrida
      today, the slow and tasty job of deconstruction, existentialism tends
      toward Sartre, the sadistic annihilation of the taste that vacates
      meaning. In the end, in matters of love, only the thirsty are quenched.

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