Posted 06 March 2006 - 20:59
Otkačila sam na Ludviga W.
zbog njegove teorije sveta
i filozofskih briga
i pogleda koje sadrže
Plava i Smeđa knjiga
i zato što je pisao malo,
a objavljivao još manje
bio totalno nepredvidiv,
izazivao veliko dranje
kao onda kada je na skupu
engleskih filozofa napravio sranje
i umesto o logičkoj formi
govorio o beskonačnosti u matematici
jer po njemu činjenica, smisao
i model stvarnosti nalaze se u slici
uopšte, Ludvig Vitgenštajn uticajem
koji je izvršio bio je u prilici
da se smatra ocem dve značajne
filozofske škole dvadesetog veka
mada je po von Wrightu živeo
na granici duševne bolesti, bez leka
ipak je nalazio svrhu filozofije
u logičkom razjašnjavanju misli
od toga nije odustao
ni kada su ga u Donjoj Austriji pritisli
seljaci iz Trattenbacha,
gde je par godina kao učitelj radio
valjda je zato otišao kod monaha
jer mu se ljudsko zlo zgadilo
toliko da je Raslu pisao iz sela
„da su ljudi u Tratttenbachu zli”
ne kapirajući da je stvoren za velika dela
a filozof ga je iz Kembridža tešio
pišući mu „da su svi ljudi zli”
posle je živeo kao vrtlarski pomoćnik
blizu Beča, u jednom samostanu
gde mu je opet pukao film
pa je skroz gurnuo filozofiju u stranu
a studirao je kod Bertranda Rasela
u Kembridžu i svirao klarinet
bavio se eksperimentalnom psihologijom
i pomišljao da bude dirigent
ali je sve ostavio i otišao u Norvešku
i živeo na nekakvoj farmi
činjenica je, sve do rata,
ništa nije moglo da ga podjarmi
u Engleskoj je eksperimentisao sa jedrilicama
studirao aeronautiku u Mančesteru
i skroz bez plana
otkačio na čistu matematiku,
a onda u Jeni na Fregeova dela
zato je i otišao kod Rasla u Kembridž,
da ga pita, istina je cela:
„Molim Vas, hoćete li mi reći
da li jesam ili nisam totalni idiot?
Ako sam totalni idiot, postaću aeronaut,
a ako nisam postaću filozof.”
Rasel mu tada savetuje
da aeronaut ne treba da postane
na šta on odlazi na sever,
živi u kolibi, posmatra vrane
i piše Logičko filozofsku raspravu,
ili je to u zarobljeništvu bilo
pojma nemam, ali znam
da mu je u to vreme
i nasledstvo palo u krilo
Vitgenštajn ga je brzo podelio,
deo je dao za literature unapređenje
i tako postao dobrotvor Traklu i Rilkeu,
sledeći svoje opredelenje
pa se bacio na vajarstvo i arhitekturu
i gradio za sestru nekakvu palatu
smešno, a bio je dobrovoljac
u prvom svetskom ratu
i stalno vodio dnevnik
i pripremao logičku raspravu
o objašnjavanju prirode stvari
imajući ideju zdravu
da se o filozofskim problemima
ne može smisaono govoriti
a o čemu se ne može govoriti,
kaže, o tome se mora ćutati
pa je ćutao deset godina
i mnogi su mislili da će prolupati
jer, činjenica je, troje mu je braće
život samoubistvom završilo
a i njegov je bio takav
da je pravo čudo
da ga nešto nije skršilo
počev od 1889. kada se rodio
u porodici jevrejskog porekla
otac mu je bio krupni industrijalac,
producent gvožđa i čelika
a Vitgenštajna je opsedalo
kako mi pravimo sebi činjenice slika
kontao je da se struktura činjenice
sastoji od struktura stanja stvari
uspeo je od filozofije i aktivnost
pokazivanja neizrecivog da napravi
za života je objavio jednu knjigu,
jedan članak i jedno pismo samo
iako mu lutanje kroz oblasti
ni najmanje nije bilo strano
time je sebe učinio sopstvenom metom
Ludvig Vitgenštajn, filozof s klarinetom
što je sebe povremeno držao za idiota
ipak je proživeo pravo čudo od života."
Posted 06 March 2006 - 21:03
Posted 06 March 2006 - 21:46
ok ovo drugo je Platon uguglacio sam ga
Edited by 3opge, 06 March 2006 - 21:48.
Posted 06 March 2006 - 21:47
Drugo: Sokratova smrt. Trebalo je čuti Ljubu Tadića kako to izgovara
Posted 06 March 2006 - 22:05
Nobody is asleep.
The creatures of the moon sniff and prowl about their cabins.
The living iguanas will come and bite the men who do not dream,
and the man who rushes out with his spirit broken will meet on the
the unbelievable alligator quiet beneath the tender protest of the
Nobody is asleep on earth. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is asleep.
In a graveyard far off there is a corpse
who has moaned for three years
because of a dry countryside on his knee;
and that boy they buried this morning cried so much
it was necessary to call out the dogs to keep him quiet.
Life is not a dream. Careful! Careful! Careful!
We fall down the stairs in order to eat the moist earth
or we climb to the knife edge of the snow with the voices of the dead
But forgetfulness does not exist, dreams do not exist;
flesh exists. Kisses tie our mouths
in a thicket of new veins,
and whoever his pain pains will feel that pain forever
and whoever is afraid of death will carry it on his shoulders.
the horses will live in the saloons
and the enraged ants
will throw themselves on the yellow skies that take refuge in the
eyes of cows.
we will watch the preserved butterflies rise from the dead
and still walking through a country of gray sponges and silent boats
we will watch our ring flash and roses spring from our tongue.
Careful! Be careful! Be careful!
The men who still have marks of the claw and the thunderstorm,
and that boy who cries because he has never heard of the invention
of the bridge,
or that dead man who possesses now only his head and a shoe,
we must carry them to the wall where the iguanas and the snakes
where the bear's teeth are waiting,
where the mummified hand of the boy is waiting,
and the hair of the camel stands on end with a violent blue shudder.
Nobody is sleeping in the sky. Nobody, nobody.
Nobody is sleeping.
If someone does close his eyes,
a whip, boys, a whip!
Let there be a landscape of open eyes
and bitter wounds on fire.
No one is sleeping in this world. No one, no one.
I have said it before.
No one is sleeping.
But if someone grows too much moss on his temples during the
open the stage trapdoors so he can see in the moonlight
the lying goblets, and the poison, and the skull of the theaters
Posted 06 March 2006 - 22:06
Posted 06 March 2006 - 22:54
Posted 08 March 2006 - 00:40
i još malo
Posted 09 March 2006 - 02:29
What I felt
I was unrecognizable to myself
I saw my reflection in a window I didn’t know
My own face
Oh brother are you gonna leave me
On the streets of Philadelphia
I walked the avenue till my legs felt like stone
I heard the voices of friends vanished and gone
At night I could hear the blood in my veins
Black and whispering as the rain
On the streets of Philadelphia
Ain’t no angel gonna greet me
It’s just you and I my friend
My clothes don’t fit me no more
I walked a thousand miles
Just to slip the skin
The night has fallen, I’m lyin’ awake
I can feel myself fading away
So receive me brother with your faithless kiss
Or will we leave each other alone like this
On the streets of Philadelphia
Downtown Philly '02
Posted 09 March 2006 - 06:14
Perhaps he isn't. I decide to call Mr. Questioner and ask him what he thinks about it all. Is Dawes Williams dead? Soon, foreshortened in my mirror, I notice my hand reach for the phone in my room. In the dark a cigaret is lit. I smoke it down and wander forth to communicate with the world at large. Filled with a terrible anxiety, I begin speaking too soon - into the dial tone:
"Hello?" I begin. "Is this spaceship Earth? I'm afraid we're in trouble. The dome is cracking. Let me speak with the captain, please. I think there's icebergs north of Uranus."
There is a pause at the other end. A horrible silence. Finally someone answers.
"Helllo? Night-line," I hear.
"Hello?" I say. "Do you always pronounce your hellos with three l's?"
There is another pause. I listen to myself breathe into my phone and out of my radio. Strangely fascinated, I decide finally I am being asked to respire into a heart-lung machine without losing consciousness.
"Hello?" I hear again. "Who is this?"
"Thiis is Thomas Aquinas," I say right out front. "I just called in tonight to explain everything that's happened in the history of the world in some detail."
"Hello? Mr. Questioner?"
"Yes? Go ahead."
"Yes. Parry and thrust, eh? Well, it's me again."
"Yes, it is."
"Have you called before?"
"Yes? Well, do you have an opinion on anything?"
"Yes," I say. "Don't you?"
There is a pause.
"Go on, please," he says.
"Yes, hello, whoever, go ahead."
"Am I on?"
"Hello. Hello. Are you even there?"
"Hello? Mr. Questioner?"
"Hello? Mr. Questioner?"
"Yes, yes, yes. Hello?"
"Yes? Well, good evening then, Mr. Questioner. I've been trying to reach your program for some while now."
"Yes, I have. I'm breathless."
"For some while now?"
"That's right. For some while now."
"Is that right?"
"Yes, that's right. But I've been busy pasting old pictures of Bob Hope into scrapbooks since October. I've got over four thousand. Some in color."
"Yes, yes," he says. "Is that all you wanted?"
"Yes? Go ahead?"
"Go ahead. Yes?"
"But that's not what I called in for," I say. "Mr. Questioner? Are you there?"
"Yes, I am. Go ahead."
"Well," I begin, clearing my throat, "what I called in for was to inform your listeners of the fantastic interrelatedness of all historic events."
"That sounds like an interesting, worthwhile subject," he says.
"It is," I say. "It's fascinating."
"That's fascinating," he says. "I hadn't thought of it."
"Yes," I say. "Well, I had."
"What does it mean?" he says.
"WHAT DOES IT MEAN!?!" I say, catching my breath. "It means if Charlemagne would have died three years earlier, A. B., we wouldn't even be in Vietnam. I reckon we'd be just now fighting over Byzantium with the Cherokee Indians somewhere on the plains of the Transvaal."
There is a silence.
"Battle of the Limpopo, A. B.," I say. "We're not exactly the intellectual descendants of Bartholomew de Las Casas, you know."
"Good point," he says. "I hadn't thought of it."
"All relative turnings become absolute once they become," I say.
There is a long silence. One can picture Mr. Questioner communing with some lost a priori flap of his mind by pulling down firmly on the single iamb of his lower lip. Sitting alone in the dark, dancing with the crooning lost ape of his banana microphone, soon he is scratching his head.
"Hello?" I say. "Is this still night line? Am I on? A. B.?"
"Yes?" he says finally.
"May I speak now?"
"Yes," I say, "well, you're probably wondering why I really called in tonight."
“No,” he says.
"No?" I say.
“No,” he says. “I thought you’d probably get around to telling me? Most of’m do?”
“All right,” I say. “I will. I just called in tonight to say I am leaving the country.”
“Are you one of those kind?” he says.
“No,” I say, “I’m not. But don’t you worry – I’m taking Dawes Williams with me.”
“I see,” he says.
“Do you?” I say.
Silence. In my phone I can hear myself breathing in my radio all over again.
“Mr. Questioner …?”
“What is it you WANT!?!”
“Don’t play dumb with me,” he says. “You must WANT something.”
“I don’t want anything,” I say.
“No,” I say. “Well, nothing spectacular, I guess.”
“No. Nothing spectacular,” I say. “Although I do think I am missing a fantastic chance to say something relevant here.”
“I certainly do.”
“But you must want to say something,” he says. “They always do. Don’t you have any opinions at all?”
“All right then,” I say, “if you want to be that way. Let me just say I called in then to wish you a good night. Is that all right?”
“Yes. I’m going to bed now.”
“To bed? Now? That’s all?”
“Yes. Not quite,” I say. “Dawes Williams wears mittens and an old felt hat when he goes to bed any more. Thinks it’ll cure him.”
“Is that all?”
“Yes, it is. I think so.”
“Well, it’s not. I’m also going insane in a crazy way.”
There is an embarrassing silence.
“Well, how nice,” he says, trying to ride over everything. “Good night.”
“Nice in what way, would you say, Mr. Questioner?” I say. “Nice like little girls and candy canes? Metaphysically nice?”
“Good night!” he says.
“Yes,” I say, “it has been a good night. Thanks for answering.”
There is a silence like an amazed sack exploding slowly.
“Can I ask why?” he says.
“You can,” I say.
“All right,” he says. “Why?”
“Well,” I say, “because my cousin and doppelganger Dawes Williams is over in the corner, dying finally, and because he doesn’t bother me any more. “
The phone hums on, dancing between us.
“I see,” he finally says.
“Yes, I think I do,” he says. “I’m sorry about it.”
“I sincerely doubt that, Mr. Questioner.”
“You shouldn’t doubt me in public,” he says. “It’s not polite.”
“Yes,” I say. “I been around. I doubt it.”
“Why?” he says. “We’re perfect strangers. How can you doubt me?”
“Why not?” I say. “I doubt a lot of things.”
“I certainly do. I doubt you are even there.”
“How can you?”
“But that is incredible!” he finally says.
“No, it’s not,” I say. “It’s epistemology.”
Then, reaching deeply, almost hurting himself, he says:
“Don’t you believe your ears? What about Locke and Hume? I am empirically here, for Christsake,” he says desperately.
“No,” I say. “Don’t think so. Once I have hallucinated, all reality is hallucinated retrospectively. Perhaps you are only hallucinating that greatest of all communal hallucinations – everyday Reality.”
“What does this mean?” he says.
“Good Question, Mr. Questioner,” I say. “It means it will be very hard to ever become Republican again.”
“Well,” he says, “these philosophical arguments are impossible to resolve. But they’re a lot of fun.”
There is uneasy silence. For only a moment Mr. Questioner has had to look at himself and recognize he might even not be there. The moment, however, passes quickly. Clearing his throat, Questioner wonders:
“But how could this Dawes Williams be dying?”
“I’m glad you asked that,” I say.
“Of course. That’s the real reason I called. I’m glad you asked, because just now he’s over there, sitting on the windowsill, looking out into a distance of impossible space, trying to commit suicide with a phonograph.”
“Is this some kind of gag?” Questioner says. “Is that possible?”
“It is,” I say. “He’s trying to swallow it.”
“Is he having any success?”
“He’s having a hell of a time, A.B.,” I say. “I thought your listeners might be interested.”
“What’s he doing now? Can I ask?”
“You can,” I say. “And we consider your interest touching.”
“But can it work?” he says.
“It can,” I say. “It is a miniature Japanese-component stereo; and it blooms and ignites with infinite noise on contact with water – special, sacrificial bottled waters shipped over here from old and sacred Oriental springs.”
“Sounds like the latest fad,” Questioner says. “Is that all?”
“No. Kate Smith still is singing.”
“Aren’t you going to even call an ambulance?”
“No, not really.”
“Why is he doing it? Is that it? Is that what you want to know?”
“Because, because. Yes, yes.”
“Well,” I say, “because, A. B., he has become so deluded he thinks he’s pregnant with twins.”
“Yes. That’s right. He’s afraid they will be girls.”
“Yes. I think so, too. I keep telling him he’s crazy, that they’ll probably be boys, but he doesn’t listen to me.”
There is another embarrassed silence.
“Mr. Questioner …?” I say almost humbly.
“Maybe you could tell him. Maybe he’d listen to you. Maybe you could announce over the air he isn’t going to have twins,
Posted 09 March 2006 - 06:17
“Is that why you called me?”
“That’s why I called you, A. B.,” I say. “But don’t worry about all that jargon now. If you’d just announce over the air that Dawes Williams isn’t going to have twins, I’m sure it would help.”
“Is that all? Don’t you want to say anything else?”
“Don’t you think I’ve said enough yet?” I say.
“Perhaps,” he says. “But don’t you want to say something more?”
“All right,“ I say. “I’d just like to say how much I’ve always enjoyed your show, Mr. Questioner.”
“You have? Thank you.”
“Yes. I have. Even Dawes Williams has enjoyed it in his better moments.”
There is a dead, ringing silence. For a moment I think Mr. Questioner has gone out at the other end, that I am pathetically alone once again.Then, happily, I can hear the rise and fall of his soft breathing pick up again.
“But don’t you have any opinions?” he says. “What do you think of the war? The election? Castro? Are you a Humphrey or a Nixon man?”
“That’s very funny,” I say, knowing full well I could have cost either candidate the eastern half of the state by merely pronouncing his name just then. But I have no malice. Besides, there isn’t enough difference in the two for even a pedant like me to pick up on.
“Yes, but what do you think?” Questioner says.
“Well,” I say, “looking back, I think everything has gone especially unwell since 1648, the Peace of Westphalia, and the end of the Thirty Years’ War… Only Dawes Williams is registered to vote, Mr. Questioner.”
“I think I see now,” Questioner says. “You are very dependent, as they say, on this Dawes Williams and you don’t like it. You should get out more.”
“Yes,” I say, “Dawes Williams is very patriotic.”
“I don’t quite think I see what you mean?”
“Well,” I say, “I mean Dawes Williams was to take me to the polls with him. An outing! A chance to see the world once again!”
“And now you can’t go?”
“And now I can’t go, A. B. Dawes Williams is dying, A. B.”
“Perhaps I could arrange a ride to the polls through one of the major parties for you. You could still go. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I would be glad to …”
“I don’t think you quite understand yet, A. B. You see, Dawes Williams is taking my heart, blood and liver with him when he goes.”
“Oh?” he says. “I hadn’t heard about that, I don’t think.”
“I don’t think you understand, Mr. Questioner. You see, Dawes Williams is not really schizoid – he’s just talking through his death mask.”
“Oh … yes … of … course,” he says. “I think I can see that now.”
“I hardly think so,” I say. “But someday you will. Surprised, on your deathbed you will ask your soul to fly over the moon and be disappointed when it doesn’t. Good night, Mr. Questioner.”
“Good night then. Thank you for calling.”
“Good night. And thank you for answering.”
Suddenly the line goes dead. I am alone again now: receiver and extension hung up neatly on its hook. Existence drifts off once more with the night. It leaves no sign, no paw in the snow to remember itself by.
I would probably not come along that path again to see it lying there, surprised and looking back, anyway.
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