An existential reflection on my heart

09/26/2019

An existential reflection on my heart

The world that is, now appears constricting. It's been awhile since I remember the scars on my heart. I had relapsed into an illusory rekindling. The space that was reserved for her but began to fade was sneakily occupied again, albeit briefly– a false sense of a restoration to feeling at home in the world. The closer the illusion was coming to a close, the more the uncanniness came into being. 

Serendipity at one instant, saccharine for the rest.

It is now the aftermath; the return of quick texts of longing suddenly retreated, ushered by a filling of the space she needs, but does not reserve, being taken up by someone else, a physical proximity– the danger– the reason for this destruction, which clears the ground for this inquiry; the clearing presences the event for authenticity. With such blinding, however, my eyes must close, the world in a shroud.

I walk a lot now; to school, to travel, to walk. My gait, when I take it as such, presences this tight wound body, steps trying to break free. I imagine the same space with people I interact with– that reservation– both the withdrawing and the holding place– brings to mind in memory, holding close the nostalgia and withdrawing from the present. But in doing so, my world is restricted by my own distancing; I am no longer absorbed in the world– the forest I tread through, the classroom I take a seat on, the seminar I am situated in. All these are distant and cloudy by my mind's hyperactivity; its incessant claims to priority. I feel a dissociation but no split between these modalities (I'm aware my thought has tyrannized my everyday being and its ability to relate to the world). My focus is on the sutures, put on a pedestal of power. But that's what's called for in a heartbreak, to call to mind that which opened up a world, overflowing with love, found in places I never thought to look.

I wrongly conceptualized these stitches as re-strains. As if to be taken out of Plato's cave and see the light as being-in-love, and to be re-strained back in the cave after the enlightenment is being-out-of-love. But that is a false dichotomy; a reviling romanticism! Now with the ground cleared, the soil is fertile to cultivate the earth once more. What must be done? I am a founder, a builder, and an architect. To edify this clearing is to design the Dasein– that is, to be (plan, understand, interpret) the human being-in-the-world. From, by and through the world, we may disclose, unveil, discover new ways of being in the same spirit as it was when the heart opened up the world through an overwhelming love fixated in the other becoming home. The space left behind should not be a fixed distance, rather, the space left for her presence should be freed up in the horizon of being– given its due as part of new horizons to be disclosed. Because to free oneself is to emancipate the fixated love and take it in stride, to heart, and with-being. As the world you're in can never eradicate what's in the world, you must look again with new eyes, an open heart and a free being. 

Cloudfold

September 20, 2019

Cloudfold

I find myself writing again. I got discouraged after an auto update deleted all my data. But while on a flight to see my dear baby sister,  I was looking outside the window and saw that we were flying through a cloud; a translucent veil of cloudy mist reveals only more clouds below. The sky sovereign above our aerial cruise. 

I am cloudwatching. The last time I did was with Renzo, a dear friend of mine. We would jam outside the music room beneath the sky in the key of D: just two classical guitars in dialog with the sky. 

The philosopher Martin Heidegger describes existence as coming to presence through the "fourfold": earth, divinity, mortal and sky" (See Building, Dwelling, Thinking). Through this quartet manifold do we relate to the world poetically. We are above the ground, beneath the sky, among others and, most difficulty, relate to higher powers/beings. 

And here I am, engaging with the vast openness of the sky, with more above. The horizon not merely a straight line, but a cascade of cloud ranges; air and water taking such detailed shapes yet can't be felt as we imagine them. The world indeed is opening up, but in what capacity? Flying is such a unique privilege. The window presents quite an unusual view to the land-dweller. The sky is no place for dwelling; the land beckons; the divine calls forth. 

I write, hundreds of feet from the ground, streaks of clouds pass me by; the occasional jet zooming through. Some clouds look like giant floating islands, or look like they're becoming one. They are so vivid; below only vague miniature depictions of the earth lived on is seen-- from afar.

I close my eyes and think of my body, I don't feel like I'm moving at 300 km/h. I'm stationary in myself yet my mind extends space: I am here but also becoming there. I find my breath; we are united in flux – the saving power of technology: this flying metal bird; the life giving breath. This givenness: in and out– this is the presencing of the divine.