What began as ill-conceived philosophical humour, ended in manic poetics and some metaphysics of change. From the author’s journal…
Plato, Marx, Hegel, and Aristotle walk into a bar. Somebody has an idea (after a few drinks)…
Plato sees the beauty of the idea, beyond the illusion, and gives himself over to becoming it, to absolving himself in it, to crafting his being after it, to safe-guarding it (ΑΓΕΩΜΕΤΡΗΤΟΣ ΜΗΔΕΙΣ ΕΙΣΙΤΩ: let no one ignorant of geometry enter here) at the gates of this barfly academy. If only the Platonists are privy to this eternally graceful “idea”, Dionysus bid them drink themselves under the table by it, baffled and bewildered by the shapes thrown by shadows upon the underside of which still holds our drinks, of innumerable forms of geometry and state-craft and mathematics and virtuous personhood for non-barbarous Athenian males.
Aristotle arrived at his idea, after tapped out and dried ran the rambling reverent Platonic diatribe, but then only after being deeply entranced in study of peanuts in a bowl and the form of his glass. Nature imitates craft! – from the tree in the nut to the bottle in the glass. Here is the first true becoming, for with Plato we are always only Being or illusion. Clearly also inebriated, Aristotle was all the while peering through the bottom of his empty glass as a periscope. “Natural laws” etched as the initials of the lenscrafter onto nature, seen through the stamp on his bottle: Bronze Statue Genuine Draft.
Hegel saw in each contender an argument no sooner than the (praise be!) everflowing river of booze run dry would run out of steam, bidding each drink ideas from the well into which flows history, into their own sublimation.
Marx, all drunk on Hegel’s spirits, dragged a one out of the river to take a look at the time. Heraclitus’ “Happy Hour” never ends! – Hegel will continue to shower his most pleasing in drink ‘till the hour they toast to the “end of history,” and sink.
Who drinks to death on Hegel’s dime, and drowns – feeling divine?
Who leaves with Marx, to discuss the art of making it out alive?
THE RIDDLE, PT. II
Plato built his republic under the table, at the side off which first spilled Hegel his wine; co-conspiring with shadow architects, the forms on cave walls did he find.
The Republic against time would stand like a fortress,
bulwarked against the sands of Ozymandias.
Time went by, Hegel’s wine went dry. Nothing gave testament of eternity so truly as the myriad irreducible grains in their beauty; where once under where now glows Heraclitus’ constellation flowed (sweet nectar for Platonists!) a river called “Information.”
History never ends for the slaves. The Republic was never built to house them. We have always enemies at the gate, where our watchmen’s scopes did not see, when outward push we the boundary of empire.
Less filthy things have died, rotted from the inside from too swiftly cementing their outer walls, when that drives them first out in search of Lebensraum, drives them explode and flow outward their bile. No walls, no eternity. With such contempt for the slaves, this so-called “Philosopher King” fallen off his stool in Hegelian hangover calls the reality of their immediate suffering an illusion.
Contemplating in sobering silence, as nature contemplates her sunrises, Aristotle at peace in Gaia’s scope nearly abandons hope. Illusions and invisible hands only ever augment the forces of the stronger. Economists fall under the spells of their false prophets. Marx mid-morning by the hair of the dog polishes off another glass bottle and thrusts it into the hands of Aristotle. Young Aristotle sees, it hath been made by slaves! The Gods must be crazy! Yet he raises it to his eye all the same, spelling metaphysics with das Capital ‘M’.
Taking up arms for a cause,
denying the eternity clause.
If ideology is a weapon, let us all at least behave like craftsmen and women, rather than as raving drunks!