A Farce
Haven’t we ever had a presentiment in the night, of expansion and contraction, wind stretching itself through leaves, an icicle fall, or the sound the air makes as it settles on the dust. And who’s to say that our life hasn’t led up to this barely noticed—barely created!—sound, the sound of a feeling.
We’re talking about the word-concept “teleology,” as if it were a thing about which we could talk. A thing the subject of Cezanne, the teleology of the viewed; Woolf, the teleology of the sensual self; Schoenberg, the teleology of harmonic structure; Joyce, the teleology of city life; Pynchon, the telology of plot itself. But—.
When we are talking about “teleology” we are talking about what? And now you may argue we are begging the question: for what is meaning but repetition? The repetition of an unutterable trace, the non-existent trace, arche, origin, which is repeated without limit—not infinite, without limit—until—?
If we give, offer, or submit that repetition of the [sous rature] source of meaning, and meaning that of existence [existenz], then mustn’t we admit teleology a so-called place in the canon of meaningful concepts? No. Until you feel ready to admit a place for the engauntled hand of justice concealing the withered hand of farce dictatorship; until you care for presence more than absence; until you yourself are the one “calling the shots,” so to speak, you cannot and must not acquiesce to “teleology,” as little as acquiesce to tumbling now living, then dead into a cold, unremoseful non-being, non-living, uncared-for state of dread fear.
The fear birds know the sound of a feeling as they trace the apsis of the knowing globe.
