Armin Hey
Eyes open. Oh man; red wine hangover. Quick glance to the mountains. Wish I was there. Breathing in the clear heights of the cosmos, so near to the stars. To be free and become one with the undisturbed nature.
That would be nice.
But the Alps don't grow out of an old couch, and Sabine's pizza isn't stuck on a great glacier. She raged if you didn't say “Ssabiihn”. Was she still alive? Doesn't matter. Eyes closed.
No! Eyes open. Shit, that report. Oh-My-God. This morning. Hegel's Logic. Not even looked at it.
Oh well, doesn't matter, too late. Eyes closed.
No! Eyes back open. Dammit! Not again. Let's go! Bucket of coffee.
Or better that half-glass of wine left over from yesterday? Doesn't really taste very good, but it warms up the insides. Yes, better, that works after all.
So, just don't panic. It's not Dracula; it's just a text. One can read it. And understand it. After all, the words are made of normal letters. That's it, begin at the beginning.
Forward, introduction, blah blah, no time for that. Here we go; Section 1. Let's go:
Pure being and pure Nothing are therefore the same. The Truth is neither Being nor Nothing rather that the Being in Nothing and the Nothing in Being – does not transform – rather is transformed. Their Truth is thus the movement of direct disappearance of one into the other: the Becoming.
No way! That is not fair.
The mountains stick majestically and untouched on the wall. They are so glorious. If I could only be there now. Breathing in deeply and lying in the sun.
Being is Nothing and both are nothing but the Becoming. Here's to your health.
Nevertheless, one thing is clear: exemplary analysis. Read no further sentence from this botch. And meditate something to these three sentences.
Where is it best to meditate? That's right. Off to the bathtub!
Nice and hot, add some bubble bath, mountain larch needles, humming. “Ommm.” Wicked. That rumbles all the way down to the privates.
Let's see. Becoming. How does one become, in truth? Without fancily worded brain farting? How does it all begin?
One starts as a pile of cells, dividing away and some when after a couple of weeks, one begins to feel something. First, ommm, in oneself. Without knowing it or understanding it of course. But how would one tell it, if it could be told?
Inhale – Exhale – In...
In the beginning is a breath, unendlessly gentle, nearly not there. From where? No one knows. Only a breath. Without a name.
The breath rises out of the great nothing, and since it comes from there, the great nothing is the great being and both are one and are a becoming. That is the beginning.
The breath spreads out, becomes thicker, larger, turns into a current. Slowly and long and very gentle. How long? No one asks.
The current ebbs and flows, up and down, a pulsing.
All of time, all of space pulses. The cosmos is a pulsing. From eternity to eternity a pulsing. Welling up and subsiding. Yes.
Welling up makes taut, subsiding lightens. Afterwards. A rainfall. It falls into tautness, after the lightness.
The rain brings with it a tickle that grows in itself and breaks over, like a wave breaks, over with ancient calmness. Yes. More powerful and sharper than the older pulsing. Three-times yes. When the towering wave breaks over, it gladly gives itself over to the falling down into the valley of gentle calmness and dissipates there. Released.
New stimulation now. How it that? Why? From where? No one asks. The cosmos is suddenly not only a sea, it is also a counter current; it holds back the stirring emotion, meets it with a new tickle. Suddenly, there are noises, a bubbling, a rumble, a pat. Suddenly, there is a picture there, a cloudiness, a billowing, with colour, light and shadow. Suddenly, there is taste.
Sweet. With this appears that one very special seasoning: difference. Enjoyment becomes refined, no longer just up and down and appears more often as sweetness, a bubbling, light. The cosmos becomes a composition, a charming orchestra playing in time with a regular rushing pulse. As such, the cosmos expands itself and its reign. Everything, everything is good. Everything is joy.
And so it could play on and on, stimulating itself, gladdening, expanding, dissipating and renewing. For all eternity.
To be scared of this is not very wise. Whomever does not want this play of delight, he will not get anything else, rather he has to take what he gets.
Because from the beginning is the breath, the current, the pulsing, the continually expanding, the becoming-ever-richer cosmos. And this is from the beginning also experience, sensibility and orderly preservation, is blood, nerve and brain. The body's cosmic enjoyment of itself can be found as well in the word as the sympathy for the enjoyment, as joyful recognition and feeling, as compassion. With this orientation, the brain grows larger, expands, forms itself on the insides, gives itself structure. With this constellation, numerous parts of the body are related:
Blood flowing congenially enjoying the cosmic joy. This is the initial, fundamental mood in every person, so is he of joyful enjoyment, for everything is good and drawn to him. From the beginning, the human is a growth of joy, in every fibre, in every structure in his entire architecture. Of our body and soul its holy glue-clime, is the carelessly silly internal rhyme.
This cosmic play also transcends itself outside and inside and thereby inserts time that did not exist earlier. This causes the mind to loose its balance. The flowing blood was everything and now it is nothing. The pulsing was everything and now it is nothing. The sounds, the sweetness, the rain was everything and now it is nothing. The mind tumbles and cannot directly make sense of it all. Because suddenly the outside breaks in with cold and heat, with hunger and thirst, before with extreme narrowness. That is called birth. Catastrophe.
Nevertheless, during and after all of the misfortune, the blood flows continually, the heart beats on, different sensations break over again and again into the valley of calmness and dissolve, are dissolved for a little while: never again everything, but memories and hunger for joy. The mind becomes yearning. Yearning for everything. Yearning for joy.
Eyes open. Uh – cold. Fingers wrinkled. Time's up. Get out.
Anything left in the bottle? Yes, half a glass to wake up with. Toast.
Nice dream. What? Can't remember. What now? Oh-My-God. Hegel, naturally.
That won't happen. Adorno once said, regarding Hegel sometimes one literally does not know what he is talking about. So there. Better luck next semester. Oh well.
Maybe call up Sabine. Hiking together to the south? Up in the mountains?
That's it.
The gorgeous, untouched air, the breadth. In the night, lying arm in arm in a meadow in the middle of heaven. The stars above us. Joy in us.
Jee-sus, what a corny ending. Telephone.
“Hello? Ssabiihn?”
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