Historicity Destroys Legend

The following is an email sent from Art to the group on 10 April 2016.

The Last Sleep of Arthur in Avalon by Edward Burne-Jones

I love aphorisms. Nietzsche is particularly good to read as a collection of isolated aphorisms, most especially at The Nietzsche Family Circus. I also took some inspiration from Liza's cut-outs from The Believer article on the writing style of Roland Barthes. (Wow, that had a lot of subordinate phrases, but that's the reality—frames within frames!)

I've begun to think that it might be fun to do a bunch of aphorisms that are ostensibly taken from a full-fledged text that doesn't exist, such as The Principles of Theory: A Systematic Approach to Ideas, or the seemingly more pamphlet-like “What is Knology?” I am especially proud of “Joseph Lazarus is not only the most complete guitarist of his generation, but also the most complete human being,” which is a rip off of Sartre's comments on Che Guevara. How would that have ever come up in the pamphlet (or treatise or interview or feature article) on Knology?

I would love some of the more philosophically trained among you (Allison? Joe?) to start trying to “connect the dots” as to what this philosophy actually is, kind of like what some have tried to do with Nietzsche and Kierkegaard, which is to try to systematize aspects of their philosophies after the fact due to the often oblique and evasive styles of writing.

Will, your “tons of likes” statement brings me back to an original strategy for the project. We've talked extensively about the significance and importance of likes, favorites, retweets, reposts, embeds, but, as we well know, we get nearly none of those things. And I understand the reason for that, namely, that the posts are too confusing to inspire anyone to mouse over and give us a thumbs up on anything. Not to say that what all of you have contributed hasn't been incredible—it has—it's just the way we frame it makes it hard to contextualize. Plus, we have so little actual existence in the “real” world.

Still, in accepting any of this as an excuse, we've lost sight of the critical aspect of the project, its fundamental and essential donnée.

The project is supposed to show how in our current age, the frame is more important than its contents, the proscenium is more important than the scenium, the smoke is more important than the fire, the echo is more important than the utterance. In fact, the project attempts to take this to the degree where those former things—the antecedents or referents—no longer exist. So many reasons for this that have been discussed ad nauseam and I don't want to get into it all over again.

Will, in addition to a central contributor to the project, you've been pretty much its only groupie. My main point in this email is that we may need more people willing to be groupies, to be frames, to be echo chambers. And I'm going to argue that this groupie-hood should not be based on any quality inherent in the content. It should be groupie-hood for the sake of groupie-hood. Call it groupidity. This is a central precept of Knology. Gotta get that on an inspirational meme soon.

I'm not saying that this should be any of you by the way. Honestly, I appreciate any likes you can give, but I don't want you to give them unless it makes any kind of sense to you. Perhaps, you have some better ideas of how we can cause this to flourish without attempting to endow any further reality to the original, which should remain shrouded in doubt.

Once this dynamic is established, I believe we begin to harness the power of infinite regress, the infinite series of receding images produced by two facing mirrors. I understand the argument that we should strive to make the primary as meaningful, sincere, relevant, interesting, entertaining, engaging, helpful, good, true, or beautiful as possible. But I also argue that's just what they'll be expecting us to do. More importantly, that's missing the whole point—the whole dynamism of the Female King, the Symbolism of Ophelia, the Wisdom of Silenus, the Tunnels within Tunnels, the Restaurant within a Restaurant, and so many others.

It goes back to the idea hinted at throughout Tennyson's Idylls of the King: that of Arthur and Camelot's nonexistence. It is this absence of historicity that makes Arthur—not Richard the Lionhearted—England's enduring image of king.

In other words, anyone looking for an underlying principle in any of this will be disappointed. There is no principle; there's only what comes after. That's why we're always dodging, refusing to go on record, why every narrator is untrustworthy, etc. We're hinting at an absence, a lack. We're trying to get people to stumble across the event horizon of a black hole.

This isn't to say that I don't love all the ideas. I love Liza's zine idea. (I wish we could somehow mass produce “Cartography of the Mind”!) I love Will's podcast idea. I love Nick's journalistic idea. I love the recording idea. I'd love to do as many of those things as possible. That said, I also love Joe's documentary-footage-on-a-dead-computer idea.

Because historicity destroys legend!

A Wounded Name

The following is an excerpt of an email sent from Art to the group on 26 March 2016.

Ophelia by John Everett Millais

Honestly, the last few months of relative silence has kind of sapped my enthusiasm for the project. We were having that deep conversation about how could social media possibly prepare one for the “Profound Aloneness,” and had some deep answers to that question, but the answer seems to be quite a bit more mundane: you get used to a certain amount of interaction and excitement and the affirmation that comes from that, and when it dries up you feel more alone and depressed than you did before. It's just the simple mechanism of addiction and withdrawal. No big whoop.

Yeah, it's “circus animals desertion” time for me. I've got nothing for this project. I don't see its purpose and my goal at this point is to see it through to its end. Liza's incredible illuminated book will air in April, mostly Farthington's voicemail and my own unanswered emails to the group in May and June, and then a trickle of voicemails with a final one on July 4, 2016.

The end.

Back in college, I took on the task of transcribing the Civil War journal of my great-great-great-great uncle, Augustus Cochran MacKenzie, who was a doctor on a boat participating in the blockade of the South. I don't remember much about the first half of his journal, just getting used to the idea that his f's were actually s's. There was some entry about shooting at fish and going ashore to “find some woman to make love to.” At the very end of the journal, he seems to have gone nuts. He had some of his recipes for medicine, but just before that he had some scrawlings like “GOT THE THING BY THE THROAT” and a couple other such things. He ended up spending the latter part of the war in Portsmouth Naval Hospital, the same hospital where I was born some hundred years later. Somehow he pulled himself together enough to go up to Negaunee and become one of the early doctors of the UP.

And of course, all of those transcriptions are on a dead PC in a landfill somewhere. I think the journal is still over at my parents' place, but I'm not sure where.

Anyway, this journal has apparently influenced me profoundly, because for some reason I feel that this is the way that books are meant to end. I've never finished anything, never gotten past the preliminaries of any full-fledged project. And yet--on some deeper level--I feel that, in accomplishing nothing, I've accomplished exactly what I wanted to accomplish. Like my great-great-great-great uncle, I don't even get to the halfway point, leave the second half blank, and scrawl a little insanity at the end (perhaps with some preliminary notes about the next project). I'm just hoping that someone will happen upon this years later and find it vaguely unsettling. Same thing with The Principles of Theory: some vague sketches of something bad happening and a disturbing epilogue.

Perhaps this is one of the problems with fame is that it fills in too many of the blanks, provides too much historicity and not enough mystery. Most of my favorite writers seem to have a good amount of mystery surrounding them. Sometimes I feel like I would root for Emily Dickinson to have successfully burned all her poems.

As George Eliot put it, “the growing good of the world is partly dependent on un-historic acts.”

That desire for impotence, for emasculation, for passivity, for misrule, for ahistoricity, for oblivion is part and parcel of the Female King idea. Nietzsche's Hamlet “understands the symbolism of Ophelia's fate…he understands the wisdom of the sylvan god, Silenus: he is nauseated.”

Maybe one can do better than that, better than Arthur, better than Ophelia, as in these lines from Hamlet:

Up from my cabin,
My sea-gown scarfed about me, in the dark
Groped I to find out them; had my desire,
Fingered their packet, and in fine withdrew
To mine own room again… 

Being thus benetted round with villanies,
Or I could make a prologue to my brains,
They had begun the play. I sat me down;
Devised a new commission; wrote it fair.
I once did hold it, as our statists do,
A baseness to write fair, and labored much
How to forget that learning; but, sir, now
It did me yeoman's service.

Perhaps one who has gone out over the waters, who has groped his way through the dark, who has his sea-gown scarfed around him, can return to his room again and write it fair. In order to do that one needs to both come to grips with oblivion and then pull himself together enough to devise a new commission, to write it fair.

Contrast this with Ophelia, who sounds a little more like us (me?):

When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook. Her clothes spread wide
And, mermaid-like, awhile they bore her up;
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes,
As one incapable of her own distress,
Or like a creature native and indued
Unto that element; but long it could not be
Till that her garments, heavy with their drink,
Pulled the poor wretch from her melodious lay
To muddy death.

Although I think it's true that Ophelia does provide the model and criterion for Hamlet's heroism, she nonetheless demonstrates some flaws that are hammered out by Hamlet. Whereas Hamlet's sea-gown is scarfed around him, Ophelia's tattered land clothing is what drags her down to muddy death. Whereas Hamlet finds it in him to devise a new commission and write it fair, Ophelia only musters snatches of old tunes. Both of them have the sea within and the sea without, but with differences that only the subtleties of symbolism can express.

Hamlet gets it right. But no one gets out alive, no one gets out without a wounded name.

My Formula for Human Greatness

The following is an email sent from Art to the group on 27 February 2016.

The Return of the Prodigal Son by Leonello Spada

Something has been consolidating or coalescing in my brain recently that I wanted to throw out there for your consideration. Today's reading about the prodigal son helped me put several things into partial perspective.

It hit me with this passage where the prodigal son returns:

…his father ordered his servants,
‘Quickly, bring the finest robe and put it on him;
put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet.
Take the fattened calf and slaughter it.
Then let us celebrate with a feast,
because this son of mine was dead, and has come to life again;
he was lost, and has been found.’
Then the celebration began.
Now the older son had been out in the field
and, on his way back, as he neared the house,
he heard the sound of music and dancing.

I'm putting this all together with several different things, some of which we've discussed before. I'm just going to list them off here:

1. Nietzsche's amor fati/eternal recurrence/lake that dammed itself up
2. Camus's Sisyphus
3. Hamlet's inaction
4. The wisdom of Silenus
5. Arthur White's motif of long delays and our distrust of the Benefactor

And if you can believe it, I'm formulating a Christian version of all these things, one that finds a formula for human greatness and heroism.

What the prodigal son did in this reading is ask for his inheritance early. What he really asked for was a horizon beyond his father's house, beyond his life—a kind of Camusian suicide. Upon receiving his inheritance ahead of time, he “collected all his belongings and set off to a distant country where he squandered his inheritance on a life of dissipation.” Like Nietzsche's lake, he flows off to a distant horizon and, in so doing, drains and dissipates himself.

This is no formula for human greatness, no matter how resplendent the horizon, no matter how grand the enterprise. As Horatio puts it, we follow ghosts “to the dreadful summit of the cliff.” Similarly, what Christ is saying in this reading is that the horizon of action, of accomplishment, of ambition is the primary occasion for our perdition. It is how we become next to nothing, so that all that is left is to hire ourselves out to tend swine.

Chances are, we've already done this countless times in life. But we can always dam ourselves up and become a healthy sized lake, whatever altitude we're at. Smaller streams draining off to this or that enterprise seem to be an appropriate part of a lake's ongoing health, but not the eager gushing of our whole selves off to some counterfeit consummation. Herein lies the difference between “dying to self” and Camusian suicide. The former not the latter is the “consummation devoutly to be wished,” as Hamlet only later realizes. When the prodigal son returns to the father's house, he again experiences its riches—the finest robe, the ring on his finger, the sandals on his feet, the sound of music and dancing, etc. But he has died to the idea of a horizon. Which is scary because most of our lives are hell bent on the horizon.

I can't help but read Camus atheistic text from this Christian perspective:

Likewise, the absurd man, when he contemplates his torment, silences all the idols. In the universe suddenly restored to silence, the myriad wondering little voices of the earth rise up. Unconscious, secret calls, invitations from all the faces, they are the necessary reverse and price of victory.

It is in the father's house that the present moment subsists. Only in choosing to live in the father's house can we hear “the myriad wondering little voices.” In my case, those “wondering little voices” are often actual children. When the roaring torrent of my own ambition isn't deafening me, I can hear those little voices, smell their hair—in short, exist. But that is only after the idols have been silenced.

And this isn't a prosperity gospel I'm talking about, but in the father's house, we are rich. At the same time—like Hamlet, like the prodigal son, like Camus's Sisyphus, like Nietzsche's lake—the hero of the story strains against and even overleaps its bounds, usually to his own detriment. Thus Jacob wrestles with God. Thus Jesus says of the skeptical Nathaniel, “Here is a true child of Israel. There is no duplicity in him.” Thus, the older son is not the hero of the story.

But outside the father's house—traveling off toward some horizon, following those ghosts—we don't own anything, and we end up slaves or at the bottom of some cliff. When Hamlet returns from his voyage out over the waters, the ghost is gone. Only then does the story tilt quickly to its denouement. I have a feeling a similar criterion has emerged in The Return of Arthur White.

So with some edits, I agree with Nietzsche that “this is my formula for human greatness.” Not love of fate or fortune, but of God's will, “which shapes our ends, rough hew them as we will.” Not saying our project will ever partake of that greatness, but I want to set that up as its criterion.

Chinatown

The following is an excerpt of an email sent from Art to Liza and the group on 26 August 2015.

Jack Nicholson and Faye Dunaway in Chinatown

Art:

What a great movie. I'd never seen it before and I was interested in it because Baudrillard was interested in it. But I started watching it from the standpoint of some of the things we've discussed in the project.  

What I liked about it was how J.J. Gittes (Jack Nicholson) is such the epitome of that cocky, rigidly white male tragic hero/philosophical subject, and how the vaguely exotic "Chinatown"—though never visited until the final scene—plays the stereotypical role of the inarticulate, fathomless backdrop against which he suffers.  

Evelyn Mulwray (Faye Dunaway) is a modern Ophelia of sorts, one who has fully plumbed the depths of the formless horror, demonstrated by the fact that she has multiple Chinese servants and a daughter through an apparently consensual act of incest with her father. 

Interestingly, she also has a Oedipal hole in her iris (later, through her eye). Gittes' memories of his own time in Chinatown suggest that he witnessed something—both within and without—that he has since tried to forget. Gittes has tried to "uncollapse" that experience; Evelyn lives within that collapse. 

In short, it's another Nietzschean/Baudrillardian tragedy. And J.J. Gittes reminds me a lot of Will Witkowski.

Will:

Crazy! I just started watching it on Netflix for the first time the other day! Unfortunately, I put it on at 3:30 a.m. and fell asleep while watching it. Time to watch it again! 

Come to think of it, from what I saw, there is also a parallel in the backdrop of at least the beginning, which is that a major metropolis will face total collapse (lack of water). You know, it's San Francisco instead of Detroit, so the crisis is more direct and less interesting than Detroit's looming threat (the lodestone), but still. 

You are right that young Will must have been like Gittes. I wonder what failure after failure would turn Gittes into. 

I think about the idea that the Witkowski family is so vastly important, and that all human beings are so vastly important that Jesus dies for all of us. But then we get all this Horatio Algerian rah-rah pablum all the time about following our dreams and being anything we want and determine your own fate and be a self-made man B.S. and we see ourselves as important for all the wrong reasons and abandon our rightful posts as agents of God's light and wander off into Palookaville with our bindles like we're hot stuff and think we're so important when we're just Goofy slipping on a banana peel. 

And meanwhile, God is still working with us where we're at and we're still so important, even though we're Billy Madison coming down late for dinner after getting into a fight with shampoo and conditioner bottles in the bathtub.

Basement Meeting

The following is an excerpt of an email sent from Art to Will on 8 March 2015.



Still confused on Arthur's attire. I guess if we thought of something really symbolic, we could just go with it. What about highly Country Club and/or Yacht Club?

One of the weirdest situations I've been in was when I went to this quasi cult ("large-group awareness training seminar") gathering in Philadelphia and stayed with the parents of a rich middle-aged former alcoholic who had failed to launch (and, even in the context of this empowerment group, was continuing to fail). He had every advantage...and an addled brain.

Now this guy was WASP, so that's very different than Arthur, but could we imagine an addled Arthur living at the family boathouse in Bloomfield Hills? Or eating his meals everyday at the Yacht Club on Cass Lake, all on the family tab? I'm imagining a daily uniform of khakis, white oxford, monogrammed v-neck or turtleneck cable-knit sweater. Maybe even a captain's hat.

And just spending the days sailing...that's all he can manage any more. Kind of like Yacht Rock in general: we're so burned out by the last two decades we can't do anything else but go on sailboats. And we can't listen to anything heavier than a Christopher Cross guitar solo (although I flipping love this song).

And I love cable-knit sweaters. And you're welcome.

Alternatively, Arthur could be doing the same thing at a Country Club somewhere back in the lakes area of Bloomfield Hills. I like that tight tennis gear that you see in just about every Wes Anderson movie.

Of course, I guess it might be even more likely that Arthur would be returning to his Catholic roots at this point, setting up a Thomas Merton-style hermitage in the family's boathouse. Hermitage-era Thomas Merton clothing might work well too. That would be a totally different feel. Kind of working class/proletariat on top with karate style pants and split-toed socks.

One last thought: the yacht club look might be the most symbolically satisfying, making Arthur more like an Ophelia/Hamlet-type hero whose madness consists in being "native and indued" to (or at least reconciled with) that primordial element of water.

By the way, I like the idea of Carlton Farthington trying to sell his ideas as a "large-group awareness training" (LGAT) rather than a cult. That was really what was happening toward the end of the 70's and into the 80's.

This is where we have the slogan: "Because knology. Is is what's being."

This is the sort of thing that latter-day Diana Ross and John Denver fell into. Much less about dirty hippies looking for some place to crash and burn.