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Your Philosophical Aphorisms

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AMERICONORMAN

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I like Nietzsche's style of writing, i.e., aphorisms; though philosophy is best expressed with more concise writing, i.e., and Ayn Rand article. But since philosophy is such a central part of my thinking life, there are spontaneous moments when short poetical philosophic prose just comes out. Like I say, one can learn from a better article, but such short aphorisms are certainly thought provoking, hence Nietzsche's popularity.

I was wondering if anybody has or can write such philosophic writing. Please share if you can.

Religion and You--By Americo Norman

I respect religion in this way: it is a swirling gas perhaps a spot within the furnace of philosophy, the sun of knowledge; this system of deep roots expresses the roots of nature, the roots of man, and man’s relationship to the whole; so that humans can adhere to their “reality”. This biological need of man allows for his brain to work with success and proper. When faced with a sunrise vista, his theory of reality will tell him whether it is really there or but a dream—whether it just happens to be or first caused by a super-cosmic creator. And when faced with the doubt of metaphysics’ answer, he will look into his mind and answer how he knows what’s true. Do the symbols I speak integrate that forest of trees—or did the tree’s name come before even any tree ever existed for men to see? And though the radiating sun is pleasing, he realizes that presently he cannot touch its heart—his wings won’t go that far. But he knows that when he greets the moon, life will grow colder. He asks for permission to enter that forest … he is allowed to touch that tree … he is allowed to cut its limbs to make his warming fire for the night. He says that tree is real; he confirms that it is true; he knows that he can walk and he can cut; he knows that life is his, though all alone; he sees no guilt in wanting to be warm; he sees no guilt in working for the torch.

Conceive of a religion speaking thus: “O supreme creator, I owe my existence to thee. Though the masses gathering there are real and life is here, they would not be my friends without your grace, they would not yet exist, and neither I. And you have promised, dreams have told, that this earth is not all: If I keep my faith, walk blindly forth, don’t question you, things will improve: Once I am dead, when you command, if I have lived as you demand, then I shall rise, rise up to you: My sanction springs from how I treat the gatherers below, how I’ll starve so they can eat, because this way I will sup with you, O mighty Lord: If a lovely enemy shall strike my face, I won’t lash back, I won’t attack—I’ll cut the timber, and cast the nails, and weave the crown of thorns, by which I’ll hang like your crucified son, that sun of ours…”

Though thus speaks one set of mystics, and share by their adherence to “ideas” with philosophy, they speak not for me. When I pose the question to myself of how I know, I do not know this “Lord”. When I seek to identify with the tools of my mind, this “god” I can’t identify. They may say that my eyes are flawed because I cannot grasp their dreams. At bottom all I know is this: It is. From this I know that things are such and I am such that sees. I know then that I can learn to live for my own goodness, so long as I teach myself them words and use them expertly … and follow through with motion. And I know that when I’m living I feel good … because I’m living. And since there is no need to ask another for his life, I will not ask it, nor hear it asked of me. If I need water from another’s well, I’ll gladly pay with gold, and drink life’s basic nectar from the golden cup I cast. And I will not pray to Blah—I’ll descend down to my mine.

Because look at what some ask of me! To blind myself to what is possible to open eyes. To dream yet miss the so real splendour of your face. They ask that in the darkness I seek for light—but that sought light can only be by that first bulb that opened up my world—and the bulbs that still do cast my sweet vision of you. My God! Some even sing that to reach happiness with you is by the empty hemlock flask! But you are here before my eyes and I love you. I love your mind that has mapped my passion ways. That you are striving to Atlantis within your soul is what I love. The way to heaven is through your earth brown eyes! The way to heaven is through my work well done.

Still in a lightning flash I work out that you exist, for your lips I still do taste. O how simple to confirm that you are you, for I have searched: And none but you are just like me. And that I live for me by living right by you is law once ecstasy I earn. It’s when you meet me at the gate overloaded with our gold; and when you extend your hand to wipe my dusty face; and in the bath sponging off the rest … and when I pull you in to join me. This is heaven, this is earth, this is life, this is truth, this is right, and us this is.

And thus I tolerate religion for at least it answers questions that I need ask—and that is all. But the heaven of all questions is the arrow of my ego. And I quivered thus to heaven on the day I married you.

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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The following is older and from a more melancholy period.

Humility--By Jose Gainza

It begins on those narrow ledges when you could not see the crest due to the blinding fog. You knew where you were climbing to but it was hard to believe. And you were barely climbing; it was mostly hanging from the scraping rock; and stepping with one-third of a foot on a ledge almost a street pot-hole rock.

And then you begin to advance on your struggle with increasing optimism. You look down past your rising course where you see lines of trees like childhood toys; you know you have traveled far. But as you look up you realize that the fog has dissipated, you can see the crest once more…it is still so far!

And then you get so close when you certainly know you will make it – finally! So you stand on a rare wide ledge that allows you to rest – finally! And you feel your aching muscles, burning-freezing joints, and a subtle migraine headache from the groan of each past advancement. Suddenly your body collapses despite your mind’s forbidding command. And as you lay flat on your back gasping for air, your body in the form for a snow angel, you know you will camp there tonight. The summit deliverance will wait for the rising morning sun: when it boldly shines cast-iron red like the tip of your cigarette now facing your eyes in the coming night.

As you lie paralyzed waiting for your coming strength in a moment, you see the figure of a man at the climax, standing still, straight, and solemn. A man is standing proud and happy – possibly a mirage, a passionate illusion. Despite the feeling, “I’m no good and unworthy,” – for you are temporarily stretched helpless on cold earth! – You see the object of human hope: a man who has made it happen. Even though this may be a self-inspired self-deception, other people have made it there. For you wouldn’t be climbing the mountain hadn’t they. (Unless you your-self can create the tools and method from scratch.) And that is when you will accept a humble spirit: when there’s a man’s possession to respect – when a man possesses a mountain at his ultimate height…and you see it.

“If only I didn’t need to rest!”

“And then what… do I do?

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This one is older and from a more melancholy period.

Perseverance--By Jose Gainza

To keep at it even if you fail; no matter how heavy the burdens, nor how much sweat drenches your clothing, or how much you want to cry, or how lonely you feel when there is no one to relieve you of some of the weight.

When the mountain crest is your goal for the purpose of losing the childish fear of facing ugly ‘giants’. So that you can stand alone and gaze out towards your horizon eliminating further distractions. When the pain from your struggle begins to subside, your body and soul are filled with a triumphant joy - the joy of achieving your passionate values.

When the nostalgia for every past beginning – your achievements up ‘til now – turns into a love for a new morning. And the guilt of leaving those hometown “broken records” that repeat again and again, “You’ll never do it, you’ll never make it,” turns into the pride of getting what you have always wanted. The possibility then arises of finding new and welcomed travelers the next morning…and decades later…forever…until you can no longer last.

You stand on deck of the tower of your achievement. Your back is arched bow-like and your head is held up – high! The wind blows back your hair as if you were running full speed towards…the object of your greatest passion. But you’re standing still and all-too-human with the best view of your life… until the next one. It consists of mountain peaks and distant valleys and distant fertile plains, and distant – but not unreachable – dreams. Your ambition urges you to fly to them. The esteemed thrill of your person likes to tempt you that you can do it. But the wings of your spirit guide you to the truth: that you must go down first before the next peak, or city of freedom, or next fulfilled dream – your next creation. This is the eternal perseverance of your own volition.

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This one is older and from a more melancholy period.

A Promise of Deliverance--By Jose Gainza

Before I wake it is still dark. The moon is hidden behind charcoal clouds. But the sun in the clear east is a promising pink band—A still banner amidst a frozen wind. The void of midnight blue is still behind me in the west. And faint stars whimper in nostalgia from my numb-ed past. I stand shivering on this tower’s roof—my new place of toil. A twinkling mass of rising towers above me and before me just north of the pink promise. A stick of burning fire trembles with my lips, as my hands shake and the wind pricks at my spine—But this winter I welcome…the summer will come.

The desert dryness in my throat will turn to a river of satisfaction. The blood-taste will hint at liquid chocolate. My suppressed beak will encounter ecstatic sweet aromas blessed by a subtle wrenched vanilla. The summer will come—so the East has promised. The summer will come—And so will my Idol—My Oasis in my arctic desert past.

There will be a height beyond all heights—Alone or alone in welcome. My palms will cease to perspire…in the cold. Sweat—my body’s teardrops—will cease to trickle down my torso’s side…without effort. The soles of my feet will stop their whine. And my ears will let in the music from the forum of the Future of Freedom.

It will be a moment like no other. Like no other you have ever felt before—my friend! We will stand hand in hand on the tallest man-made mountain viewing the destruction of the ages in the east—with indifference…And with a new hope. For it is not the moment of “the last man standing,” which all False Power of the past had lusted for. It is the morning that always had to be.

For it is the day I know the words you never had to say. Not even a hint of the Fear of Loss I never had to dread. And the wine that we sip will be of the kind that can never numb the spirit that I almost forgot to enjoy. It will be the moment of the promise of eternal joy—On Earth!

This is my promise to My Love as I stand here at mid-height bearing a welcomed cold wind—too cold to embrace me.

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This one is older and from a more melancholy period.

Matthew: (A Friendship Reaching For Romantic Love)--By Jose Gainza

There have been so many moments—in your presence—when I wanted “the same moment twice”. A glimpse of some momentary facial pose had made my longing want it forever, killing the need to long again. This, so I could die—and live no more. But that was just a passing moment because, moments later, I caught another glimpse…of your face…of your stance—leaning against a granite support…of a look in your eyes that could smash that granite to pieces—of a look that if changed suddenly, would shatter my heart to pieces—and agonize my mind.

And then it happened: that destructive moment. The “azure belle” of your eyes blinked and gazed down towards the granite. And I almost fell. My knees almost crashed into the ceramic tiles. But my body still stood erect—it was my soul that wanted to sink. My body stood erect but I wanted to fall back. This, so that I didn’t have to reach…for your chin and raise the revelation of your eyes once more—those oasis colored eyes! So that I could see them stunned at my audacity—at my pretense at ownership. So that I could hear you silently scream at my daunting-daring act—this act that could loosen your jaw by moistening your lips. But my plunge never came—I didn’t have to sink. My life-blood did not have to pour out. What do you think happened…Hmm? My ego commenced its reach for support. And it was not support from the granite that your marble hands did touch. And not from the eyes—those eyes!!

It was not from that slender body of yours that I could easily engulf with my short wrapping arms. And it was not from the warmth of the life that flowed throughout it. And it was not from the dream that cannot make real my longing! That is not the reality of my longing!

It was from some aspect of your Spirit—some aspect of your voice. An involuntary chuckle grabbed me—a momentary widening of your mouth! It was a chuckle that shows comprehension of irony—comprehension of some notes of sarcastic-bitter-irony. My support was my grasp of the words that could make you bare your teeth…a grasp for a moment hoped for twice. It was like the mutual reach on the morning of the creation of Man between their God and his first son. But on my very early morning it was the hands of two potential lovers—two hands melted together into one flaming fist of irony…

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THE EGO TO ITS BASEMENT

By Jose Gainza

Oh, thank me, you basement!

For giving you everything you have.

For still giving you everything, daily,

Every hour that I wake until I die.

My eyes give you the beauty of the earth

And of the heavens…

All which you can never forget.

And my nose gives you the aromas of pleasure,

The fragrance of ecstasy, the stink of toil…

All which you can never forget.

And my ears give you the music of love

And the sounds of production…

All which you can never forget.

And my tongue gives you the taste

Of delicacies; yes, the bitterness of sand—

But the sweetness of ecstasies…

All which you can never forget.

And my skin gives you the warmth of the sun,

And the coldness of ice, the goose bumps of love,

And the beloved’s touch…

All which you will never forget.

You possess the play times of my childhood,

The angry storming of it too,

The stunting fear and shame, and yet the thrills at root…

All which you can never forget.

All the thoughts I gave were new to you.

All the errors I have made you still possess.

And I have ordered the system that you are…

All which you will never forget.

The songs that I have loved are still in you.

The verses that I’ve penned you have them too.

The essays I have thought still move you.

The wisdom that I’ve sought you have it too.

All the lovers I have loved you still possess.

And the dream of some new hero comes from you.

For storing all my words and values I thank you.

Don’t think I don’t appreciate all you’ve given me.

Don’t think I’ll stop inducing things to you.

Don’t think I’ll stop observing this bright heaven

That we share.

I know I cannot keep on striving without you…

And now all this I’ve spoken you will keep

In you…

None will you forget…

Just give me one more thing

Out of all that you can bring!

Let me hear it ring.

Grant the masterpiece to conquer

My new love:

You can thank me in this way…

Oh, and dry my current sweating writing palms.

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This one was written over three years ago during a melacholy period.

If I HAD TO CALL YOU POOR RICHARD—By Jose Gainza

If in the near future I were to get word, “Richard is dead,” I would be scarred for life. The biggest frustration would scratch at me for the rest of my life. His frustrating, middle finger— long and white, with a pinkish hue around its joints would scratch at me from our past—a past as all that I posses with him.

My journey to my heaven on earth, would be marked by ominous, mysterious signs along my road, scattered over the surrounding landscape. In shadowy crevices, indentations, and lumps formed on distant cliff walls, there will be spelled out the headline: Richard is dead. It would be like that image I saw once in a Galapagos abyss, an image shadowed into the white rock: it was a facial portrait of the fallen, agonized Christ, with a crown of thorns and blood in place of tears, all sculpted by the vacant sunlight. The frustration would be so big because it would be a frequent surprise throughout my days and dream nights: It would be my only tragic flaw, a flaw not imbedded deep into my skin but always there—occasionally tickling me. Have you ever had a scar that tickles?

Surely my post-humus sculptor—if an artist could ever dare to mold my body as a hero—would leave out this discordant scar. So that the chorus will not have to say in doubt followed by contempt: “This artist could not have found the strength to lash at human art! He should not have had the gall to show the world his wounded heart.”

This frustrating flaw, this marred flesh that the chorus warns of, above my nipple! Would hardly be the theme of my happy quest. How can my central message be: This thing that makes me chuckle, a silent chuckle sometimes heard—when I quickly exhale—through my nose?

I hope that sternly in reproach, the chorus will not have to state: “Though it would show if flashed into a photo, and though it arouses curiosity, it should have never been made into a spectacle!”

And when those shocks sting my skin, if they ever do, I will bare them—if there is no loving hand to massage my nipple while I sleep. And if awake I will wonder about what I could have gained, my dream that ended too short—my love lost too early! …

“There was a time when I was certain that my day would come again—before the mourning came.” So would reveal the once hopeful sailor in the future.

I envisioned many peripatetic dialogues with “Poor Richard,” along some urban, wooded, park trail. Don’t you see—you wise mirror before my eyes! : Echoes from principled exchanges, heard for millennia, long since I will have departed? Although, only a special, initiated friend could be hired as our philosophic stenographer—of such spectacular events. And it would have to be a legal typist, for our debate would be a ruling on the law—natural law!

But that is not everything I wanted. I wanted an ecstatic celebration after our tiresome trek… “All or nothing!” So declared the boy who wanted so much.

… And so we went our separate ways with a common destination as but a possible…dream.

And so the chorus chants me to, “Dream on boy, dream on! For it has to be a dreamer who brings his dreams into existence!”

“I wonder if—as a boy of 18—I could have chosen a better path that now I regret not taking—now that you have left my universe.” And so would speak the lone, remorseful sailor in the future.

One day I could have decided to make a brave choice, a choice to grow up within a week. It would have been an acceptance, of even a whole lifetime with a fight against my lust. So what if I still felt a soft but painful shiver every time you placed more gold down on the scale…

“How often now I tremble without your miner’s skill!” So would speak the lone, sad sailor in the future!

And how much gold do you produce at present while you are still alive? But if you had to leave all of a sudden, without a word, how would I ever know? And in there lies the frustration; in there would linger—for my eternity—disappointment… if all that I could visit was your tombstone: “A grinning thinker, with shining face, and tropical eyes.” And so would pronounce etched language onto marble—an inscription sometimes hidden in the shadows.

Though, I suppose that I can’t go wrong thinking by your grave—Maybe there is some profit speaking out to nothing. For how many Idealists have given birth to potent revelations—while speaking by the dead?

Edited by AMERICONORMAN
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Some actual verse. Americo.

TO THE LAUGHER

By Jose Gainza

You laughed with dramatic irony

Before you plunged

Into the sky defiantly.

Your nostalgic cliff remained

As it lost you finally.

On your will did you rely.

A breakthrough you did see

As to Stanton you did fly,

Instead of swimming to the sun.

Your clothes lay on the rocks;

I did not read you run.

I was a bird not from the flocks,

Flying close to watch you nude,

You with that orange do.

I was your navel ant, high dude—

Ant yet you couldn’t have a clue,

Though I could be seen for buttons missing.

And if I bugged you, surely,

Surely you would shoo me, flicking.

Or your feet I’d rub them tenderly.

I’d remove those leathers sandles.

I’d mend that hanging shirt.

I’d feed you among candles.

I can’t even dare to flirt.

I’d press that faded denim.

I’d be the water in the tub

To clean off your body’s rim,

Clean off dust of granite in the tub.

But you soon walked past the dump

And past the useless church.

Still in my mind were you nude without a hump,

Though no longer you were naked as a birch.

You passed them in the street,

And you walked up the Keating steps.

(And passed the obese cheat).

And with your proud footsteps,

You marched straight on and to your drafts

(Thus forgetting of her news).

You were not a man who laughs

As you resolved some structure’s use.

You drew your pencil-cure

Striking at the structure still not seen.

Yea! The right way, you were now so sure;

(You almost missed the meeting with the Dean).

(She stood shocked by your disinterest) …

Then you shocked him with your daring:

Really your sweet truth, your self-interest.

You preached to him of building;

You spoke of fusing forms

By harmony and commitment.

You defined innovations and not the norms,

Though he could not learn what you meant.

You seemed the first father of hierarchy;

A subject taught by none before.

“How” was all you needed, it the key,

For you to sanction your own “whyfore”.

He could not question why,

And thus he did not understand.

You spoke of happiness for which you’ll die—

“You’re not allowed” was in his hand.

You spoke of life-long joyous years—

But “the Ancients they have spoke”.

We learned that you had toiled all these years:

You built and walked the girders when you were broke.

I learned that you were all alone

But you were not for I saw you.

You spoke of how you build: all alone:

Holding to one form right all through and through.

I’ll paraphrase—thus you said:

That , “A painter’s picture comes

Of its theme, context, paint, and by the head.

The hero’s courage will beat diverse drums

To battle dragons or roaches.

(Clients will be fought only to build).

The orchard house no desert approaches—

Skyscrapers are not water filled—

Ancient temples can’t house a Roark—

A Hugo is not a Rand—

A knife is not a fork—

And in war by my sword I’ll stand.”

Thus began your trying battle.

(There might be crying you could bet).

And so without a horse and saddle,

You walked out to catch the sunset.

AFTER READING THE OPENING OF THE FOUNTAINHEAD.

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