The Negative is central to my philosophy. There is magic in these parts. Mark C. Taylor in Alterity states,
Hegel insists: ‘the life of the spirit is not the life that shrinks from death and keeps itself untouched by devastation, but rather the life that endures it and maintains itself in it. It wins its truth only when, in the absolute dismemberment … it finds itself. It is this power, not as something positive, which closes its eyes to the negative, as when we say of something that it is nothing or is false, and then, having finished with it, turn away and pass onto something else; on the contrary, spirit is this power only by looking the negative in the face, and lingering with it. This lingering with the negative is a magical power that converts it into being. This power is identical which what we earlier called the subject, which by giving determinateness a concrete existence in its own element, sublates abstract immediately, i.e., the immediacy is only generally, and there is true substance: that being or immediacy who mediation is not of it but that is mediation itself’ … As magical power that transforms water into wine, stones to flesh, lines to circles, pyramids to spheres, letter to spirit, sign to concept, nonsense to sense … death to life, the absolute knowledge born of legitimate philosophical conception is salvific. Hegel believes – truly believes – that ‘thinking is the loosening of hardness; the meeting with oneself in the other. This is a release that is not a flight of abstract, but consists in what is actually having itself not as something else, but as its own being and place in the actuality which is bound together by the force of necessity.'”
Engaging with the negative, even lingering with it, is essential. Averring that finitude is reality, a set of objects that have uniqueness, which is a swirl or eddy coiled within the infinity of nothingness is the centre of my psychoanalysis of philosophy. My interrogation, or interruption, within philosophy is an extension of coiling, a return to the lamella of birth that is a priori to the fleshy awareness of being-for-itself. The tighter the coil, the sleepier the person, the subject. When we stay with the negative, the lacuna, the abyss, giving not to quick solutions or immediate fallings, a ‘magical power’ comes to the fore which ‘converts it into being.’ This it is us. Taking a surgical knife to the scapulae, cutting down through the armpits, opening up the flesh and tying it into a lattice, I begin my philosophy with a slow, soft and anaesthetised incision from the shoulders that hold the head to the heart. Secondary to this, cut upwards toward the throat, the oesophagus, the mouth with its precious supple interior, turn the laser on and begin creating a circular cut around the middle of the skull. Open the bone of the skull and leave the brain intact. Examine the functioning of the brain, touch it with fingers, tweezers, and drip holy water on it.
Fascination with the body isn’t new. Anatomy of the being, the creature, the homo sapien requires these biopsies, autopsies and brutalities. A topography of the psyche is similarly found via a surgical process. Fire artilleries and canons into the space where thought-objects arise into- and fall- from consciousness. Snap the neck at the back, and open the brainstem, analyse it for a moment, and then brand it, lacerate it. Locate the hippocampus and lick it. Eat the cerebral cortex. Find new abstracted matrices of soma. Inject the subject with finitude. Inject yourself with death. Hegel notes, “the life of the spirit is not the life that shrinks from death and keeps itself untouched by devastation, but rather the life that endures it and maintains itself in it. It wins its truth only when, in the absolute dismemberment.” Within the various psychic basements, store-houses, barns and sheds are various apparatuses, memories, tools, cutting machines, telephones, cars, text messages, people and so on; a certain shadow on the wall casts itself as we stand. Our imprint is (contra) luminal. Luminal activity, that of opening the flesh to the air, is the spirit that is fully authentic be-cause of its dismemberment. The phenomenological experience recapitulates the ontological foundations. A summary paper is produced, a knowledge of the body; lay out the intestinal tract, inspect the bile from the gland, cut open the appendix, find the cellulose, examine the muscle tissue; if there are tumours, lick them, touch them, inspect them, cannibalise them.
People find within my topography a nihilism. The nihilism of the infinity of nothingness. Whilst the nihilism, located in its various reductions, some noted above, is a nodal point, the navel from which I cut upwards toward the liver, then downwards, castrating the gonads, the testes of the familiar Father Time, the man who negates all negation and weights down upon us squirting out tears of joy or ecstasy on various foundations; wherever we find ourselves situated: from the foetal positioned melancholic on the cold floor of poverty, and impoverishment, to the drunken flailing arms, animated by martinis, beer and pizza, on floor of the discotech. Where have all the disc jockeys gone? Have they too been sucked into the blue ribbon primacy of indigestion? These are the spaces and places, both temporal and psychic, both arising and falling into the infinity of nothingness, that I am concerned with.
Unashamedly, I am a nihilist. But one cannot be a nihilist. One must operate as such, and this (surgical) operation is always tentative, always hesitant, always exhausted of possibilities. The desecration of art is the beginning of awareness. Art transgresses the boundaries of the human body, yet it holds together, mirrors and allows a simulacra to formulate. The Taliban destroyed the giant Buddhas in Afghanistan, what could be a more beautiful expression of authentic churning against the reflection of self? What could be more in line with Buddha’s dharma than the understanding that cultural relics are transitory? Insubstantial? What could be more of a lesson to the so-called West about our attachments and aversions to the Other, which we modify through polity? Of course, the anal-rententive West must now re-furbish, re-model and attempt to re-create ‘its’ lost Object! When it is not an Object of Itself, but one otherwise than Itself! The hollowed out rock, with the broken Buddha bits, is a beautiful testimony to the de-anthropomorphising psychoanalysis of the Taliban. A consciousness of the unconscious. A fear of the unknown that lashes out without apology. Without exterior justification of human rights and liberty. We all know that liberty and human rights are tyrannical, and the Taliban’s offering isn’t the paradise its dis-members violently procreate. But lest we fall into lazy reductionism, let us follow the cravers of authenticity. Brutal authenticity. What is fascist is operative at the moment we depart from the infinity of nothingness! Indeed, what I aver is that the finitude of ‘man’ situated within a ‘space of his own’ is a typology of constriction: it is here where banal meaning enters into the body, animating it towards the phantasmagoria of ubermensch. Ubermensch is nothing more than a finite subject, a man, who seeks authenticity without being open to the cavities, his recesses, to the rectal examination of infinity and nothingness. Nazi-ideology – one of tying-together ad strapping itself to – meaning, is an in-ability, an inhibition against dissolving into the gooey soup that predicates itself betwixt the finite and infinite.
Wilhlem Reich, staunch anti-NAZI psychoanalyst, states in Listen, Listen Little Man
“You differ from a great man in only one respect: the great man was once a very little man, but he developed one important quality: he recognized the smallness and narrowness of his thoughts and actions. Under the pressure of some task that meant a great deal to him, he learned to see how his smallness, his pettiness endangered his happiness. In other words, a great man knows when and in what way he is a little man. A little man does not know he is little and is afraid to know. He hides his pettiness and narrowness behind illusions of strength and greatness, someone else’s strength and greatness. He’s proud of his great generals but not of himself. He admires an idea he has not had, not one he has had. The less he understands something, the more firmly he believes in it. And the better he understands an idea, the less he believes in it … I want you to stop being subhuman and become ‘yourself’. ‘Yourself,’ I say. Not the newspaper you read, not your vicious neighbor’s opinion, but ‘yourself.’ I know, and you don’t, what you really are deep down. Deep down, you are what a deer, your God, your poet, or your philosopher is. But you think you’re a member of the VFW, your bowling club, or the Ku Klux Klan, and because you think so, you behave as you do. This too was told you long ago, by Heinrich Mann in Germany, by Upton Sinclair and John Dos Passos in the United States. But you recognized neither Mann nor Sinclair. You recognize only the heavyweight champion and Al Capone. If given your choice between a library and a fight, you’ll undoubtedly go to the fight!”
Counter-facism: Meaninglessness, or more properly infinity and no–thingness qua authenticity. An authenticity of brutal genuineness, a messy amalgamation of intransigence. The hobo, the destitute, the prostitute, the sex worker, the semen collector, the notable anarchist who bombs the police station, these are meaningless apertures; apertures where lasers dissimulate, and in their dissimulation mark the authentic not-knowing! The proper process of impropriety. The legalising of the illegal, and the movement of the thighs into the mouth of the great white shark. To be devoured by such a beautiful beast, if only in fantasy, is, for me, ecstasy? Yes. In continuously exposing ourselves to annihilation we find what is not. We find what is left. We find, perhaps this is too romantic, our lamella. We find our tears, our eyes, the heaviness of the corpse we carry around, the rotting stomach ulcers created from binge drinking, the stench of faeces and faces inured in normative practices. We find ourselves circling outside of the healthy, humanitarian economy of relations and into the practise of impoverishment and improvisations.
Martin Heidegger in Being and Time here hints at the received, its constipation and denial (my personal phraseology)
“When tradition thus becomes master, it does so in such a way that what it transmits is made so inaccessible, proximally and for the most part, that it rather becomes concealed. Tradition takes what has come down to us and delivers it over to self-evidence; it blocks our access to those primordial “sources” from which the categories and concepts handed down to us have been in part quite genuinely drawn. Indeed it makes us forget that they have had such an origin, and makes us suppose that the necessity of going back to these sources is something which we need not even understand.”
The questive function of return, the returning to the opening of the gapping hole, the rectal anal-ysis, is what gets us beyond these received conditions and toward the more primordial sources “from which these categories and concepts handed down to us have been in part genuinely drawn.” So, yes, the cutting, the surgery, the crying, the joyful ecstasy experience in castrations, lacerations, clitoral stimulations, pornographic simulations, and fellatio. Cunnilingus, that cunning craft of vulva excitation, so beautifully demonstrated in the film Blue is the Warmest Colour, encapsulates the broad opening of the mouth with the opening from the Verb to a Noun. A person who performs cunnilingus may be referred to as a cunnilinguist.  Certainly any psychoanalytical philosophy, or philosophy in general, must begin with cunnilingus.
“But “nowhere” does not mean nothing; rather, region in general lies therein, and disclosedness of the world in general for essentially spatial being-in. Therefore, what is threatening cannot come closer from a definite direction within nearness, it is already “there” – and yet nowhere. It is so near that it is oppressive and takes one’s breath – and yet it is nowhere.”
What is threatening, what Spectre haunts us, is that which is “there – yet nowhere.” Infinity and no-thingness drivelling escape into the swirls of finitude. Laughing madness, absurdly bursting forth from the gates of Eden! Perhaps the laceration, the cuts, the bruise, the joy, the here which is nowhere is the palace of endings, the ultimate place wherefore we can operate in a sense running after finites, after ourselves, to-ward the walls of Reality that are Negative in their construction but convex toward the Positive reflections that allow for such operations? Adorning itself with otherwise than being, the Positive is the limitations of the concave, and this is the presentation of Self in Everyday life, the on-tic non presence in routine.