As I endeavor to build the Hypomnema &c., I am curious now (and hope to remain so) about what Kierkegaard can teach us about how we invest in such tools and practices generally:
Not even what I am writing here is my innermost meaning. I cannot entrust myself to paper in that way, even though I see it in what is written. Think what could happen! The paper could disappear; there could be a fire where I live and I could live in uncertainty about whether it was burned or still existed; I could die and thus leave it behind me; I could lose my mind and my innermost being could be in alien hands; I could go blind and not be able to find it myself, not know whether I stood with it in my hands without asking someone else, not know whether he lied, whether he was reading what was written there or something else in order to sound me out.
Now and in the hour of our deaths, the radical effervescence of what men call the Spirit—its gradual dissipation of this world into combusting irreducible elements: it decides that I am dust walking, a mania of scattering dust: a body spent its whole lifetime in crouched stillness, anticipating movement, trying to get itself up out from under the earth, which seems always to defeat us. For The Deep Heat Lifts Us Up From The Earth, we Wither, and it is called Glory—; or, “You lift me up and I carry your body to this place and we x, and it tumbles down madness because y, and O how does a body survive the destruction? Oh, as we were young (only the young bring anything new in, and they are not young very long) and easy in the mercy of its means (and what is new is always true), Time held us green and dying though we sang in our chains like the sea!
And we have drifted into the Future, you and I, and so we’ve come here from a haunted wood, children afraid of the night who have never been happy or good: a dark wood (that leaf-encumbered forest, the soul) where the straight way is lost, and it’s just this—and what’s left of it? Broken jaw of our lost kingdoms—Lo! As if possessed by magic powers, the monster Time had blinded us to his real intentions! We victors stand guard over an empire of rats! A counted number of pulses only is given to us, a plot—of data; therefore, aye, therefore poetry must enact a wholesale renunciation of this world, not only because it is intrinsically evil or fallen, but also and consequently because all that it can offer is never enough for these craving hearts. O Human Creature: such a song & dance—a song; a Song, to push the glaciers back.
So push we the glaciers BACK! Push at the Strange Ice: waters strange and so pleasant, so merciful, oscillating, purple and blue, effulgent, coy, filling every dimension; now faint, now tumbling, spreading out above the heads of the living creatures, taking me to the limit, taking me to the cleaners, taking me into its maw (what that looked like an expanse), dropping me out of itself like I were a heavy fruit; and now gone placid, gone hollowing, hoary and wet, dry as a bone, ash in the wind that collects in my throat—all dust, indeed altogether gone (this century). So proudly they rose and fell (the days of our lives), so superbly (the species): would have sent us all mad. But we would not go mad. We would shut our eyes; we would see no more, amen, sigh out of it.