Ghost, fleeting ghosts, and ghost from the past
There are many different ghosts. Disembodied, restless spirits, most of which are imaginary. A figment of one's imagination, an extension of an over active imagination. And there is a ghost which is a semblance of a real entity. A vague reflection of something that used to be and no longer is. Or is no longer there.
The risk of sounding too sentimental should not preclude me from saying what I think and to rationalize and even philosophize about it. Hanna Arendt wrote her entire dissertation on love, when Heidegger dumped her.
I couldn't think of a better example. And I couldn't think of a more complex choice of individuals, than Arendt and Heidegger.
And if the human capacity for emotion is such a an ambiguous, unpredictable phenomenon, this should not preclude one from trying to study it, observing it, and even trying to theorize about it. But this is an ambitious claim indeed.
Although its not Christmas, I had a visit from the Ghost of "Christmas" past. A gentleman, a kinky, Lebanese gentleman. Who I long thought despised my Victorian sentimentality. Seems to have actually identified with it. And for some reason or another, he thought it would be worthwhile to actually "rekindle" our awkward acquaintance.
But the gentleman is a ghost indeed. For he is a disembodied image of something that does not exist. And while I relish his engaging mentality, I am acutely aware of his emotional dysfunctionality. Of his emotional distance. He might hold something, or reflect something that I believe is beautiful. But his is a pale reflection. A ghost of image of something I want to be and is not. And I can't make it be.
And there are fleeting ghosts. Who might represent a true entity, but they are not real and they never last. They appear for the briefest moment and then disappear. And one is left with the most strange sensations. Was it this apparition really true? Did it actually take place? Did one actually witness it? Or was it just a cruel act of visual hallucination? An escape, a mental escape of some weary mind. With a desire to create a parallel reality, a substitute reality perhaps, one that is superimposed on what actually is. And can never really cover up for reality. No matter how superimposed it might be.
Those come and go. They are transient by their very definition. One casual encounter with a fictitious gentleman, one defined and outlined by and through cyberspace, gave me the fleeting impression of an actual, real gentleman. And for thirty minutes I actually believed he exist outside the display screen. For a hint of second, he had a face, a name, a voice. And I no longer had to rely on my imaginative faculty to make up for my other senses. But men are a fictitious sex by nature. They exist in discursive fields that we define and imagine. Never outside those. While for thirty minutes this gentleman existed in some diluted form or another, he vanished right after.
Gone in thirty minutes.. !
Or another gentleman, whose a distorted reflection of something he would like to be. A serious, intellectual, enlightened (in the 18th C sense of enlightened), rational being.
Not amenable by the sexual politics and sticky dynamics of the sad, gay community.
But only a disembodied image. This fictitious presentation does not last two hours together. Gone is all the enlightenment and rationality afterwards. Flew out of the window like a bird long trapped, then set free.
And I, had to vouch for this made-believe situation, indulged in intellectual rumble of the first kind. The worst kind.
And long before my two encounters were over, I felt I was becoming a disembodied image. A distorted reflection of what I would like to be. Of what I want to be. And I think is it a little Gothic to be dealing with ghosts with such ease? with such indifference? like its an everyday phenomenon?
The risk of sounding too sentimental should not preclude me from saying what I think and to rationalize and even philosophize about it. Hanna Arendt wrote her entire dissertation on love, when Heidegger dumped her.
I couldn't think of a better example. And I couldn't think of a more complex choice of individuals, than Arendt and Heidegger.
And if the human capacity for emotion is such a an ambiguous, unpredictable phenomenon, this should not preclude one from trying to study it, observing it, and even trying to theorize about it. But this is an ambitious claim indeed.
Although its not Christmas, I had a visit from the Ghost of "Christmas" past. A gentleman, a kinky, Lebanese gentleman. Who I long thought despised my Victorian sentimentality. Seems to have actually identified with it. And for some reason or another, he thought it would be worthwhile to actually "rekindle" our awkward acquaintance.
But the gentleman is a ghost indeed. For he is a disembodied image of something that does not exist. And while I relish his engaging mentality, I am acutely aware of his emotional dysfunctionality. Of his emotional distance. He might hold something, or reflect something that I believe is beautiful. But his is a pale reflection. A ghost of image of something I want to be and is not. And I can't make it be.
And there are fleeting ghosts. Who might represent a true entity, but they are not real and they never last. They appear for the briefest moment and then disappear. And one is left with the most strange sensations. Was it this apparition really true? Did it actually take place? Did one actually witness it? Or was it just a cruel act of visual hallucination? An escape, a mental escape of some weary mind. With a desire to create a parallel reality, a substitute reality perhaps, one that is superimposed on what actually is. And can never really cover up for reality. No matter how superimposed it might be.
Those come and go. They are transient by their very definition. One casual encounter with a fictitious gentleman, one defined and outlined by and through cyberspace, gave me the fleeting impression of an actual, real gentleman. And for thirty minutes I actually believed he exist outside the display screen. For a hint of second, he had a face, a name, a voice. And I no longer had to rely on my imaginative faculty to make up for my other senses. But men are a fictitious sex by nature. They exist in discursive fields that we define and imagine. Never outside those. While for thirty minutes this gentleman existed in some diluted form or another, he vanished right after.
Gone in thirty minutes.. !
Or another gentleman, whose a distorted reflection of something he would like to be. A serious, intellectual, enlightened (in the 18th C sense of enlightened), rational being.
Not amenable by the sexual politics and sticky dynamics of the sad, gay community.
But only a disembodied image. This fictitious presentation does not last two hours together. Gone is all the enlightenment and rationality afterwards. Flew out of the window like a bird long trapped, then set free.
And I, had to vouch for this made-believe situation, indulged in intellectual rumble of the first kind. The worst kind.
And long before my two encounters were over, I felt I was becoming a disembodied image. A distorted reflection of what I would like to be. Of what I want to be. And I think is it a little Gothic to be dealing with ghosts with such ease? with such indifference? like its an everyday phenomenon?
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