The gallops of a hardening time of doing and daring amateur science gush forth and forward, yet, i have hardly known it. Scientist creeps through the grounds sickly. In no return of fate is a tact so wrongful in dismissal, so abrupt in the making. Four year into, formalized it, 4 years, practice. The works stay the same, boundaries callous and she is a shepherd and I don’t have any idea. A barista, say, is preparing a cappuccino; a commander-in-chief is missing a point and a woman is in a dearly protest. Each of these people operate under radiating ideologies, as variably pressing as they might be. The Protest means you are the idea, anthropomorphized. The President is a ghost of policy/practice and idea in the mutual making, never meant for the societal human so he continuously disregards. The Coffeemaker is craft with less than zero indoctrination. Well then, what is it that i am doing? What in the world of these people where the daily activity is cathartic to the essence of the discourse, where you lie to people to tell the truth to lie to the senate, and where the camera watching over the coffee beans and plastic lids will be the most you Foucault, delete that, where the pure practice is default, how in the world of these people does one without myth, one without reckless joy make it?
Snow, A Eulogy
•February 23, 2011 • 1 CommentIn the momentary lapse of everything of temper,
It was 3am
Of the poems and of a drugged phantom of stammering centuries
It was late
With the words of meaning and the words of service,
With the words of meaning and the words of service,
With the words of meaning and the words of service, on a horse-back intelligentsia, with the rhetoric of a-dying,
with the words that make and the words that take,
It was snowing.
Stanza Hurts (Jasmine in Agusut)
•February 19, 2011 • Leave a CommentA light, slightest demand.
A love will howl.
A tucked up sleep, of her majesty the kind.
A Righteous Will will count.
If you’ll, i’ll.
A torque of machines of her loving grace
This Stanza Hurts
This plane wreck, i’ll stand.
The hell is others, a french template
I’ll assist this hymn in a light, slightest a return.
den väna solen
•February 8, 2011 • Leave a CommentCrackles in a step-mothertounge,
Sulfur riots.
A hall therein.
Nobody says no like you do.
Brísingamen shatters, the rye aches.
that is a dial of first permission,
everlasting trials of what is.
Come sign a sister, An Aphrodite of Paphos
Nobody parts like you do.
Fifty million years, fair sun,
we still thirst the waters we dread.
Fifity million years, namesake,
i still write with a smirk.
F.
This post is false.
•February 8, 2011 • Leave a CommentWhat was so disturbing for Europe and maybe ridiculous at a distance for the States in the 2011 Arab Upheavals was the knee-jerk reflex of solidarity, almost at play in Newtonian fashion, amassing million+ fists swung at rifles shot . Bouazizi’s self-immolation showed of a symbol reenacted at a breathless distance from counterparts of romantic acts of individual relevance. It was the time, it was the place, it was everybody’s flesh the Tunisian Police HQ watched crackle. Egypt was a spectacle for a France of Bastille or for a Russia of Bolsheviks. For two weeks, no rest, a city came to a willful halt, first shouted, then fought its ground. This is what we saw on TV and that is what we cheered for as they held ground in Tahrir and lamented for as they charged towards a pro-Mubarek car speeding through them like it’s the harvest season. However, again, romanticizing is forgetting. Given the massive dimensions of pure human elements in the event, no ideology, no political tarnishing, It’s dangerously close to a misguided empathy. Which is all and well at a distance, but you are entitled to remember this: This almost Hollywood alienation of isolated sympathy is bottled up somewhere else as fictitious. The unrelenting, unforgiving, bleeds-when-shot reality is 1 MILLION out of 80 MILLION people of a 1 MILLION kmsq land have set a momentum in 48 hours and have blown out to a single voice in a week. The story is and is not about the million; In the crux of the solidarity is not the number, but that guy who microrevolts, deaf and blind to what goes on outside. Solidarity is a timepoint when vectors of more than one parallel. Revolution is when he opens his eyes up from the cry within and he had already stormed the Bastille. Revolution then becomes tidal. Not a million as one external self, but a natural upbringing of parts into breaking. The affairs of a revolutionary is not dependent of the revolution. Nor the revolution is dependent of the the affairs of a bunch of them. It’s surreal to imagine an inertia, in falling societies from DeGaulles into self-immolation. The gap to fill is the mystical one i left: Then who talks to whom? Who ties the internal cosmos of one to a final catharsis of a million?
?
One night.
•February 5, 2011 • 2 Comments“Funny how falling feels like flying for a little while”
When one night weighs in, all days collapse, on foot along a flightless highway. She told you to live it, the cries rang. Go forward. Here eyes the eerie calm, watch it vanish left and right
right and wrong.
Overcome, she’ll teach you, you’ll push the air out of your lungs, out in a room. She’ll put it back in. Come around an accident, a temperament, a glitch, a silhouette off a blink, a dark joke. A stage fright.
She’ll bear an end. Her smell on your neck lies stolen.
Lies departed, no place for the weary kind.
2.4.11 bound 2.3.11
Pied-noir: Meursault in Lefkosa.
•November 14, 2010 • Leave a Comment
I am not a settler of my home for about 6 years. Various excerpts of my foundation are a part of the land, so the departure and the departed were of familiar kinds; In the new grounds, there has been extensive introspection, falling dominos, rejection, widowed conceptions, and surely enough, a half-assed acceptance and a kamikaze tolerance at the end. Some were events of blood and flesh so it was murder in essence. I remember some instances like i remember things when i directly look at those things. They are cultural on paper but that is like saying somebody is crazy; shifting the responsible subject of action from explanation to description, mentally wayward is rarely an outlier in of itself, it is not enough. Social nets and sinister webs bind us in eras; Beneath all, from the island that i am, it seemed that there was a zen of it all, a karma of sense. So it was cultural, but we are not merely machines that spew out culture and entirely learned locality. Culture can also be rationalized and compromised not on the basis of the herd, not on the basis of who owns the land and who put the flag highest up, not on the basis of bastard extremities of provincial public, but on free and rather indifferent double headed-observation and participation as a mere recognition and balance over the zeal of emotional stretches or so i thought. I was wrong.
The ‘otherness’ struck. This is a cast-away experience of no escapade, it’s the mere definition of many things. All terms assumed on dangerous faults, i dare say it’s identity; a ghetto of reeking self-pathology, self-emancipation and self-overhearing. It’s a linguistic frustration in a retroactive realm, where the words catastrophize a bastard cunning that of a man made. It’s an attempt, cracking into beats of craft and memory. It’s an unbalanced territory of a bunch, in which nothing but the space is occupied. Being a self-differentiating axiom is seldom enough, it’s a stance. It’s a class.
When troubled, I’ve always come back to a sitcom realization: The otherness among the others is malicious in self-referencing, but not so in a taught range. There are playful dynamics, all about blending in. Observe long enough and there is nothing that cannot be faked. Never authenticate, side, be opinionated but don’t give a shit. Do not pursue teleology, converse on a momentous topology. But it’s never along a comforting artifact to relent; No matter how much of a stranger it’s in you, there will be a time, numerous times, where a heartbeat will resemble a quick loss, a tick of black and white and you’ll be home again, no volume will utter no lie, never again romanticizing a return.
Outsourced, it’s easy to cultivate a terminal amnesia of status, never quite sure of what to make of the unspoken. This is free of time or times seen or heard, insomnia of a somewhat deliberate call to rewake a lament of emanating sense . Student, lawyer, rich, black pants, long hair, hippie, driver, coffee, all is recalled upon a dread to dream of a sensitivity familiar. I will suggest everything about a similar consciousness is tamed with an urgency that takes back and redelivers, stronger with unnatural ambition, a nurtured struggle. Out comes a theory, a cannibal assumption of how it all worked out. And yet, it won’t. But it won’t matter because there will, always be home. Well, i was wrong again.
Nuances will favor significance at home, where i dominate by hefty miles. First, i swear better in Turkish. Second, i am of the land: This is the small window of incidence where one realizes that the physicality of what’s underneath is more than a metaphor, but a literal hyphen. Definite as it is, it’s barren. Some things are only silenced on your barren soil. The land is not the nation, is not the home, is not the city, not the village. The land is the momentum challenged by a unmovable, timeless phantasmagoria of genesis. Put your hand through, as if you touch. Step on it as if you walk. You are of it. The land is the subtlest of nuances but the most binding.
My ever lengthening return is now awaited by a nostalgia i am sure nascent among its peers: The land and the swearing won’t be there to save a return to sacred grounds of belonging because the otherness will carry on. It won’t be alarming or tiring. It will be ever the same. It will be the faces, the roads, the familiar expressions, welcoming indifferences, practical numerations. However the same, a tragic existence will dawn unprecedented; I won’t be budged out of my politics, socialites, cypriots will dampen and rise, cry and heave the patrons of history, and will return home, to a land noir. A part of me will blend in, a part of me will fight into relevance and a new part of me will exhume a dead lord; We will be the other ones, the language won’t bind neither the condition. It won’t be sad or jolly. It will be tragic in its negation of all the absorbed sores. It won’t be a rebellion. It will be urgent in arrival.
It will be a short passage, where i won’t be writing cypriot, still a cypriot, won’t be home. Finally lost and gone, i will return. There will come out a theory, a rival assumption of how it all ended. And yet it won’t. And it won’t matter because there will, always be another home. And as always, I’ll be wrong.
F.
dystopia of truth and tale in sciences: Syndrome of Narrative 1
•September 2, 2009 • Leave a Comment04/10/09
Every piece i start to write, soon-to-matter how and why, has a conquering beat in my head: It exists with a tagged hope that it reaches out. And every piece i start to write has a funky kinetic of self-love which cycles back to itself in reference: It says what it wanna be. Because I know and, after a while, it knows that we cannot exist without the minimal amount of meaning we transcend through the screen. Both the author’s connective urge and the text’s paradigm of fatherly sense and immenseness and byzentinean authority over a reader are almost a non-skipped 
principle: Align the experience and say it’s happy, unfair, logical, random. Even the chaos is tamed into what’s not 1 2 3 4 5. And the bliss that comes is uncanny: we ever so happily are, itself and the makers of, a story.
It shouldn’t be a shattering surprise in itself. Even thinking about writing this feels essentially tautological. Meaning is ubiquitous and it’s what ties what we tell is an account. Recite any account you give about anything. What i am trying not to fool myself into not further going on about this obvious chimera of literal and existential man is a simple case of a tandem daily: You talk about your day in the city, the non-cathartic selection of sequence should follow the places, the people and how they interacted with a special emphasis on the unexpected and out-of-ordinary. Because the meaning dictates the selection and how the world is sense and what we sense is world as a duo is selected through this dictation. So, a delightful repetition arises. We see we hear we render we sequence we bind in meaning. Then it’s a day. We, in very fine slices, subjectivize.
The experience of subjective is a loss/gain double dynamic in which you build the sense out of lack of absurdity and gain of meaning and defeat the purpose, for the sake of being subjective and tearing away from the approaching cementation of the subject into object, in which you embrace the absurd in search of a new rise of meaning. However, the dictation is as said by meaning, and by meaning only.
08/23/09
This is a point of numerous self-referential grabs, one which is obvious in its gathering. It’s a way. And we must recognize that we have rumbled and rocked in a way. Self-expression, pity, empathy and other pseudo-rational sensitivities are all a way. And we have traveled that way. And wherever we reached and however we did, was like an inclined stroke of a razor over skin, yet we have reached. It was a way.
The way of meaning has rarely made sense because of what time does to us, items of chaos returning and slaying the memory, but that human in human paves the frantic underway of the way and never leaves meaning amiss. Well, one quite interesting resonance of this perseverance is in sciences. The introvert philosopher doing introspection has lasted us (and me) a quite while; the piece so far evidently is a demo of such an effort. Then we did this thing where some body went out and asked: “What happens if [x]?”. Something did happen. Repeat it and again. Then, arguably, in the first time of intellectual encounters on earth, we took a step back to recuperate our meaning. I like this particular anthropomorphic analogy which talks about that time during the refinery of your everyday consciousness; you are waiting for a bus in a freezing weather and you are in shorts because you are heading to the gym but you didn’t think it would be this cold and were too lazy to put on heavy clothing but now you are seriously contemplating of running back to your room to change but the bus might come any minute but the bus is never reliable around here, it is sometimes half an hour late, i might have already missed it, should i just walk, no i cant, oh wait is that a bus, no just an suv. … Suddenly you hear yourself talk and are only concerned with yourself talking. You see that you see, you walk like you are walked. It’s a state of no clear empirical demeanor; an internal grade of sense and introvert assumptions, a meta-self. Everyone has been through a sort or another, so i am not too worried about the message being felt, maybe not understood. The realization of a massive body of another perspective through rational empiricism brought this exact sentiment into an era and almost perfectly transformed into a phenomenological upbringing of the 17th century and on, in an almost exactly personal way of Hegelian evolution of consciousness upgrade.
How did we come around? I don’t have the slightest idea. One would think he would keep forgetting and starting over. But something gave in. And there started a sequence, that bears no exaggeration or resemblance to anything. The fabric of science has been woven everywhere now, not of any exaggeration or resemblance in history.
It’s not my faintest goal to describe science. The example above, by the picture, is a relentless trial, not to describe but relieve it of its relation to object and sample a service for meaning, which claims essence soon. I, rather, will consider this: Science as an entrepreneurship is not too spaced or wildly manufactured of an idea, we all know what companies, be it pharmacological or biomedical, seminal salaries, motivational speeches entail. Science described in such a way is credible and real. Science as a wayward curve of exponentiation, however, is incredible. The human 
fallacy that the times of present is full of future and of past haunts the grounds, we still forget, but, but it’s still a wild ride. The former fallacy is a normative one, still in synthesis: The dimension of human understanding and logic is, however infinite, provincial. This conflicting paradigms linearize the way we interact with the world beneath. The perception evolves under the condition of present, always reminiscent and foretelling. Science born to a medium of this drama is surely capable of things of comedy of a chasm, rendering resent of a foreign object as peaceful inquiry, but skinned of a something the whole enterprise is founded for, a satire nonetheless of the patriots of intellect: Objectivity. Here still be dragons.
What i call syndrome of narrative (SON) is beyond object vs subject dilemma. It submerges it. SON is an ache when the meaning rooted in the human condition of self-imagery in survival and meaning in self-imagery tries to embrace its existential contra-matter.
SON is a true syndrome of a thriving persona in science. Put everything in meanigful order and make sense is one thing but to put everything in meaning and its tragedy of objective fatality is SON. Hypothesizing is one thing, make believe assumptions about bits and pieces about the experiments that are put together as the proof is another. But all that things that race in front of your eyes, all your cult presence in the white coat, all the setting, all the passionate aims of a frigid test tube, all that lies and all that is for us is SON. SON is being in a loop of relation with your textbook. SON is being half in touch, half in the gloves. Narration is the ethos, science is the logos. SON is the pathos. Narration is life, science is life-like. SON is the nausea.
Metascientific Pseudomysticism: An account for pathologically death-consumed
•February 5, 2009 • Leave a CommentIt has recently come to my attention that some people have extents of dread towards death: A penetrance of expressivity of depression, hidden or clinically crazy, towards a problem remained unsolved for millennia. We still die and the time arrows the being towards only being and not not-being so the not-being is a surprise that pops up at certain existentialist slip-ups throughout the phenomena of life. 
Now, what is there to talk about this that is always and not particularly familiar to the living? What do we seek in abyss? Although the title implies a psychiatric effort of resolution for those who are more dead living than dead dead, i have no such intention. That would be, hopefully intuitive enough for most of us, stupid to do over a blog page and by claiming the title blogger. Rather, what I have assigned myself today to remain consistent on dealing with the post-mortem of self. Most of death –crippled are so because the death is, so delightfully tricky be as it may, the full nothingness achieved after a life of everything-ness underachieved.
This fear of non-existence has a very solid philosophical counterpart which is not the point of this at all, but we are sailing too close so we might as well turn and look. Epicurus tells the Western progeny of his: “When I am, death is not, when I am not, death is”. Leave the irrelevant out, whether we exist, whether the self stays or goes, whether there is a self… The complete eradication of the conscious being , unfortunately so it shows, can NOT exist in a being which assumes everything stemming from the existence of beings and the self-being. Only way to show death as an absolute nothingness is to NEGATE it to what we HAVE right now. You have you, the loud group of girls, the annoying snow, a lab full of mice, the shadows, nausea etc. As a matter of fact, it’s immensely interesting to sit and watch mind make a negation to come to a conclusion of an absolute, as it does with the death of a self. Therefore, we are bound to see two problems right away with this approach, one of Epicurus’: When you are not, there is not anybody nostalgic about the life you would have rather had as a god on Olympus. And one of ours that just showed up: Negation flirts too closely with the creation of absolute abstractions, so what you put forth as death being the not-being can just might be a round square.
We are here today, however, in spite to all that insplode above for the lovers of incapacitation in life, to say that there can be something. Another claim one gets is that there is absolutely no way that there can be anything. Ergo the death bed in your 25s but we have the viagra.
First, couple of things: To anybody attracted to the idea because of what seems to be a pop religion twist, you can now leave. This post will, at my level of understanding it, try to evolve within and with the scientific method. The divergences will happen at points of expansion of the method as deemed by me (me because i am taking responsibility for most definite insolence in the horizon) and this will be the 
point of it. There is only one working assumption i am making in an effort to minimize the heresy: That the method is enlarging and that although the current one rightfully desecrates its future as invalid to its own functioning, the method has changed. High throughput is replacing the hypothesis-making, as Venter Inc. and LHC efforts have showed. Data have changed (no argument here) therefore it’s only fit for the method to adopt the changing data and evolve with it.
What is metascientific pseudomysticism? Thinking of the idea and what it does, in the conceptual framework, it accommodates science of science, science, self-image and speculation respectively and loops, selection, nature, perception and consciousness no so respectively. It’s a self-coined term so be wary. This will the grand idea i will never be able to say to its fullest.
Dissecting the world into logs and pieces of data into sensible networks and narratives of meaning, the science has come forth with a byproduct of layering of reality. On the human side of things that mattered to assert a reality on, there has been Politics/Economics, Sociology and Psychology and approaching to the crux of natural reality we have had Biology, Chemistry, Physics/Astronomy. On each level, the field reinvents the network of what is real in function and structure over and over. However, it’s not possible, or rather not fruitful, to direct momentum within a single field since what the recent intercalation of fields have shown us is that they stem from each other and the moment the connection is lost, its revival is another discovery, a new way. Biology and Chemistry have worked close enough for decades, but when people started putting together soft and hard sciences together (i would very much like to talk about art/humanities+science but i am not letting that happen here, nobody has that much time for a blog post), it generated a new found generation of scientists who were savoring these epistemological virgins of fields (see SEED Magazine,
virtually every issue so far). However, the important point here is to see the independent worlds science creates that are axiomatic and self-dependent in their respective fields, which also are eternally self-images of each other on different mornings. Each one works like clockwork within itself but its moving parts is a another clock in itself. Moving on..
Physics is drilling through deepest in the quest of fabric of reality. Reductionism so far has brought us up to superstring theory. We have now strings that gets plucked to create cosmos. Very nice but what exactly is the effort? It’s a highly mathematical model of foundation of nature. It’s equations of reality out of a mathematical pit of endless possibilities. It’s yet there and it’s a founded theory. It’s science.
I am tagging science to the checkpoint to the argument so it’s visible from a distance. Now, the assertion is as follows: The human expression of objectivity under facts as far as the human senses can just reach out for (very important point), since Copernicus, has traveled us through these realms which have made sense under a higher ‘consciousness’ of reality: A chemical system of elements is fundamentally atoms and a nuclear pore complex is fundamentally a chemical system of elements. What’s more fascinating is, repeating myself for the argument’s sake, that every step of broader or narrower understanding can stand alone by itself, thus coined a consciousness. Careful, that doesn’t imply a humanly consciousness
, it’s solely a holistic matrix the system is relying upon. Atoms interact, true but on a seriously ridiculous level, they bear the identity of a ion transporter. Function. The layer is defined by its function.
We have mentioned the limited capacity of human sense data. I don’t know anybody who doesn’t need to count to say there are 67 candies in a jar like one would have no need for in order to say there are 4. So the data we receive depend on two main as limited efforts. Put them together for the bigger data and just do not be able to see. The former is already in progress and in fascinating momentum. Well, what you can’t see you cannot see. What you can think of, you just can’t. This gloom of a skeptic leap is instrumental in drawing out this Aristotelian satire: You are seeing this progressive piling up of conscious systems which have a functional integrity; they are for an end. Careful, here the end is no way directional, it’s more causal. We observe the pattern. Therefore, 1. The entirety of what has escaped the evolved sensation capacities might as well be structured as such. As biology hops on psychology and as physics fathers chemistry. You looked, you saw, it was a pattern of reality in vivo, you now assert: It’s not nothingness after life, it is not just the end of all we have brought upon ourselves in life in science. Science doesn’t negate itself after its end: it’s the fabric i am ultimately a part of: The repeating series of conscious expansion in both ways under a causal principle of elementary ‘being’, function.
We have also tried to be smartasses about how things are connected. Borges says so but careful, not talking about literature, we established that. This is basally right and is the heart of reductionist argument. Start with atoms, there is no way to lose them on the way, there are there when your heart beats, they are there when you go bankrupt. So, relating the strings to neurons and then to decision-making, you linearize a relationship that goes through you senses connecting all the dots. So your living status suddenly connects to the fabric. You might lose the function of your layer of existence, for us, biological, after a while but that does in no way suggest complete perishing. it rather suggests a diffusion through the layers. Therefore, 2. Death is not a blunt overgeneralizing of life vs. the other one. Death is a diffusion to a different realm of function.
Now, this uttering, i would not dare say it anywhere but here because with its current standing, it’s not scientific. The standards of science are contemporary and get rewritten as you go. This is an attempt under the working direction of speculation that science may come to recognize something to this sense and dance. Superstition, conclusion-to-fact direction, evidence-lacking assertions are all out of the scope of any branching this article has supposed and advised. Be advised.
This is metascientific pseudomysticism. I made it up.
F.B.
Normalization of the margins: A Vacuum of Delirium
•November 17, 2008 • Leave a Comment
The intentions are always shadowy. Delirium of the masses is not . The Normal. Seja marginal. Seja heroi.
The post will embrace a style. We will evolve within the box and the letters into a creative havoc. The post will be as deluded as the world which it deludes in creation. The fact of the matter will succumb to the bad intent. Pulverize the archetype and summon the father of the reality that is not. That’s what happens. I tell you this now not because of the factual integrity or the artistic superiority we seek at times but because this is important. The subject-matter is delicate and should be attended prior to any engagement into anything hysteric. And once again, in the haphazard way of societal construction ‘the others’ have taken upon themselves, we shall obey the masses of and with which we are not.
Now, I am from Cyprus. I am a subject of Cyprus so is all of this. This is going to be true of everything we do or say at this point on.
Cyprus has no significance. It’s as land and sea as any other part of the world that is land and sea. It has soaked in blood as much as the other lands have. It has been humanized in politics and butchered by leaders for years now. People are people in Cyprus. As much as the people are people in any other place. In the heart of ego and the self-pity of the island lies the entrapment and romanticist of a Cypriot we all have been. Cyprus people fail, in the way of hailing gods and the parting sense, to establish an identity.
Too much credit as it might have ranked up to, Identity ID is familiar as Consciousness C is. The language that summons the credibility of what identity is is self-indulging and is in a petty park of what has been known right off the bat. Bypassing the inviting rite of passage into the depths of the questions of ID in its ontological never-know-never-how tag and giving that ID flourishes as it gets talked into awesome holiness of human paternity of human god that is human itself, we deliberately focus and synchronously say that ID gets built into and out of C. Now it gets interesting. It’s almost like a cynical plot defying the very best we did doing what we do best. Being born into an evolutionary quip of a humanness that is us, C settles as a liquid axiom of surreal existence of philosophical agreeableness of reality in an elusive and trans-figurative essence. C’s omnipresence is nothing to be talked about. It might all be an ape joke we have come to tell each other to justify the absurd aberrations of actualized organic postulates of logic we all are out of the the mother nothing or everything possible. What’s left of the outraged foundations to defer is ID, which comes about in a timely manner as a knock on the door at 4am. ID concerts with C. ID becomes the communal alter-ego of C. ID hovers over the crowds, alarming. Alarming the coming of another C, savoring.
Savoring the limits. And now it gets fun. ID is ALL about limits. ID is crippling in its paramount state. It defines and determines. It chooses and eliminates. It resembles and hierarchizes. It does what we do. This is what i have been trying to tame into bullshit, but since we’ve come down to this, it might as well be renegades all the way: It does us. Innuendo.
This lovemaking is a whole alot more than an analogy, which is a weakly trait to digress from the confession when we witness every possible relation mind has come to know is real and no more surreal than what is real. While ID does us, we do ID. WE COME OUT OF ID WHICH COMES OUT OF US. Feel the blindfolded ecstasy, see the finite infant? This nauseating whirlwind bastardizes the possibilities that we might all can be. What we h
ave is what you have is what we have. See the walls closing in, hear the sirens fading? Touch the borderline of our limits?
Now it gets sad. ID is a social entity (really ? really.). It conceives the human paralogs and sets them into interaction. From then on, the possibility of human action falls merciless and grotesque. It gets torn apart, disfigured, unimagined, repeated, repeated, falsifyingly validated. In the heart of self lies the entrapment of ID in bits of rotting cliches and succumbed anomalies of the routine. Everyone gets normalized, vacuumed into the sick margins of the yore. The freedom is compromised but nobody talks about it. Everybody talks about the freedom then it gets trivialized. The outliers get erased with a speed, with a counter-selection unheard of. The Mass Constructum gets supreme. And this is how the absolute C deconstructs itself into the affair of certainty in the lair of human power of irrationale, aimlessness and entropy.
And ID crisis is a wondrous little island called Cyprus. History gets convoluted and treacherous and Cyprus is nothing but of it. Go read, i am not going to write about it. ID crisis has an important semantical weight to it stemming from the body of history, that’s why the mention of it. ID crisis is neither a subtraction or and an addition to a healthy dosage of daily ID values. ID crisis is neither the atrophy or the cancer of ID. ID crisis is a breakdown in the utter dynamics of the whirlwind. It’s a ill-tempered failure in two immense hoofs ID stands on: The normalization dynamics and the feel of belonging. Cyprus suffers because it creates this vacuum for epidermal delirium into which it sucks an set of most random, senseless, pathetic, shallow premises C is innocuously present with no matter where we were born. The taboos, sects of socials beliefs, the enmities of categories of sorts, the proximity of the nihilistic death and the delusion of safety all shape up to be this conglomerate of modern Cypriot folklore. Second, ID is, in essence, a definition of the self (really ?? yes). The dysfunction of a stinking but normal ID dynamic blurs what we see in ourselves as a space-holder in a world of spaces. Self gets undone in the darkness of what to belong to. Nationality, Love of Nation vs. Love of Land, Love of Land? , Love, I, Them, I without Them?, Out, In, Am I out or in? It turns into a relentless battle of questions and a servitude to a blurry rationality asked,examined and applied by the most unwilling people to do so.
A mess. However, as an unspoken rule of unnatural science and as the essential teaching of the fourth most prominent religion in the world, Fight Club, out of destruction shoots out something that is pure (decadent?). By the disinclined samples of the island, maybe Cyprus achieves something masses rarely even contemplate. A philosophical argument: They dissect and refuse to bow down to a ID manifesting itself by a known system of practicality, and choose (well, they certainly do not choose, but you see) to put up without a worldly sense of belonging and a vacuum of delirium which is very very sucky. I am in no possible way sympathetic to what the island have incurred with, but it’s a philosophical stance nontheless and all the mess Cyprus has instinctively or in whatever way self-inflicted surfaces to ID. ID carves C. C founds us. We embrace ID. Cyprus breaks ID. ID traps C. C forgets us. We forget ID. There you have it.
And now it gets done.
F.B.
Mutatio 