A tropological excursion into the K, and his elegies in a borrowed castle before the chasm: for to be staged in the quad of a city underneath a mountain.
Klang Kling, Klililiiing!
that I exist, oh gods, that I can write,
that I sometimes sing,
dinga diga
ding ding
Ding!
Hello Hello — U2
Either touching down on the ground of didthing, the existential level?, or flowing like fountains, as fountains go on existing, you know, got eternal milk, God Malte? NNNooo k-nowing about mourning and the black intestines actually, and calling up, clicking clack the aesthetics of realizing the missing some.thing, missing some.one, perhaps the Ave Che-mamaria and his Olympian Caravan through an orange revolution all the way down to Malta and returning Home to Asturias in the north of Spain —
Hello — Oh, but it was so beautiful… I wrote flying through scales and so heavenly that the jealous sky felt like taking it back from me, without back up, calling up, come on, come on, the friend has told me that he has been seen outside of this merry feast of mockery, this republic of this distinguished public:
Ay, marry, is't;
But to my mind, though I am native here
And to the manner born, it is a custom
More honour'd in the breach than the observance.
This heavy-headed revel east and west
Makes us traduc'd and tax'd of other nations;
— Hamlet before the entrance of the ghost
[Der Geist kommt.]
— Schlegel translation
— and it happened twice, twice, can you believe it, are you on the ground, are you flowing eternally, do you know about seeing ghosts in castles, I got cut off twice while addressing what you asked me — specifically — my internet disconnected by my mother’s call: to ask about the taxes and to remind me to write into the law, into ethics, and from there it is a slippage… my grandmother, love and death… and then there is the living and the dead. Something like a romantic longing for someone not present, reflections on a ghost. You know it, and I have to be right. This is not a test, it’s night and darkness drips out in pain and words: this is not a thing; it’s the real thing:
dinga dinga ding
Thing — put the K in,
Put the kin in,
The thin-kin-g
Und die Sterne singen: ringading adinga ding, ringa dinga Ding Ding:
Kierkegaard’s Irony
The ethical and the aesthetic shere irony with or without the airports, domestic and international, on all borderlines, all demarcations; while the religious and the ethical humor one another, avoiding the publication of what’s not fit to print: love letters to some mountain dwelling god or as the esphunis have it, godess.
Søren — not an Iranian, — was an upper class gentleman of learning — but it wasn’t by anything less than the expressly written permission of His Majesty the King that the slow student was allowed to write his Masters — Dissertation on the double, and in the vulgate Danish rather than the traditional Latin: in order to become Magister Kierkegaard — that was before the revolution and the written, ever ironic, ever tropological, constitution.
Now perhaps Master Graveyard should’ve been something else, this ironic inheritor of the priestly, of the old (religious) Absolutism. But the revolution would succeed, as the existentialist died, and the memory of the king turned into freedom: Shahyaad.
Be yaade far,
Faryaad.
Amir
