Inside-Out

1)The event:

One awaits the outside to come. One allows it (perhaps). One courts it certainly. One knows that somewhere – else where anywhere there is a moment upon which an entire history will hang. It is coming. It, like death is always coming.

Indeed this like is the one that matter. Death and the event run together. Deaths the gross event. The hidden function or final point of a life, the point always on the way. The event is then he taking of this witness and knocking it into a thousand shards of meaning and a million fractures of beings. As I die I must this side be alive, I must have being, the rubric ran. No said the event the other options is that Was I live I am at many a movement dying. That is I am at many a moment collapsing into something beyond myself, something unthought and previously no allowed for. A thought beyond what I am or what I could be. A thought beyond my soul or sense.

As I live then I cam caught not is big messy deaths, but rather those little straddles or strikes of being in which body is born.

The event is then the blending of the message of dying into and across an act of living. It is the point I must stop being a me – the point I blend into another and through another form become quite genuinely something quite quiet different.

And yet this is too simply. It ignores the obvious critic cal difference between becoming and being. To be or not to be is to look of a future as a thing apart, a thing unknown. The event on the contrary as it is clear and if confused is the thing one flows ones meaning into as a member in the set of the outside. Eventing therefore I am a part in the creation of the world. I become a part genuinely in the human history or better the world history. I move beyond. This move being is of course caught in an odd augenblick. It is not the augen of  the vision, where all of theme lies before one. So much as the point awaited towards – the point which from the inside I know is coming, a nd yet which once come will change everything.

An event is therefore essential the reverse of the augen. One is a prophet up to the event, one await-  one knows it will be- one feels oneself to be on the path to it – as the river flows, one flows: How could one do anything else. The event is the waiting – the knowing a thing will happen, one will tumble into the outside. And yet the effect of that event – of that tumbling on the outside is that everything is different. Ho could anything really ever be the same after it.?

The event is after all the point one becomes the outside or at least as the outside. It is therefore the point that nothing can be as what it was – the point it should not be as it was the point beyond every self…

The event poses therefore the problem of waiting in life a change-  of feeling it wound up within ones nature –and yet what that change itself leads to in the final act-  where it takes is never known.

From which it is course follows that events need not be formerly actualid to be. One might actualize not in being real as such – but rather in the waiting that reality. This defines a promise or a reality of a life. A life apart, a life awaiting a chance,. One awaiting is the event. The trouble is of course that it is never the event that one thought it was. Events therefore in a sense always happen-  it is just in their nature not to happen as I saw fit, and that includes the point in which they do not happen at all. Excess loyalty to the event therefore actually breeds within that loyalty another rather different event-  the event not happening an event one is only a part within – a bit player of.

One must therefore always be careful in the wait. The problem, one might actually say the temptation is always to become the sorry, become the message, and not understand how one is never the simple truth. The story really ought not to be about what one is – it demands t be about others and through others. Given this the event cannot simply watched and gloated over- or if it is another outside will materialize to the one that made oneself.

2: The passion.

One the inside of the mind it never quite feels like the event is not ones own. Or better the event is the point at which one frees hold one ones world and attempt to make it ones very one it is therefore the point in which one takes a smattering of perceived images and arranges over and around them and through them a life. The point of the event is therefore that it allows one to beheld an extra element into life an element beyond perception.

He event is therefore essential the herald to a being. That is it is the point in which the empirics passionate juices of being get going. The point the stomach turns into reality. The world becomes my private passionate play-  my private possession or love or hate. The world as mine.

To be this side of the event is therefore to be warping the world as one finds it. One cannot ever simply leave it be. On the contrary the vary insignificances and reliance’s of the world are warped and rewarped – they are made as real for the mind. Others look one while a life is unfolded  a life of ones own. To wait is to breed passion therefore. In those passions ones actions and ultimately the way one is caught in the event is wrought. In these passions therefore, through then one feels one is caught on being a difference. They shadow the even.

And yet at the same time the event in itself it such a construction is possible is the bothering of these passions. These passions, are themselves rendered translucent and problematic in the event. Or to put it otherwise they are othered across and though it – they are made and remade as different. My event is therefore the point in which my passions are made as public – the point is which the empiric world of experience tears the movements on my life, the little thing I have owned and in rendering them public an open, forces them to dance according to other relatives that anything can encamps. It is therefore the moment within which the world as if it was a passion renders my passions otherwise and forces their differences upon them. The event therefore treat me as it puppet. It uses the extra dimension I breed into the world, the extra feelings and the building block to other worlds. Without this extra element, this silent resentment and absolute manipulation then nothing would have been possible The event would not have come to pass, and would not even though in being at all it buggers up everything – although passions all those feelings, and renders them as a nothing.

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or perhaps more properly the event is only loyal o the passions in confirming that they were right the world was weird, an yet that weird, that being other included the fact includes the fact that the passions themselves did not get it utterly right. They did not solve the world, they merely witnesses (or created) it. They made a difference, but were not the answer. In being true as the element beyond the given clumps of meaning, in testify to a truth beyond experience they therefore allow in, they must allow in the demonic mater of this medium – the pointer in which the change or change is made real and given value.

The event is therefore that which drives passions onward. They demand or create the sense that in being passionate  demand a world concept and never (quite) salized0. As I am a passionate

I am therefore always caught in the middle of another experience another thought a different feeling I move and remove on and sideways. I am trapped in some reality which as it is passionate (and so beyond the min0 is being a me. The event is the other side of that mirror-t hat is the other side of these passions. I is the pot then reflect. The impossible unity beyond every me and any possible being me. The point into which all my passions are swept up, the extra to reality they and others like them (in me and others) give. The point we are thrown in the same basic throw-  without ever meeting or coalescing. The event is the therefore the folding of passions in the that which uses and is across the them all. The point one is in the middle for another….

3 Life 

But his of course immediately raises the problem of what kind of creature can inhabit this eddying pace? Where or what is the thing that’s across this endless echoing passions and this differing. What is it therefore that lives the world as the truth that makes lies. That is the point in which their is fashioned though simply adding spin into reality, and forcing that reality to be different – a truth with the event then makes real. What is it therefore that is capable  of allowing for all these difference, and holding them>

The answer is of course the amorphous voice of life itself. How could it be anything else?

The very point of life is that there is always something different, something other, something odd to the world. There is always therefore something really rather incomplete about it – something unfinished and open for and through it. The world cannot be simple, a nd is never just finished. Life demands that its addition the passion is what matters. As Life is therefore real, and life is truth, so the world then follows-  so it must follow and re-follow. How can it do anything else? Why should it do anything else?

To be alive is therefore to demand a truth or at least a space for passions; it is the infamous = x of the extra. The element in which the simple ethic of experience is never enough. To life is to add perspective and which perspective becomes anger and passions. It is therefore the demand that something somewhere be actually and actively inhabiting whatever nonsense whatever experience is looping around the system and driving realities backwards and forwards and sideways. It is therefore the moment of impact into the real of the truth. That s life is the stooge of textured. It is the point that one attributes something else some suspicion to the world, some thought   that there is something beyond and through it- some dimension o unreality for it.

A  am an alive my perception alone are not enough-  you most allow for how I respond to them and use themes and how others then respond.

Life to this degree events the event. That is the vent was the fracturing of death onto a thousand different micro elements-  the point that richness an not merely the bland otherness of the outside erupts into a mind. Life then build into this otherness a pitch or place, for endless complexity and intricacy is therefore the point in which the possible of events are articulated. The fact that is being they demand the world is not merely perception is therefore rendered real across an indefinites number of living fleeting thoughts and vices. Life running between prognosis and cross the species of the world, as an othering force, opens events across other events, and creates the endless melee in with they happen. Life therefore knocks dimension into events: It holding in itself and through theirs the sense of the difference deviating makes: that is the pointing which and through which it demands that things are apart and are different – that life is not quite as  we thought or even could have thought). It is the point in which therefore is always something else to be said-  other events on the  something coming and recoming.  ? It is the point beyond  about being therefore where the wisher of being is held ,a nd made to matter – is articulated in creating a warping world that is only he product of different live (and so excessive) responses.

The problem is always at this point is this enough/ is his all these I? Can live hold all passion n and encompassed all events  does it give the simple synthesis between the two or must a far more complex conjunction be thought through.