Sunday, September 14, 2014
Nothing that I write is a clear pointer about where I’m going, though the point (the event of writing presented) should be clear in each instance—and is, I hope, for the thing here, the trace of the event, a time-space architexture presented.
For example, all I’ve written recently about Habermas is part of drawing a provisional closure, not departing further into being there soon (though surely again later!). Likewise with Heidegger. Writers who have profoundly influenced me are part of going on—where “on,” as my pathmaking, would be my learning going forward, into undefined horizons that nonetheless are the gravities, the Appeals.
What’s worthwhile to say about the Sirens drawing Ulysses?—as if I knew Homer. (My Dad’s first name was Homer. I was born on Bloomsday, June 16, the singular day of Joyce’s Ullysses, when Leopold Bloom has his odyssey about town.)
Yet, a draw—The Draw—draws me on.
I’m surrendered to being drawn by the hill whose forward vista I can’t yet see.
I’m given to the draw of drawing, given to drawing as such.