/lit/ - Literature

>>13184559
>>>/lit/thread/S11744251

>mom found the dialectic

>>12128479

Phil Anselmo:

Sometimes I know
I feel untouchable
Drowning in life
Caught up in the accessible
Back down the ground
I hear the sound
there's no escape
The concrete cloud
Spilling on me
Drenching me with
Laymen's sins
I hear the sirens
From the back of me
I'm crashing face first
Into the glass eye

duh

Phil Anselmo's lyrics are as simple as they are Dialectical.

>1. The way we were
>2. The chance to save my soul
>3. And my concern is now in vain
>4. Believe the word
>5. I will unlock my door
>6. And pass the cemetery gates

A tiresome Catholic lamentation, as dim as the Theology behind it. Or is it?

>1

The particular - way - and its definition - the - implies the revelation of the absolute. Everything leading to this chorus is swiftly judged as secondary, and its power is humiliated through now knowing its place and boundaries. The inclusion of the other party - we - with no further qualification implies the reconciliation of past conflict, forgiveness of one's own and the other's then particular evil, the humiliation of evil and conflict themselves in realizing their singular dissolution in the absolute, and most importantly the subsuming of the other by one's self by realizing this despite, or rather through, the end of the particular other. The final and bare relegation of all that particular and plural to the past - were - affirms the present, its truth that is immanent despite the past, and through it one's own embodied living power here and now. Effectively using the past's greatest strength, its crystallized monstrosity, against it. Shattering it.

>2&3

The chance was only a window to salvation inasmuch as one supposed salvation has windows. The sorrow of this supposed window closing, and the joy of going through it alike, are actually small compared to the awful realization that the supposition was wrong. So both the jubilation of salvation and the terror of damnation are qualitatively increased, by practically being reconciled in one's self. What was ostensibly incoming from the plural without is now radiating from the singular within. The misery of the illusory window is also seen through the possessive link - my soul and my concern - whereby one's very self is a bitter pittance loaned by the divine other at unknowable interest, a fractal prison cell.

>4

As simple and, indeed, as ever exegetical as this phrase is, it follows the previous words perfectly by precluding the fall into equally delirious solipsism. The word IS the world.

>5&6

By dissolving the lesser boundaries - unlock my door - both as identified with and extricated from the radical boundary of being-not being - the cemetery gates - one can not only pass through it, both ways, but pass over it. For the radical illusion of being-not being is only ever inferred through terror of the lesser illusions: creator-creation, subject-object, mind-body, etc. It looms ostensibly beyond their poles, in the midst of their axes, and purports itself to be their origin. The archetype of the master who claims to be so by excellence, but only ever operates through a hierarchy of slaves, and is actually nothing more than a nightmare emerging from the slaves' scrying into their terror of their terror and their forgetfulness of their forgetfulness. The clothes have no emperor.