Paralogismos: Real <> Fiction

Rough Cut or Real Fiction or The Movie is a Movie.
Korean; 2008.

The Fiction is celebrated as a hero.

Reality is denigrated as a gangster.

The fictitious hero craves for realism, a real source to Appear more realistic, like a convincing real-life hero. He is proud and cannot rest till he can be as good as the real for his fans. He wants to be the most realistic actor, as good as the real, better than the best.

The shady gangster feels more heroic than the biggest star and craves for one chance of recognition, amidst the dark reality of his underworld life of crime and murder to show the world for what he really is. A hero. Something so sub-par standing-in for the real deal feels like an affront to his ego.

Reality and Fiction collide.

They each want to see it to the end for their different reasons.

But try as it may, the noumenon cannot keep up with the phenomenon, which spills beyond the frame of safety and morality and our human constructs. It is indifferent and beyond good and evil.

The hero realizes his heroism ends at the sound of Cut and the Pharmakon is no substitute for reality; he has to live with this knowledge he can never be a hero in real life amidst the clamour of success and celebration.

The gangster knows he cannot fake it and ever be an actor and stop at Cut; his dreams crash in the tragic knowledge he’ll never get that recognition, be seen for what he is.

What starts out as so black and white is not so black and white at all…
Yet, things are not so relative.
Because for the ones on the perilous poison path, the question always hangs, how much reality can you affirm?

What is Real?, and What is Reel?, when you do not discover the box where your heroism stops…?
And you can’t find that till your Pride pushes you to seek and test yourself against higher degrees of reality… the fiction is the hero.
But your Pride pushes you because you cannot fake it… the gangster is the hero.

White and Black and White and Black…

Heroes do not fight in wars.
It is the kind of war that engenders a hero.

Real-Fiction is the site of catharsis.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?feature=player_embedded&v=qc_fSHXyaEw

[size=120]Cast[/size]

[size=110]Fiction[/size] = White Knight - bright and joyful sovereign

[size=110]Real [/size]= Black Knight - bringer of dis-ease

[size=115]White Knight shine bright, lead me back home on this darkest night.

When a hero enters the evil forest, the branches seem to give way, as if to say, “pass but do not sever”, compassionate savior of hope, creator of value, protector of the sacred one.
Such a man is born once in a generation, if at all.
He does not simply lead, he inspires others to follow at his heels, as he heals, past indiscretions, with a soft smile, and a comfortable gaze.
His words spill out of him, they do not explore, and all that hear the gurgling stream begin to feel thirsty in the heat he exudes.

With condensed sensation, he bends over from his height to lift his brothers and sisters from the blight, raising the upward, towards the only sun, the son, whose light he drinks and shines.
A generous soul, gives, in a potlatch ritual, and in his giving receives adoration.
He disseminates his gifts, each vibrating with energy, attuned to the number one, the shatters the nil, like sin, and makes the women swoon.

Who is this man, or is he god, who constructs palaces on sun-rays, and sings songs that make the maidens cry?
Who is this noble spirit offering precious words full of joy, anyone can employ, to find heaven upon this earth?

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A bringer of light, a sovereign, casts his brilliance upon the darkness and shadows dissipate.
He is the value giver, the healer, the one who appreciates all as one; the yay-saying man-god.
His eyes are God’s eyes, his thoughts are Divine, his judgments are beyond space and time.

The world is saved, and life, all that exists, reaffirmed.

Behold!!! the future man!

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The White Knight and his clan are forgiving.
They can give the benefit of the doubt, find the positive in all things, and hide their true evaluation so as to as permit the other his own valuing, undisturbed and unaffected by any factor other than their personal standards and tastes.
They are, in this, Democratic, altruistic and thoroughly in-tune with the Modern: the future men and women, the leaders, the preachers, the builders of worlds.
They do not dismiss, they inspire, they find the positive in the negative, the spark of light in the dark, the seed of greatness in the feces.

They recycle and reuse.
They construct, and belong. [/size]

• The Satyr.

[size=115]Black Knight, full of fright, shatter all that glistens, and spread the darkness to he who listens.

A destroyer of wills, of hopes, of dreams.
His tongue drips of venom, his breath spreads the plague, his eyes burn with their vicious stare, that do not care.
This pathetic creature attracts three categories…

1- The desperate who find in him a hope to excuse their own failings.
The bugs, and thugs, and slugs, of the world, living in the dirt; hurt and angry.
All kind of vermin gather at his feet, hoping for a bite to eat.

2- Those that pity him and in their pity feel better about not being him, about themselves.
The mockers, the cynics, the thrill seekers, the jesters who laugh to forget their plight.

3- Those who are with the White Knight and see in the Dark Knight’s darkness a faint glimmer of a light, hoping to spark the embers to life, blowing oxygen into its supplicating darkness.

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SaTAN mixes the pot, and with some luck nasty smells come gurgling up from the bottom; from the closest point to the flame - where iron meets fire.
Destroyer of spirit, forked tongue, he seduces with pretty lyrics, his pan’s flute echoing in the darkness.
Look at who comes out to cut him to pieces.

Is it a vermin wanting to replace him on his lofty pedestal, as King of the vile, or someone who pities him and finds pride in the mocking, or could it be a healer, lowering himself to his level, despite warning from the White Knight, wanting to heal the wound and bring him back under the light; another noble warrior fighting beside his leader?

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A bully, a thug, a nay-sayer a bug.
The destructive force of the nil, the Devilish, contradicting the Divine one.
He is to be pitied, mocked, preferably ignored, if any construction can avoid the destructive power of the cloven-hoofed one.
Where he passes he devastates, plants doubt, shames and degrades.

Who could tolerate such a creature of despair?
His violence invites the brutish and vulgar, to his court.

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• The Satyr.

[size=115]The Brahmin classes of positivity, announce the coming future man, the coming non-European, global man, as a mealnge of beige stir-fry vegetarian deliciousness.
Delicate, and healthy, with a touch of picante exoticism.

Gone will be the days of hatred, the world under the glow of self-loving, self-valuing, harmony - no man-child shall be left behind.[/size]

• The Satyr.

[size=115]We now know what the meaning of life is; what the universal purpose is: pleasure.

Life emerged to enable the cosmos to pleasure itself, with itself.
Some would call this self-pleasuring, by another name.
The other word is reserved for those excluded from the gene pool, forced to relieve their repressed libido by spilling it with generous carelessness upon the fields of our Lord ONE, but in this case the divine will not permit shame to keep it from the work at…hand.

Bend over and receive your own dose, because a God is never a catcher, so listen to the marketing pitch and endure the pain by calling it your pleasure.
Then ask for more, to help him drive it home.

In the duality of good/evil, a new word-game has been found to progress from that overcome primitivity.
And if we can use new labels here, then why not call self-love, self-valuing, and why not remake Will to Power into Will to Love?

The magical power of the word, the divine scripture, is unquenchable.
One can never underestimate its capacity to be resurrected, and renamed anew - a different package for every age, and for every taste.
What genius lies in the hands of the slight-of-tongue specialist.
Let us admire and appreciate it for what it is: positive, noble, offering hope and good tidings to one and all.
Lend your own hand and make it a mission to spread the noble ones seeds.

The women-folk gather to receive the blessing.
Do you not see the admiration in their gaze, as they bow before they kiss the sacred scepter? [/size]

• The Satyr.

[size=115]It is, perhaps, confusing to come across a holy man wearing armor plating; a divine spirit, brandishing a shiny sharp blade; to listen to the humble servant of the divine offer words of biting arrogance.
Paladin they used to call him - Knight of the Templar
But the White Knight is not troubled by such things.

He is a creature of confusions, and endless misunderstandings.
Heavily dependent on it to remain fascinating to those he needs to witness him struggling within his immutable panoply of unbending steel.
His struggle is their struggles; his battle is for them.
Because if he were tempted to use his blade to cut away at the vines of tangled contradiction and ambiguity, the ones his words and deeds construct so easily, or if he would dare cast aside that stringent mess of absolute solidity and strive to be understood completely, those who are now misled by the clamor and the clouds of dust, would find his clarity ridiculous, and his gravity would be drowned in laughter.

Perhaps it is not so bad to be mysterious and misunderstood; sometimes to be accused of being milky-white, and the next of being pitch-black, hiding beneath your metal face-shield, forever concealed in the light.
The Priestesses of the World’s Navel, and the clever self-haters who would become disciples of salvation, of biblical proportions, knew this all too well.

Remain misunderstood, throw some seductive words, in association, and let them construct, in their own mind, using their proposal needs, your legend. [/size]

[size=115]Dark and brooding the king of darkness burns all that approach, his stench overpowering, his words brimstone suffocating whomever breathes deeply.
A monster, a plague, a vile creature, he is called, while others laugh imagining a demented, cowering trollish figure behind all that grey that is not so black.

How pretty he lies, spinning tales that intrigue and attract the vermin to his lap.
Then they wish to kill him, to take his place.
Reciting his words, like riddles they have solved the wise know it is what it is - his words a Gordian Knot with no solution, no beginning and no end; a way of occupying the needy victims, trying to unravel it, until his blade cuts deep.

The monstrous see themselves in him, convinced he is what he pretends.

“Lead us!”
“Give us”
“Relieve us”
…they call…

And when he denies them they wish to torture and devour him in small doses, unable to endure the entirety of his leprosy, they eat him in parts and burp and fart him out in wafts.
Cane you smell him in their digestion?

He’s been assimilated and become something else. [/size]

[size=115]The brilliant scepter does thou shine divine, or are you seeking the sublime in what is not yours but mine?

He gathers his minions, calling them his mates, unraveling his warrior banner to the winds, so that across the lands those who understand the signs will see, and take heart, beginning the long trip to his court, which he has fashioned into a resort, of sorts.
A Disneyland, and Hollywood to meet all needs, in an orgiastic spectacle, where pleasure reigns, in purity, with no insecurity.
He finds order in the chaotic, and with humility he admits “the design is not mine”, is it thine?
Whatever it is it is unavoidable that you, as you are, as what you are, will head the call, and refuse to fall, like the Dark one to the earth.

The castes unite, and Aryan unity is found, under Semitic symbols, call in the wine in thimbles to sip until the end of time, this nectar of the gods, convulsing as one when they are eaten up.
Socrates has his singular Deity, for posterity, he was the Jesus of his time, and he, this knight of His Light, refusing to acknowledge, has found wisdom in the knowledge, and made himself the new messiah…requiring a priestly class to promote his word(s).

As for miracles, they will come, if not mathematical healing of the cancer, then a geometric form to build a church with precision.
And what of wine and whine?

Not all have a taste for wine, they lose their mind, so best call the preacher to perform the rite and turn water into an inebriating form without anybody knowing…because who does not drink water, except for fish?
And if water, as wine, stimulated the peptic acids, and hunger comes, then why not sacrifice one fish to feed the masses?

The process is magical, divine.
One fish and water will be enough. [/size]

[size=115]When they play the victim of misunderstanding, what they mean is “did you not read, did you not see, my latest incarnation? are you still stuck in my past?”.

When the past is forgotten, dismissed, escaped, every new day, every new sentence, every new fashion is an opportunity for escape.
What WAS, no longer applies…the what IS has replaced it.
every dawn a reincarnation, a rebirth, a baptismal rite…no priest necessary.
the teachings come directly from the Book of symbols and metaphors, to be taken, on faith, literally, as magical devices, as prayers of divine providence. [/size]

[size=115]How easy, it must be, to entice the simple with sweet meats and sweet treats.
So easy that a noble White Knight would tire, and be angered when his motive is in question, taking older word and using new ones to say the same thing.
frustrating, to the point where the bright light turns dark and those he wants to inspire and gather he whips, like rabid dogs, and brain-dead flesh-pots,; zombies with the value of fertilizer for his hash-pots.

The Black Knight has no such problems.
The more disgusting and vile he becomes, the more they come to bury him, and in the cemetery, where they go to place his carcass is where he possesses them.
The Brilliant White Knight must balance his bullshit with his ideals, his actions with his words.
he cannot possess he can only seduce, like eh bitch he is…and bitches and whores go to him, for his secret jewels, and the rules, his Sovereignty decrees.

Politics and psychology, and all those smart words that govern men’s minds, must be employed, to give substance to his hidden void, because the shine is no more than a sham, for the femme, who cannot help but want tot taste, from the sexy caste, the idea(l) and forgo the real. [/size]

[size=115]In the game of life the battle is set and staged.
There is nothing beyond the borders, and the squares, right angled and peripheries, square inches enumerated and alphabetized.
The game of man is the game of life…no Cosmos beyond this point need apply.

Black and White, beyond good and evil, and still the iconoclasts use icons to represent their class.
Within these borders the rules are set, winner loser care to bet?

White Knight and Black Knight upon the stage who will check and who will mate?

The advantage is a given, and it is taken, by the White.
Who shall forfeit such a thing?
The White sets the momentum to begin with, and the Black needs to take it back, and away.

Who would not prefer to side with the White, when the advantage gives a child delight?
Movie scenes, movie dreams, the noble hero always wins: king and country, maiden and gold.

The dualism is clear to see, white is positive, light, and clean; black is negative, dark, and grim.
Advantage to the life, the positive, the one who starts.
The game is his to lose, while black await the chance to confuse, and surprise, much to the white’s demise.

King is restricted by his responsibility, his singular role, and though all move in relation to him he is vulnerable and never too bold.

The Queen feels free to move to and fro, sometimes straddling the white, sometimes the black, when she is feeling bold.

Little pawns do what they can to prove their metal to the man.

Rook solid and sure, un-creative but reliable.

Bishop always at a slant, never straight, never direct, never honest, always sly remaining true only to his faith.

Knight is tricky and flexible. He leaps and skirts, as he comes at you he diverts, burying his shaft in whomever stands in his way.

Within this matrix, build with absolutes, all must remain within the square rooms; every part a here, and there, every moment a starting truth.

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[size=115]There is kindness in his cruelty, a sweetness to the sour, and when he speaks it feels like a bone-crushing hug.
Children and women cannot resist the gentle warrior, the inhuman humanitarian, the humble arrogant one.
He is the coming future man…rejoice the second coming has begun.
Black, red, yellow, green, will be absorbed within the white.
He beckons from a distance, and they turn to see.
The subject has turned the object into a sun. [/size]

[size=115]In the subjective age perspectivism is more than the admission that perspective is where man is forced to engage what is beyond it is the announcement that there is where man can build his castled and spread his empires.
The old tactics will no longer do. a more efficient method is in play.
The erotic.

Upon the bodies of others men rise up to meet the sun, but he no longer slaughters to fertilize his fields, he cajoles, seduces, uses soft words, feigned humility and respect, to get under the effete’s skirts, and candy to entice the younglings to his bedchamber, where rape is not described as tender loving communion.
The art of diplomacy is an art in itself.
One gives to receive, sometimes something more, and when it becomes a relationship of codependency there is little to shatter trust - not even exploitation.

“You scratch my back…” of the Golden Rule, shifts to the “You support my delusion, my word-play, my noetic device…”
Alliances are formed on the subjective and there they remain intact. [/size]

[size=115]It would be easy to gain trust, and a following, by telling people what they wish to hear, and offering a tale that could seduce both child and woman.
Easiest for the one who lacks the masculine pride to stand in the way of such pretenses, or is void of them altogether, and cannot relate to this exposition.

But what if the motive was not popularity, and gaining self-validation, through quantities?
How would one go about filtering out the worthless, and the easy, both infantile mind, and womanly disposition?
In the same way one forges steel, if one wishes to create it out of raw iron, and of one wishes to find it ready-made then one digs, as one would for gold.

Do not think of the desirable outcome,a s if it is a predestined certainty.
Place yourself there, in the heat, in the cold, alone, with a tool, using muscle, using force, using energy…sweating, suffering, grinding away, uncertain you will find what you seek, or the alloy will meet the standards and will not shatter at first impact.

It is easy to seduce a woman, and to trick a child.
So, easy no real man would stoop to that level of hypocrisy for a pleasing outcome, if what he is looking for is more than ephemeral, and fashionable.
Tell a woman what she wants to hear, offer a child a treat he cannot resist, make the subjective a central theme, calling it by whatever name will be more irresistible, depending on the type of prey you wish to hunt. [/size]

[size=115]The Black Knight employs methods that have been called the dark, evil, destructive, because his motive is not his personal pleasure, nor something trite and shallow.

Pressure reaching the heat of lava, he employs, finding ᾍδης, the lame, as his mentor, to create a sun in the dark, increasing fluidity in the seemingly static, and rigid.

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[size=115]Allow the White Knight to have his pick, the Black Knight thinks, because that’s how the children and the females are weeded out of the throng, and darkness can never be escaped for long.[/size]

[size=115]For the Moderns, the subjectivsists, the world having become irrelevant, the exploration of what is called “reality” means an exploration of academic narratives, presented in the form of book reviews, most of it repeated using your own words to prove that you received the lessons and assimilated it correctly.
A perspective on a perspective, which is, most often, of another perspective.
A subjective interpretation of a subjective interpretation of the subjective - the objective denied, and reduced to a myth.

Academics as philosophy.
The art teacher imparting to the student an officially sanctioned review of art, turning him into a critic, cynical at that, and not an artist.
When art is attempted it is sampled, recycled, self-referential, an artistic depiction of an artistic depiction, making the surreal no less inspiring than the realism of the ancients.
Feed into this recycling process and find yourself among the many.
Who, other than the Whitest of White Knights, would find value in that?

If I see Sloterdijk, or Nietzsche, or any one of the popular, famous members of the Modern academic Pantheon, presented as personal insight one more time, I’m going to vomit black bile.[/size]

[size=115]The Dark One remains unnamed, despite being given many names, each one corresponding to a nihilism’s negation (a nil to the nullifying), as it is his way of remaining inconspicuous.

Who could include in the list of “positive” influences, to fatten up their resume, a list of “negative” influences, explaining what burned away their mental fat, and slapped a bit of the silly out of them?

They imitate his “cruelty”, and repeat his words, never admitting the source, because they wish to appropriate and show vengeful ingratitude, wanting to forget the hard lessons that filled them with shame.

So be it.
Beyond personal vanity, and the human condition, effect is what matters. And if a child is born from rape, then the seeder is no less glad, even if the outcome would become a Messiah that would propose saving all rape victims from their memories.[/size]