fields

13 February, 2010

real
What is friendship? What is love?
Is it recognizing? Understanding? What makes one person so perfect a fit and another so tedious? Is it just time, or willingness, or luck?
“Another person is perceived as another “myself”, tearing itself away from being simply a phenomenon in my personal field, appropriating my phenomena and conferring on them the dimension of intersubjective being, and so offering “the task of true communication” (Merleau-Ponty 1964, quoted by Csordas 1993).
Even if the world is a constant influx of phenomena I am still able to recognize another person as more than phenomena, as another me. Together, myself and this other me compare and create and perform the experiences that constitute reality.
While providing nicely an intersubjective reality this account fails to highlight the unknowable difference of ‘the other me’. That is, I recognize this other person is capable of sense and understanding the world like I do, but they probably do not do so exactly like me, or for that matter in a way I would even recognize…
Yes, between two subjectivities there is an intersubjectivity that allows for communion where before there was only echo, however, those subjectivities must be sufficiently similar as to allow comparison.
And that, I think, explains why I can’t be friends with people who are afraid to get their hands covered in dirt.

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4 Responses to “fields”

  1. harlequin Says:

    I let myself be drawn in, the beauty of your Lacuna still alluring, the shades and depth of your unseen second shadow ripples ironically in my memory against words unheard.

    What is love? What is friendship?

    Reflections of this nature, this natural accumulation of life’s experience, are found throughout time, throughout literatures and poems, they are one of the core creative energies of art and form. Like many, I seek it out, I long for its duality, I like to find the places where I can balance on the slender silhouette of omniety’s absence, my breath held.
    They make who I am.

    I’ve been wavering for the majority of the day, between the ebb and flow of my breath I drift from apprehension to repose, maintaining a quietness that I should do to keep, for I fear my will to be too strong, I fear to let loose my guardians, I fear what they have to teach me, I fear their ability to slip into subconscious revenge… these, my guardians; the revenge they reap on me is their teaching, on others…

    I do not take such things lightly: If I have crossed others with guardians, my adventure may fall to the same ills, perhaps to one unlisted.

    So I am waiting. It matches the profile of my liminality.

  2. The Stranger by Camus Says:

    Echoing downward from antiquity comes Aristotle’s terrifying quote: “My friends, there is no friend.”

    Merleau-Ponty spent much of the latter portion of his life in lengthy intellectual dialogue with the philosopher and psychological theorist Jacques Lacan. Both denied that the other had adequately portrayed the human subjective experience; Lacan specifically critically pointed out that Merleau-Ponty’s psychological phenomenology accounted adequately for fully conscious drives, but ignored the existence of a sub-conscious.

    Lacan’s depiction of love was an imagined and symbolic process with deeply narcissistic roots, for exactly the reason Merleau-Ponty uses: In recognizing another person as another SELF, one DOES NOT love the other – one loves the SELF.

    Love is therefore not true communication, but rather the deepest of self-deceptions. “As a specular mirage, love is essentially deception.” The process of love and friendship is the creation of the other as another self; of the false imposition of the self onto another. Love is not truly directed at the love-object, but rather at characteristics the love-object truly lacks – that is, a final identity shared with the self.

    To accomplish this deception, one must also convince oneself that one is loved in return. It is this imaginary reciprocity that constitutes the illusion of love.

    • batspit Says:

      hmmmm…. but there is something essentially unknowable about this other self- I at least, am transparent to myself. This other self that I love, sometimes I love it because of the me I see reflected there, but sometimes I love this other self just because of itself alone, for seeing the things I do not see and doing the things I cannot do and for being… just for being fragile and strong and brave and afraid all in one unique unrepeatable glance.

      PM,

  3. smoothpebble Says:

    and i quietly say – love is relationship, without heirarchy and found when the person you are with (friend, lover, spouse, etc.) offers the freedom of being your truest self unencumbered by the false self. i refuse to accept that love, friendship is deception. refuse! i also refuse to totally give in to my own narcissism while recognizing it’s power and allure.


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