Definitions of God

God is surely dead, according to any traditional notions.  But "god" continues to live as a word; consequently, it is up to those of us dedicated to capricious semantics to usurp the word for our own delight and future transformations.  So, below, sadoo diaper offers some new definitions of God, in his attempt to re-create divinity in his own image.

1. God is that which most fully can not and never be described; that which most fully has not, does not, and can never exist.

2. God is desire, the waiting for that which may never come.  That which we desire, but do not obtain--the ever-present unknown--is God.

3. Each moment judges the other and finds it wanting; the collection of all these moments is the judgment of God.  Stories are formed from the two gaps that define the human:  the gap between the least a person is able to achieve and the most, and the gap between what a person achieves and what that person longs for.  The first gap is a subset of the second gap.  The second gap is God.

4. In our nightmares, we live our fears of losing what we have.  In our daydreams, we live our hopes of gaining what we do not have.  The union of our nightmares and daydreams, of what we possess and lack, is God.  We stand between, forever in the same position, at the midpoint of fear and desire--the opposite of God.

5. God, from a psychoanalytical perspective, is nothing other than the male fear of female beauty organized into a deity.  But psychoanalysis is only one lens in the fly-eye of God, even as each definition is only one lens in an eye of infinite lenses.

6. Everything can kill us--restraint, abandon, prudence, whimsy, intelligence, stupidity, solitude, society, justice, injustice, religion, atheism, thought, emptiness.  We tell stories about what has killed or might kill, but these are attempts to order the chaos at the guts of life and death.  God is this everything.

7. The artist’s call is to directly experience beauty and pain and to transform this dual experience into a unified work.  This experience is the experience of God.

8. One can only be in relation to two things:  zero and infinity.  The first is the mystic, the second the philanderer.  Meister Eckhart and Don Juan.  Everyone else—the majority—deny the fact of the choice of these two relations and thus exist continually in no relation:  ones in relation to ones.  Here is the hope, the messianic hope, the hope of both physics and poetry:  the one who would be in equal relation to both zero and infinity continuously.  In short, God.

9. God is cabbage soup on a cold day.

10. The nameless wants to be named, for the nameless perceives that to be named is an increase in power; but the nameless moves at its peak power the closer to namelessness it remains; energy is most concentrated in the nameless.  The more something is named, the more it repeats itself in its addiction to remain named.  God is that which is not tempted to become named.

11. God is what is created from the sight of the gap between our attitude toward the universe and the universe’s lack of an attitude toward us.

12. God is that which muddles yes and no.  As that which is perpetually creation and apocalypse--never that thing in-between:  time--God scatters and melds the categories, without intent.  Humanity is the intent.

13. God is that which overcomes passion by means of passion, offering justifications for this overcoming.  We call these justifications myth.  We are now myth’s partially conscious co-creators; hence, our present potency and malaise.

14. In music and sound, there are pitches below and above human capability of hearing; so in painting and color, there are portions of the spectrum invisible to the human eye.  God is that which, in literature and language, falls outside of human thought.

Tao Te Ching IX

Rather than fill it to the brim by keeping it upright

better to have stopped in time.

Hammer it to a point

and the sharpness cannot be preserved forever.

There may be gold and jade to fill a hall

but there is none who can keep them.

To be overbearing when one has wealth and position

will bring calamity upon oneself.

To retire when the task is accomplished

is the way of heaven.

Because nothing lasts, should one attempt nothing?  Because power is given to abuse and ponderousness, should one avoid it?  When greatness and beauty have frequently emerged from stretching capability and resistance to and past known limits but have as or more frequently destroyed and torn, should one walk some tepid middle way?  Because the Tao is natural and human nature is excessive, is this not a contradiction?  Does not that sage of the imagination correlate wisdom and excess?  Did not an older suffering sage destroy the correlation between morality and justice? 

These are the questions of one who doesn’t walk the Tao, who forgets the sage is ruthless and the body is neither to be succumbed to nor negated (though sometimes it is to be succumbed to or negated) but accepted.  Who neglects the Tao’s contradictions, both internal and external, and systematizes, simplifies, verbalizes what cannot be systematized, simplified, verbalized.  Who translates transience into apathy, the perversions of wealth into poverty, and the proclivities of power into cheap victimization and hermitic retreat from the world’s bloody scrimmage.

Why is there poverty and wealth, male and female, wisdom and foolishness, moderation and excess, full and empty, blunt and sharp, calamity and calm?  The Tao includes all and denies none.  So the sage includes all, denies none.  Whereas the one who is moderate requires excess external to him, even as the wealthy require the poor, and calm calamity, the sage, by including all within herself, is able to stop when it is time to stop.  She mirrors the totality of the world within herself.

Does she attempt to create more sages?  Does she evangelize?  Does she strive to expand enlightenment and share heaven’s wisdom with those of earth?  Why should she? 

The Tao Te Ching is not a guidebook for CEOs, bums, bakers, programmers, strippers, or fools, but for sages.

To retire when the task is accomplished might be the way of heaven:  however, we are on earth and on earth the task is never accomplished.  The sage, however, walks the way of heaven.  Not because she is superior, but because she is a sage and this is what sages do.

Tao Te Ching VIII

Highest good is like water.  Because water excels at benefiting the myriad creatures without contending with them and settles where none would like to be, it comes close to the way.

In a home it is the site that matters.

In quality of mind it is depth that matters.

In an ally it is benevolence that matters.

In speech it is good faith that matters.

In government it is order that matters.

In affairs it is ability that matters.

In action it is timeliness that matters.

It is because it does not contend that it is never at fault.

Water is not a specialist.  Construction, scholarship, alliances, oratory, politics, business, and war—dentistry, golf, web design, advertising, prostitution, poetry, trafficking, and bishopry—are.  In each specialty, there are specific attributes and forms of knowledge that are required to excel in that trade; there are, as much in the so-called anti-social trades as in the so-called proper ones, social protocols that comprise entering and remaining in that trade.  It is true—water has attributes and so in that sense can be considered a specialist, in the way that everything named is in some sense a specialist, so fulfilling its name.  But water, unlike the standard specialists, has no objective, no ambition, no resentment; it is full of life, creates primarily but does destroy, and is acquainted with worms and mud.

The one who is close to the way is also acquainted with worms and mud.  So, like worms, she is not unacquainted with the arts of enriching, aerating, decomposing, circulating, and transforming the putrid decay most avoid into the blabby light most desire.  So, like mud, she is not unacquainted with providing habitats, sustenance, and hiding places.

She is close to the water and not unacquainted with its methods.  She spurts and froths, calms and eddies, quenches and nurtures, and on occasion destroys—often for good reason, sometimes for none.

Water’s goodness is unlike the common good—the good that trades in perks and prestige, comforts of all kinds, and evil.  For the common good has evil as one of its trading interests, but the highest good—though including its lower forms—does not keep evil at a distance, across its borders, but knows it well, even settling on its muddy wormy bed, close to the way, hidden from fault.  The highest good does not need to trade, as elements and creatures naturally embed themselves in it and trade emerges from deficiency.

Water goes anywhere and is found everywhere.  So the sage.  She does not distinguish between hotspots and cold, between renowned banks and anonymous ones, between wide and narrow, shallow and deep, torrential and still, turbid and clear, populated and empty, nutritious and unpalatable, complicated and sparse.  All of life is fascinating and good—and who is she to say that one aspect is better than another, that she is destined to only exist in one milieu?  Is she so small?  If she is, she is not a sage, but a specialist and she has a name and she contends to maintain it.

Tao Te Ching VII

Heaven and earth are enduring.  The reason why they can be enduring is that they do not give themselves life.  Hence, they are able to be long-lived.

Therefore the sage puts her person last and it comes first,

treats it as extraneous to herself and it is preserved.

Is it not because she is without thought of self that she is able to accomplish her private ends?

The cosmos, while not eternal, in comparison to us is eternal.  Certainly the cosmos is indifferent and unconscious.  How then can that which is passionate, conscious, and very transient emulate that which is cold and long-lasting?  Why should it?

The sage does not become heaven and earth, even as she does not become the Tao.  Nothing becomes the Tao; the Tao becomes.  The sage loses herself in heaven and earth to become herself.  This loss is no Christian kenosis, though it is not entirely antithetical.  It is no subjection of the individual will to some larger will; there is no larger will, there are simply many wills.  The sage still has her private ends; she still comes first; she is preserved.  How can this be if she is hidden in the infinite folds of the universe?  It is because she is hidden in the infinite folds of the universe.

The sage does not lack a will; she simply directs her will to the becoming of the Tao, which is to say the becoming of all creatures.  As this is her becoming, why should she not accomplish her ends?

The universe is the only thing that truly and endlessly affirms; it affirms by not speaking and that which speaks—no matter how large, how historic, how numinous, how affective—is always only an aspect of the Tao.  The universe affirms, but it is no cuddly affirmation; it is an affirming that provides brief space for your existence and that is all.

Western dualism posits egoism against selflessness, good against evil, male against female, transience against permanence.  But the Tao, while nodding toward the existence of these categories and affirming them, at least in speech, is not inclined toward separating them.  If you love your daughter and she dies, her death is a negative act.  But if you also love the Tao—or perhaps more aptly are inclined toward it—you know that her loss is the gain of something else.  That the earth—flowers, beetles, squash—benefits from her decay and so, in turn, all creatures on the earth benefit.  Death always includes love and gain.  And who is the sage to say she is the only one that matters, the one that matters more?  It is not that she does not mourn her daughter, but that she does not equate her own place and feelings with the universe.  Everything is in its rightful place.  She mourns but like Chuang Tzu she may very well be singing, drumming, and dancing within days.  Society might be shocked—propriety is broken—but society is not the sage’s master.  Society continually strives to give itself life, maintain and increase it.  Whereas the sage turns her will toward that which looks at life and death, smiles, shrugs, and walks along.

The Sadoo, Walking

the sadoo walks. it walks and walks, walking through walls of talk (what a magician!), wearing out its socks (where will it get new ones?), listening to its cock (what a blabby flabby thing!), death's clock tick-tock knock (how calm! how turbulent!). why does it walk, this doo-doo dao face? just to listen and wear out and wonder? if it were just these things, wouldn't that be fine?  but the sadoo is not as evolved as it sometimes wants itself to be--being human and mortal and not much more--so it also walks for other things.  it walks to dissipate its desolation, to laugh at its haplessness, to place its solitude on the wings of the sun and watch it burn. walking transplants the false roots in the sadoo's controlling mind, in its greedy heart, in its hungry ticky-cock, into the movement of its feet, the stillness of its eyes. what grows in such transplanted soil? walking, wearing out, listening, walking

Tao Te Ching VI

The spirit of the valley never dies.

This is called the mysterious female.

The gateway of the mysterious female

is called the root of heaven and earth.

Dimly visible, it seems as if it were there,

yet use will never drain it.

Who lays claim to the eternal, especially these days of transience and time?  Who proclaims the hidden, especially in an age of explicitness and fame?  As the female morphs into the male and the male into the female, as the cumulative noise of monuments and those who would be monuments crowds the air, who would defend anonymity and silence?  When only the visible, the sensuous, the testable are granted credence by the pomp and powers, the texts and tyrannies, who would whisper to the valleys of night that only the invisible never dies?

Who would confound, not clarify?  Who would lose, not find?  Who would seem dim and ungraspable, not bright and held?  Who would nonchalantly refuse the world’s towering laurels, preferring to rest in the obscure shade of some unnamed cave?  Who would walk through doors not to get somewhere but to go through them?

Is this a timeless woman who has no name?  A woman shrouded in the inarticulate arts of subtle negation?  Or is it no woman, but some epicene who refuses definition?

The questions hover on elusive portals, and are gone.

The Tao removes itself, and removes again.  Doubly removed, for it is not just valley but the spirit of the valley; not just female but the mysterious female.  Then again, not just the mysterious female, but the gateway of the mysterious female.  Not just one name, but two.  Secret, yes, but manifestation and secret; desire and root.

If you would know yourself, the world around you, the arching panoply of power, and the origin of all things, you would remain detached from the myriad specific forms of knowledge and desire.  You would not climb, you would fall.  When you found the valley has no bottom and sex no ground, would you not rest in the dim light of this newly discovered land?  Would you not sing?

THE SADOO AS FLANEUR

A serious question that must be addressed in the future discipline of Sadoo Studies is the extent to which the sadoo is a flâneur.  A number of significant obstacles are immediately raised.

The flâneur is most ecstatically, horribly, and originally linked to Saint Charles Baudelaire and the museum of Paris.  Saint Baudelaire wandered that museum—before it became a museum—during The Great Age of the Birth of The Modern City, when pedestrians were pedestrians not the extensions of cars; when cities were livable and scalable and walkable; when Paris was a living beauty and not a postcard of itself.

It would take many days to walk across Delhi today—most of it tedious, sterile, feet-unfriendly, eye-unfriendly.  So in the 143 years since St. Baudelaire died, the psychic and artifactual mass one has to negotiate to see God—the only objective of any authentic sadoo or flâneur—has exponentially and continues to exponentially increase.  The distance between the genitals and purity, beast and divinity, ignorance and knowledge, the sacred and the profane, commerce and creation, is now so great as to break the feet of all but the greatest stroller.  The human soul itself is being stretched from creation’s dim dawn to apocalypse’s eager maw and what tends to fill its corpulent diameters are money, mirrors, and noisy wills.

Since the ugly tepid demise of St. Charles, the term flâneur has been usurped by the academy and its pedants.  This began with Georg Simmel (The Metropolis and Mental Life) and Walter Benjamin (The Paris of the Second Empire in Baudelaire), both likable enough, and from them into the rhetorical discursive polemical psychosociocultural analytical critical mediocre gobbledyfoofoo that passes for knowledge among those who dispense degrees from within the pomo vending machine which in the common tongue is called the university.

But the flâneur is no idea, but first a leaf in bodily form, second the eye that God lacks, and third a continuous visceral-emotional shock that the world in its corrupt incompetent horror and beauty is the way it is.

Whether the flâneur was moneyed or impecunious, he was invariably indolent—at least according to any standard definition of industry.  Yet St. Charles flâneured in the pre-nanosecond world when art, God, and nature still were legitimate republics in their own right and had not yet capitulated to money’s false monistic claim.  So leisure, anonymity, and caprice have been increasingly desecrated and, with these, the flâneur.  Even artists these days—with their workshops and websites, careers and conformance—have lost not just the ability to walk, but their right to walk.

The rise and dominance of virtualization means that a flâneur is now a simulacrum of the flâneur:  one can walk the world without walking; one can stroll Parisian streets through two-dimensions from a St. Louis suburb; one can receive mock-shocks and e-bustles from a virtual crowd in a potato-chip-chomping bedroom.

Three or four or more questions arise from these meandering musings and thick conceptual walls.

1.  Is the flâneur dead?

2.  If not, why?  If not, how is it and/or can it—it being flâneurism—be transformed?

3.  How is the sadoo a flâneur?

An attempt at answers.

St. Baudelaire’s flâneur is dead—or at least seriously maimed—but the flâneur lives on, minimally in the imagination and quite possibly in that most archaic of possibilities—the body.

The flâneur may continue to live because—

—  the crowd—as offensive, cloacal, faceless, goalful, merging,  as the nineteenth century—continues to exist and grow and throb in its active urban malaise.  As long as the urban crowd exists and bulges, so must the flâneur.

—  money—modernity’s cheap divinity—is no longer transcended through art, God, or nature but only through that which money now utterly depends on … movement—continuous meaningless movement—the flâneur’s chief love.

—  one subverts the dominance of technomoney (and all money is now technology) by returning to the body in its schizoid simplicity.  Certainly the urban throb-mob tries to return through sex, Baudelaire capturing this in his observation—sexuality is the lyricism of the masses.  More modernly and popularly, TV shows such as Sex and The City express Baudelaire’s thought mythically and specifically.  But the flâneur goes deeper than sex—which reeks too much of self-interest, groupgrasp, and false promises—into the body’s rank core:  the combination of futile bestial wandering with the raw deep eye of God.  It is a truism to say that nature no longer exists except as metaphor.  There is one exception, though.  And that is the body in the city—nature’s last stronghold.  The flâneur does not primarily give his body over to other individual bodies (the sexual frenzy which dominates urban despair and ecstasy), but to the body of the city in its entirety and so attempts to recover the ancient trees and texts as they were once alive.  Attempts to recover them on the shimmering sweat of his flesh.

This particular sadoo has extensively and precisely imagined the modern city as the sarcophagus of God—that we are secretly sustained by decaying divinity, affording the ecstasy our species requires.  The human has always thrived on death—we kill (physically, emotionally) to risk extending ourselves—and the city affords great feasting.  Faith in the city—the only faith remaining—necessitates believing God is dead; this is no textbook belief, no parched cognitive truth, but one as living and sinewy as water.  This faith in the city is an aspect of the sadoo’s faith and an aspect of what drives him to walk.

So, then, the sadoo as flâneur sojourns aimlessly through God’s decaying body to observe and document the great convulsing human mass which has dubiously taken the burden of god upon itself; he sojourns, observes, and documents before the eye that circumscribes divinity, humanity, and bestiality disappears into itself, the city collapses to two dimensions, and the resultant mirror reflects nothing.