The Wokeness of Emily Dickinson

Emily Dickinson was the strangest poet who ever lived. If the doors of perception were cleansed every thing would appear to man as it is, infinite; says Blake, another poet. Emily Dickinson had the Master Perception. She raises her head and gazes, and permanently windows slam open, window after window, into the indefinite. Her perception is way faster than the stickiness and inflexibility of them processes in the world — devilshly fast thinker she was, incandescent — so it seems, her perception is experimental per se, as she establishes multiple perspectives on each and every thing, including her own perception, calculates them through – and possibly discards them: —- all that emanates from her —- occassionally very tiny —- poems.

I dwell in Possibility

A fairer House than Prose

So – if you look at her poetry, you seem to get offered a glimpse into what – Enlightenment, means —: the comparative to Wokeness. Wokeness means that you are able to deconstruct identities — in order to – possibly – get to the „real thing“ of stuff, the enigmatic core, the Ding an sich. And to naturally adress it, to establish authentic communion with it. It means to develop a Naturalness that adresses given identities in a natural way. The Authenticity thing. / Wokeness sees through identities and deconstructs them – them identities do not persist — or they get reaffirmed in a better way. In a more authentic way. You may finally reach the Platonic Ideas behind identities. You confront your own identity. Most lucidly, you transgress your identity and become intellect and perceptiveness. Finally, your intellect and perceptiveness encounters itself. That is, then, the transcendental place. That – nevertheless – necessitates a bumby ride: — Wokeness is – of course – something ironic: since we do not know what given identities – and what they possibly reveal and conceal – actually are. So, if we take Wokeness seriously, we dwell in possibilities (yet – usually – to establish a House of Prose: of the Possibility of final Belonging). Irony, in itself — and opposed to sarcasm of cynicism — means that you are willing that take things more seriously than you seem to do (with cynicism it is the other way round): Wokeness  means heightened Awareness :: Wokeness means taking stuff seriously. Irony means taking stuff seriously, and more serious than it appears. Both Wokeness and Irony mean a perception upon the World that includes the Possibility for Change, for Transformation, for Becoming. With maximium Wokeness – you finally dwell in Possibilities. This is the „experimental“ nature of Emily Dickinson´s poetry; and of the transcendental mind. How unquiet!

One need not be a Chamber – to be Haunted –

One need not be a House –

The Brain has Corridors – surpassing

Material Place –

That´s fucking spooky! It is true: Emily Dickinson and her poetry seem somehow uncanny, and like a Haunted place. (She/it radiates unpredictability, and people that appear unpredictable appear creepy. Apperaring unpredictable is characteristic No. 1 that makes individuals appear creepy to others! So, their unpredictability isolates them. Yet it also means that they are able t)o establish their own territory.

Best Things dwell out of Sight

The Pearl – the Just – Our Thought –

Most shun the Public Air

Legitimate, and Rare –

The Capsule of the Wind

The Capsule of the Mind

Exhibit here, as doth a Burr –

Germ´s Germ be where?

We said there above: The goal of the Wokeride would actually be considered establishing a final House of Prose: a House of final Belonging. The goal and the meaning of life seems not identical with Dwelling in Possbilities all the time – you finally will want to settle the score and move into a pacified House of Prose. Einzug der Götter in Walhall. / Yet: Germ´s Germ be where? Oddly enough, the supernomadic poet Emily Dickinson never left her house and ground as she reached artistic maturity. Nevertheless —- in stark contrast to her hermit-like lifestyle where she was profoundly „at home“ and „agoraphobic“ to the other extreme —- in the expressions of her artistic maturity (her poetry; and letters) Emily Dickinson appears driven by frenzy, appears as always being on the run, nomadic, and dislocated — her poetry appears as fragmented, with no beginning and no end. Wherever I may roam. —- Her poems are considered „unstable“ [You have to understand – however – that true poetry and art (and reflection) appears unstable always: since it is about switching between motif and background. All the world is motif and background! Such is the structure of the world. A motif appears from, emanates from a background / and the background is illuminated by the motif. Enlightenment, Satori means that you are able to switch between motif and background instantly – and therefore mimic „the Real Thing“] Yes, in a way they both seem to erect and collapse in themselves …  That accounts both for the style and for the message —- there is as well Joy and Satisfaction in her poetry, as well as an – unusual amount of – Morbidity and insight into Vanitas…

I reason, Earth is short –

And Anguish – absolute –

And many hurt,

But, what of that?

I reason, we could die –

The best Vitality

Cannot excel Decay,

But, what of that?

I reason, that in Heaven –

Somehow, it will be even –

Some new Equation, given –

But, what of that?

Yet, strangely — and as you can see in there — also Morbidity and Vanitas seem to get left behind and thrown to the garden dump in the Dickinson Universe. Sister, is your Wheel spinning so fast that even the things supposed to have the final say, the eventuality of decay – that escatology itself seems to get left behind? Existence – it is all a „Cosmic Joke“, as they say. Yet, actually, in the Dickinson universe, stuff is neither, then, „cosmic“, nor a „joke“. Is this a place where you want to be? Emily is ghostly! – Finally – and how it has often been considered – Emily Dickinon´s poetry seem to come to — nothing. And she herself reduced to a ghost-like Nobody.

I`m Nobody! Who are you?

Are you – Nobody – too?

Then there´s a pair of us!

Don´t tell! they´d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!

How public – like a Frog –

To tell one´s name – the livelong June –

To an admiring Bog!

Nothing and feeling like being nobody is – of course but – a sentiment that is not too uncommon for anyone – notably not for the true poet. Occasionally feeling so is a part of the human experience. And when you finally reach the center of the mind, plunge deep into the feelings, you arrive at a state of Nothing, or of convulsion, or whatever it may be. Some strange state. — Nothingness, however, is also attributed to a most elevated state of mind. It is linked – again – to Enlightenment and to Satori. Nothingness and being Nobody means purification of the mind and maximum spiritualisedness and refinedness. Nothingness is what people try to achieve who want to emanate Somehing – the most pure and most underivative of Somehing. Nothing stands in relation to a pure Somehing, and to a pure Everything. Nothingness and being Nobody is having achieved pure perceptiveness.

By homely gifts and hindered words

The human heart is told

Of nothing –

„Nothing“ is the force

That renovates the World –

Nothing is the opposite of Everything, of the All. And the Enlightened Mind, the Woke Mind, means the Consolidation of the Opposites. By being Nothing and Nobody, you let the world in – you´re on top of becoming Somebody. By letting Reality in, you become the most Real / Authentic of all – and Wokeness, as we reiterate, is about letting Authenticity in. Being Nobody is the Negative of being Somebody, i.e. an Identity. I.e. it is a necessary complement within the dialectics of establishing, transforming, reaffirming identities. Being Woke so is being aware of the Nothing and Nobody component. Else, there´s no true Wokeness. Being woke about being (partially) Nobody is good. – Poets usually carry inferiority complexes, hidden underneath. That is because they usually refer to themselves as Somebody – therein they are slaves to the principium individuationis. They want to achieve perfection – without knowing what is „perfection“, respectively, how it looks like. Perfection usually refers to some ideal of classic stability, something erect and frozen :: Yet the final thing is a dual mix of stability and instability – such as you have it in the poetry of Emily Dickinson -> Emily Dickinson – to a considerable degree – therefore had no inferiority complexes. / The poets – they want to get to the „Real Thing“, want to take away the curtain and reveal and unmask the Master Pupeteer behind it. Heck, what is the Real Thing? The Platonic Ideas? Is there a Master Pupeteer principle that governs reality? (Provisional answer: Authenticity is the Real Thing.) Fuck, this easily goes over the head. That many things! They seem to dissolve in a giant Whiteness.

A Spider sewed at Night

Without a Light

Opon an Arc of White –

It is considered that Emily Dickinson dwelled opon that Arc of White. An extreme border crosser between the Rational and the Irrational, between what can be said and what dissolves into silence or becomes muted as feeble human intellect tries to catch it, a Wanderer between the worlds, that blinding Whiteness is also referred to as a „danger zone“ (between genius/sanity and madness). Whiteness refers to all-encompassing light and vision, yet also to a destructive undifferentiatedness and loss of intellectual and mental capability. It seems to symbolise a primordial beginning, an end, and an intermediary, transitional state. — Also, for the most practical part, Emily Dickinson maintained a most privileged relation to Whiteness: As she matured, she would only dress in white clothing. As she died, she carefully had her funeral orchestrated in advance, including her being buried in a white coffin. — White – again – is the Nothing, and the All. White is the zone of (enlightened) indifference. / Fernando Pessoa once said that having all the opinions at once means being a poet. Pessoa was a very great and transcendent poet as well — therefore got equally ignored during his lifetime — though probably has not ascended to equal level of perception as did Emily. / When you have all the opinions and viewpoints at once, you are enlightened; and when you are enlightened, that means that you see the White Light (the White Light from the Mouth of Infinity)

Publication – is the Auction

Of the Mind of Men –

Poverty – be justifying

For so foul a thing

Possibly – but We – would rather

From Our Garret go

White – unto the White Creator –

Than invest – Our Snow

The Garret: —– That is – likely – the highest state of the elevation of the mind. We referred to this as the White Lodge. Once you learned a lot, tried to sort everything out (carefully!), tried to understand all the opinions and viewpoints at once, you (hopefully) enter the White Lodge. The White Lodge is a state of the intellect (and of the soul) where everything you have learned and gone through, all those traditions and ideologies finally dissolve/add up to a pleasant whiteness. It is a state of intellectual and mental bliss. You see, a wave comes around: that is some circumstance, or an element of a theory or an ideology, you recognise it, it passes by, leaving you both affected and unaffected. The White Lodge is a state of permanent questions and wonder as well as of permanent solutions and answers. When I was younger I used to wonder: What is deeper down inside the White Lodge? What is – possibly – at its center? Is the world´s secret? Must it be the world´s secret? Emily Dickinson clearly was a creature inhabitating the White Lodge as well. All the signs are clear. A case of Whiteness and Clearness, again. So what would she investigate about it? :: You have the immense vast extent of her thinking – time and again. Yet is her thinking – and feeling – time and again and forever —- puzzled, without orientation, and disjointed? (Also implying: IS there orientation and a final connectedness — an Absolute — in the World – or is the World itself only an addition of disjointed histories (held together, if ever, at best by a delusional Paranoia?)) Is she/are we cursed to dwell in Possibility forever (or is there a House of Prose)? What is at the center of the White Lodge? Germ´s Germ be where?

Experiment escorts us last –

His pungent company

Will not allow an Axiom

An Opportunity –

—– There she seems to go again: Dwelling in Possibilities, seemingly forever, a floating ghost, an Unbeliever. – Yet – behold! – as every thing that emanates from Emily is of extreme compactness, directedness and rigidity all alike! She is just the opposite of anything underdetermined and contourless as well as she is the Master Fog. Her poems appear unstable, inherently experimental, fragment-like. But! – they also strike to be and shine as extremely robust! They say her mind and her poetry seems like fleeing in all directions, yet her poems much rather seem (extremely) tight knots that keep it all together. They seal everything tight – from the top left corner not only to the Finale, and not only from the opposite viewpoint all alike: Every dot in her poems seems inherently tied to any other of them. Masterworks of density they are, seemingly held together by some extremely potent gluons. – Emily Dickinson, Lady of Steel. –  It even seems they are so packaged and packed in themselves that they want to reach the shape of a minimal surface, if not collapse into a black hole and a singularity itself (Ah! That seems what I´ve been doing and what I wanted to do all my life, Emily probably would say – Heureka!, if she got introduced to modern mathematics and physics). () The more intelligent people are, the more telegram-like their communication style gets. And Emily Dickinson surely had the intelligence of Christian Heinrich Heineken or Abu Rayhan Muhammad ibn Ahmad al-Biruni. Very extremely intelligent people, who are beyond this world, even use to – consequently – communciate in some apparently insular style, I notice. They bring up things, reflect them, and conclude about them, all at once. And Emily Dickinson´s poetry is quasi the most insular. ³² Creativity means being able to blow things up, and intelligence means that you are able to keep them together. Creativity means that you are able to create and inspire Truth, intelligence means that you are able to find and have insight into a Truth, that is out there.

This World is not conclusion.

A Species stands beyond –

Invisible, as Music –

But positive, as Sound –

It beckons, and it baffles –

Philosophy, don´t know –

And through a Riddle, at the last –

Sagacity, must go –

To guess it, puzzles scholars –

To gain it, Men have borne

Contempt of Generations

And Crucifixion, shown –

Faith slips – and laughs, and rallies –

Blushes, if any see –

Plucks at a twig of Evidence –

And asks a Vane, the way –

Much Gesture, from the Pulpit –

Strong Hallelujahs roll –

Narcotics cannot still the Tooth

That nibbles at the soul

Due to its ability to reflect, the intellect is constructed in a way to look for further truth, and to assume that there is further truth than woMan encounters in the given world. We use to be attracted – at least – to some Absolute, some Conclusion that lies beyond this visible world and mortal coil. Truth is out there, and is primodial and eternal, she reasons (at least under the premise that there is a God).

Truth – is as old as God –

His Twin identity

And will endure as long as He

A Co-eternity

Enlightenment means that you want to find out Truth. Truth, however, also means that this world is finite. That is to say, your Enlightenment and your Wokeness probably isn´t so flashy and so full of endless Possibilities as you would´ve imagined. After all, Enlightenment only means that you see the same things like common woMan – solely from a perspective from about one meter above. So teach us the Masters of Zen. Yet with an understatement of course. Enlightenment means that your mind serves as a flashlight that illuminates this world. And that illuminates what is right and what is wrong, and what are the possibilities in this world and what are the limitations. The specific quality of Emily Dickinson´s poetry probably is that it lets the world shine, reveals this world in this flashing light. Her mind became that flashing light, that source of White. A flashing light that sees through identities, deconstructs them or reaffirms them. That dwells in Possibilities – and in limitations. In her Dwelling in Possibilities, Emily Dickinson was well aware of the limitations of this world (which is what makes her oeuvre so uncomfortable at times). – Quasi-infinite or quasi-limitless are the Possibilities however once you´ve reached a fixed point in the Transcendental. The Transcendental – the Possibility that there can be Possibility – is like a source from which it all stems out. The Transcendental is a simple structure, like a corner in a room, from where it all comes out, all the Possibilities… /&%{[8}\²__________@µµZ    – As you sense, Emily Dickinson managed to reach the Transcendental. It is not likely that her specific poetry could be trangressed. That there are Possibilities beyond its horizon. – In terms of identity politics, Truth is reached when one has reached true identity and is at peace with that. One has to be glad to be oneself, and not someone else, Emily Dickinson told T.W. Higginson in a private conversation. Identity politics means reaching an identity that is at peace with itself and with society; respectively that you become somehow independent from society. Emily Dickinson´s specific identity – as a transcendental creature – was that she was no creature of Society; but floated above it. — And then, yet – what would be a final say – the Transcendental – about life?

To be alive – is Power –

Existence – in itself –

Without a further function –

Omnipotence – Enough –

To be alive – and will! –

`Tis able as a God –

The Maker – of Ourselves – be what –

Such being Finitude!

The transcendental thing about our existence is – Existence itself. There can be reflection about Truth and Possibilities, and there can be poetry, and there can be identity politics only because there is – Existence. The primary metaphysical question is: Why is there Something and not just Nothing? Emily Dickinson´s state of Enlightenment and her poetry is different from the state of Eastern Enlightenment and the poetry of the Zen Masters. In the Eastern tradition of Enlightenment, the principle of Nothing somehow triumphs over the principle of Something – and the Somethings in this world are considered an illusion/delusion (about which one should not be too worried and preoccupied: that is, then: Enlightenment). Yet Emily Dickinson is – also therein – profoundly American and Western. In her eschatology, it is Something that triumphs over Nothing. It is Being that triumphs over Nothingness. Being > Nothingness. <> Emily Dickinson´s poetry is about displaying the vibrations of the Somethings. Her poetry is analytical. Eastern Enlightenment is (passive and) unscientific. Behind Emily Dickinson´s poetry there is a scientific mind, and her poetry is – not pacified, but – agitated.

In more earthly terms, Emily Dickinson´s poetry and the state of her mind displays a maximum of Vergeistigtheit (refinedness). A maximum state of Vergeistigtheit inherently means a floating state over the material world. Therein, it may appear „ironic“, dwelling in Possibilities, or deconstructive about identities. Such an elevated mind apparently can take nothing truly serious – although, of course, it tries to, and strives to. It´s too big for this small world. And that´s ok, since it is: Mind over Matter. Mind > Matter. <> Perhaps humans on Earth are the only intelligent species in the universe. The universe is extremely vast – yet being the only intelligent species in all this vast universe makes you – not only feel lost but – a phenomenon of highest quality – that somehow rules in the universe. Being the highest among human intellects tops that again. – The irony is that – not only that this phenomenon of quality happens in isolation – but that the powerful mind of quality needs a body, needs the material world. Therein, the mind is prone to decay and it sooner or later ceases to be. It falls prey to the stupidity and indifference of matter. On occasions, the mind may produce something of transcendence, something of value, that then seems „eternal“ and overpowering the decay of matter – partially at least. Actually, any mind somehow has a sense of being robust and „eternal“ and overpowering the purely material. That´s the gravity of the mind, that is the gravity of the human soul. At the maximum level of Vergeistigtheit, you sort out that the mind is an extremely powerful and eternal thing; as well as a feeble one. It can change something in the universe and make an impact – and yet there are also limitations to it. The thing is that -> mind and matter are different orders. They run alongside each other, or their paths run in distinctly different directions on other occasions. Emily Dickinson´s poems are both powerful and – in some ways – feeble. Feeble, in their ellipsis, their fragmentedness, and their seeming indifference and their double nature of seeming eternal insights and then also occasional and temporary ad hoc ruminations from the kitchen board. (Feeble – in that Emily Dickinson had – when being terminally ill – her funeral orchestrated carefully in advance, but made no preperations about how to handle her oeuvre over to posterity. Powerful – as she probably was convinced enough that her oeuvre would manage to hand itself over to posterity and to great glory by its (so called) own means.) __ The most refined mind will be able to gaze into the so called realm of Platonic ideas (- or whatever it (the Absolute, or so) may be). Yet, these ideas, these apparitions of the Absolute, are mere – ideas. They are virtual entities. They are high abstractions from perceptions, done by the refined mind. They are – refined and vergeistigt. That is to say – there is nothing, anymore, „behind“ them. Nothing to be further sorted out. That makes them appear both heavily present, as well as „flat“. Emily Dickinson´s poetry is a vision of the last things that the human mind can capture. Respectively, of the last true state of the world – oscillating between cosmos and chaos, stasis and dynamics, creation vs decay, etc. – that one can have insight to. Her poetry is a vision of the Chaosmos. And they are – finally – refined Visions. (i.e. present, and evasive)

In order to truly have vision of the Chaosmos, you need to be a negatively curved entity. Emily Dickinson happened to be a negatively curved entitiy. A positively curved universe means that it is curved like a sphere. When somehing is shot off from its place and being put on the run, that means it will finally return to its initial place. A negatively curved universe is curved like a saddle. Alongside such a trajectory, things forever flee and evade, once they are set in motion. They get out of sight. They are on a Line of Flight. Some day their centuries will possibly be called Deleuzian. All my life I tried to get away from myself, confessed Duchamp, the Holy Ghost of 20th century art. The eternally open universe – and the eternally open intellect and soul – are of negative curvature. It is difficult to envision and bring to mind a curved universe. Even more it is difficult to envision and bring to mind stuff of negative curvature. That confuses people. There are no true Anschaungsformen for that. Emily Dickinson was of negative curvature – and her poetry may serve as an Anschauungsform for the negatively curved intellect. That makes it difficult to decypher. Although it is not too difficult to decypher at all. It´s just the negative curvature, stupid!

Emily Dickinson´s very idiosyncratic writing style – and also way of living – probably stemmed out from a schizotypal personality disorder. Mary, the wife of T.W. Higginson – a literary critic, with whom Emily managed to be in contact with over the years – lamented about why „all the lunatics would feel so attracted to him“ (therein indicating that she considered Emily Dickinson to be a lunatic). – T.W. Higginson was well aware of the eccentric lifestyle of Emily; though maybe not necessarily considered her a „lunatic“, probably would not go that far. Yet his wife, Mary, naturally did. T.W. Higginson probably did not consider Emily Dickinson to be a lunatic, but his wife – Mary – did! T.W. Higginson was a prolific literary scholar (and today we use to saturatedly agree with him), but his wife (Mary) was a woman – i.e. she got the faculty and spoke out of female intuition. And as they say, female intuition tops everthing else. So possibly Mary had a more profound – had the true – insight into Emily Dickinson´s very nature. – Maybe Emily Dickinson was – apart from her genius – actually somehow off her rocker! Emily Dickinson would implicitely deny that, as she also told T.W. Higginson that one must be glad to be oneself, and not someone else. Mary considered that to be an erroneous assumption if Emily related that statement to herself. And again: hers is the female intuition! But then: Also Emily´s would be the female intuition! So, it ends up being -> female intuition vs female intuition! That, of course, happens quite often. Women talk; men stay silent: Therefore women are anathema to me –T.W. Higginson noted from a private conversation with Emily Dickinson.

I fear a Man of frugal speech –

I fear a Silent Man –

Haranguer – I can overtake –

Or Babbler – entertain –

But He who weigheth – While the Rest –

Expend their furthest pound –

Of this Man – I am wary –

I fear that He is Grand –

Then there are also – as other part of her oeuvre – Emily Dickinson´s letters; which are held in almost equal esteem as her poems (nowadays). I still do not know what to think about them. They confuse me a lotta more than does her poetry. Although they are – by nature – much more intimate – I find them distinctly more evasive and abstract. Of course, they are not written to me. Yet – I wonder to whom they are, finally, written. Naturally, her letters are highly intelligent. But, above, they deem me aloof. I actually ask myself how much Emily Dickinson had a relation to herself, and to others. Indeed, her letters deem me weird and autistic, and difficult to decypher. Writing letters was one of the few forms bourgeoise women could express themselves artistically. Therefore you may expect a mixture of high sophistication and neurotic extravagance in them. And this is also what I seem to get from the letters of My Dear Emily. There she seems to go, Dwelling in her Possibilities, again. Or: above all. Maybe also she was a creature of a Will to Power, and wanted to overpower the recipients of her letters (or at least impress them). T.W. Higginson found her „very attentive“ and caring about other people´s needs – yet also talking a lot, and not too often interrupting herself. Never, he admitted, he had encountered a person whose presence alone was so demanding and exhausting as Emily Dickinson´s. I think her letters also are quite wry and dry as concerns their power of expression. In the usual bombast language of literary criticism some scholars admit that they´d like to „quote sentence by sentence out from these letters…“ – yet I have to say that I did not find a single quotable expression in her anthology of letters. Therein, she also seems somehow detached from herself. – I repeatedly ruminated that there is hardly any good poetry: as it is commonly considered the most condensed expression of the human soul – and the human soul simply is not that extensive. The poetry of Emily Dickinson is a notable exception. Yet I notice that there also are hardly any good letters, even if we look at the letters of the greats; since humans, as it seems, are actually not that romantic inside. Maybe, at least here: Emily Dickinson seems to fit the bill.

This is my letter to the world,

That never wrote to me, —

The simple news that Nature told,

With tender majesty.

Her message is commited

To hands I cannot see;

For love of her, sweet countrymen,

Judge tenderly of me!

—— And do you know what?? I wanted to write about Emily Dickinson before, already a while ago. But when I read her poems again (at that time for the fouth time in my life), on that behalf —- I suddenly found them to be uncannily dull and without true substance nor message – apart from some exceptions. When I read them again – now for the fifth time – they were A-okay for me again, like before. – It is strange, but such things happen. Reading stuff again (and again) should make you receive somehow different impressions from it – although not on such a level of divergence. Alas, yet also that may happen. It also happened to me when I read Kierkegaard for the fourth time – when I happened to find Kierkegaard relatively pointless (-> in my Buch vom seltsamen und unproduktiven Denken). I admit I was somehow confused by Emily Dickinson´s poetry (and also by Kierkegaard) initially. — I am also confused about why a shitty band like Cannibal Corpse is held to be the leading band of the death metal genre, or what would be so cool about Rush. — I try to overcome that by giving it second, third, or even many more tries. Maybe, in doing so, I might also come to terms with her letters.

I also want to mention that this was a complicated text to write – starting from the scratch of sewing the selected Emily poems somehow together. It took me about a month to finalise this rather tiny piece.