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My personal philosophy is not advanced philosophy.

philosophy is a helluvalota fun for the conceited sophist who is
inclined to muse. Nevertheless, I proudly remain an
undistinguished amateur, and I am unashamed of that. After all,
advanced philosophy is alot of nonsense about common sense,
sophisticated elaborations of a vulgar theme.

As an amateur, I may be undistinguished, yet as a member of the

milling mob I do have the distinction of not only my vanity but
also the character of my protest against the supercilious
intellectual elite. I simply refuse to be subdued by the
unwarranted disdain professional philosophers have for my paltry
prose. At least ordinary people understand my musings, trashy
though they may be.

If ordinary people happen to understand what is being said by a

philosophical amateur, then professional philosophers, in
indignant defense of their presumptuous incoherence, call his
philosophy mediocre; especially if it is eclectic, a combination of
things people know for sure. I, for one, certainly prefer to be
comprehended by my peers in the bulging-belly rank of society,
no matter how vain my middle-class predisposition might seem to
those exalted few in the incomprehensible heavens who believe
they have an exalted view of ultimate reality.

That is not to say I want to be only a faceless member of the

middling populace--I do have my humble aspirations. The
professionals are correct about me in one small respect: I am
vain. Although I do enjoy being understood by the uttering herd, I
would still distinguish myself from the crowd I identify with. As the
Lord said to Ezekiel, "I will judge between one cattle and another
cattle." Mind you, then, even if A is A in identity, there is at least a
formal difference between A and A when stated as A=A. There is
slight enough difference for me to somehow infer that I am
unique in my marvelous vanity.
Furthermore, foremost and after all, identity requires relationship;
thus more than one thing is required, and each is unique in
relation to others. Yes, a simple formal difference is sufficient for
my existence. Of course, one might say my singular uniqueness is
lost in the statement that I am I, or I=I, to which I will respond
elsewhere at some length that I-as-such am in principle really
indivisible because I am virtually divisible ad infinitum; which is to
say Nothing pursuant to the indisputable proposition that Nothing
exists. Yes, as empty or vain as I am in my infinite vacuity, I
nevertheless exist and most profoundly so.

In fact, when I refer to my philosophy, I gladly refer to my vanity,

for my philosophy is the consummate expression of my vanity.
And since it is my philosophy, I like to flaunt it. Have no fear, I
certainly do not want my philosophy to be anyone else's
philosophy. It is not my intention to seduce anyone. Someone
unbeknown to me was recently deeply offended by my
philosophy; she thought I wanted it to be her philosophy because
I publicized it. Good grief, it was as if she had fallen in hate with
me, as if there existed some sort of fatal unattraction in
negativity: hope therefore remains for a positive outcome,
perhaps in Danton's bathtub, now up for auction. My detractor
had no cause to derogate me. Little did she know that, as vain as
I am, the last thing I want is for anyone else to possess what I
believe is uniquely mine, at least not until I am finished wearing
it. Even then I do not recommend second-hand philosophy.
Sometimes, once my philosophy is amply said, I am finished with
it, but I do not ask that anyone actually don what I have cast

In any event, there is nothing original about my philosophy except

the unique expression of my vanity. I did not purchase my vanity
from the Salvation Army store. Of course an arrogant philosopher
would not even allow me my sweet Nothing. He would deny me
my divine vanity, my absolute freedom from his carefully
classified dreary facts. For my own good, I resent the fact that, in
his all-encompassing systematic view, not only do I not exist in
my subjective unity, neither is there, according to him, anything
else objectively unique under his scorching Sun--at least not
anything worthwhile. In other words, in the pomposity of his
paranoic perspective, I do not exist as a real "I" because I am
impertinent to his own grand, schematic self-delusion. Nor does
anything else exist in the world without him. In his scientific
vanity, he would discard as useless every absolute presupposition
except the one upon which his scientific superstition is
founded.Yet even then he may not be rid of me, for outside of his
scheme I am impressed with the grandeur of my insignificance.
As for the rest of the world, it flies in his face, belying his
calculations of the future as his stock plummets to Earth.

The arrogant subject of my pet peeve allows that objects have

their different qualities which are relatively universal, yet he
propounds there is no such thing as a one-of-a-kind like me.
Furthermore, there is nothing incapable of being generally
characterized by him and integrated into his superior universal
perspective as he establishes himself as a King David of blindly
obedient sheep. Of course, our monopolistic professor will claim
objectivity, and he will deny that his global viewpoint is unique.
He will likely defer for later resolution the conundrum of how his
singular perspective could possibly be globate unless he is the
one and only omniscient God merely imagining the rest of us just
to see what He is like in His magic vanity mirror.

Everything somehow fits into the systematic philosopher's

structure. We concrete individuals are his functional units, grist
for his ruinous abstracting grinder or universal mill by which all
forms are formed and reformed by virtue of his precise formulae.
Yet all his calculations are based on imponderable premises,
presumptions, presuppositions, prejudices, and, in short, the
vanity he would deny all others in their uniqueness.

Well, then, I insist on my own vanity, thank you very much. If "I"
be Nothing, then Nothing exists as far as I am concerned. I shall
not be distracted by my echoes, for I am a visionary. I shall lean
this body over my reflecting pool until my body loses strength and
dissolves: still Nothing exists.

Yet I am no subjective extremist. I do not deny objective things

their uniqueness from my self-serving vain perspective. I would
not kill everything with a single classification. I am no death-
mongering, world-hating cultist defining Nature as a single object,
no doubt female, set against me. Yes, I admit that, on the one
hand I shall rise up the hierarchy of classifications until I am
Nothing. Yes, in my vanity, I shall climb relative presuppositions
that do support each other until I reach Nothing, the absolutely
insupportable presupposition absolutely free from the burden of
proof. But on the other hand, I shall leave everything in place for
my back-sliding descent into the quagmire of my concrete
universal: that is, my apparently self-contradictory, hypocritical
existence in the here-and-now with all its dirty details.

Allow me to make myself perfectly clear in that plain English

which is quite naturally preferred by commoners. By concrete
universal, I mean the unity of my particular differences; that is,
my organic unity in complexity, my logical fallacy that I can be
one in man; that I can be both I and not-I; that I can be at once
what I am and what I am not; that I can be, for instance, what I
was, what I am, and what I will be, forever and ever. Then I am
my own triune: I, Not-I, and the Relation between I and Not-I.
What is my name? My name is "I Am", and I am Three-in-One.

When I was under ninety-day observation in my Upstate

sanctuary, some analysts concluded that, when all my qualities
were subtracted, I remained as Pure Being, absolutely lovable in
my positive state, which was, after electroshock, unadulterated
by error. But other analysts claimed the result was Nothing,
neither loveable or unlovable, for what good is a noun without any
adjectives, or a substantive without predicates? Or, in my case,
what good am I if nothing can be said about me, not even that I
am a man? They insisted my Being was in my qualities, not in the
Nothing of the absence of my predicates. They said that whatever
one might call that Nothing, it is merely a name of a non-existent
absolute universal; that is, only the relative universals, the
perceptible qualities relative to sensation, are real. Of course the
doctors could not arrive at a synthesis of thesis and antitheses, so
they agreed upon the last argument in their final conference,
although none had really seen me yet, and proceeded to have me
injected with facts so I might be recognized by them in the
behavior they love the most.

Despite all the rigmarole Upstate which rendered me virtually

invisible, I remained there for ninety days in all my undefined
uniqueness, wondering why the doctors could not see me either
in Being or Nothingness, which is all the same to me, nor even in
my unique vegetative state induced by electrical charges and
chemical injections. The experts even failed to recognize me as a
unique concrete universal in front of their faces after I kicked
them to see if they really existed or were just a figment of my
imagination. For they have inherited the paranoid delusion of
their arrogant philosophical predecessors, the metaphysicans who
also thought they were scientists in one way or another:
nowadays, doctors would reduce everyone to the facts, ignoring
the reality of the unique individual as a concrete universal.

I admit that I have universal qualities or characteristics in

common with other individuals, say, the blueness of my eyes;
even so, they have a distinctive blueness and a matchless beauty.
In my concrete sensible form comprising the ghostly synthesis of
Nothing and matter, or Heaven and Earth, I am the unique
coincidence of my universal qualities. Yet, tragically, even as a
particular concrete universal, I am of no interest to arrogant
professional philosophers or their brothers who spurn them, the
pseudo-scientific social quacks. As far as they are concerned,
even my concrete uniqueness is worthless because it is
incomparable, imponderable, good for Nothing; it has no
theoretical utility. Yet therein is my utility, my happiness. And
Nothing is absolute bliss.

Now that I have made that perfectly clear so all may see right
through me, I suppose my vain philosophy might seem inane.
Maybe so. Therefore let none be deceived by it. It is mine and
only mine in my uniqueness.