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#Bennington Review
abellinthecupboard · 4 months
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THE COLOR OF POMEGRANATES, 1969 DIR. SERGEI PARAJANOV
Try to remember it hurts. What? Being a daughter like a steaming red pile of spaghetti. I get spilled everywhere; I get eaten. It’s not fair. I lose the thread. They replace my organs with organ-shaped crystals. Crystal liver, stomach, art. To be a poet is to get eaten by a demon then spit out, all heart. My red hair drags along the wall. My steaming heart, pressed, gives wine. I’m hard pressed to give mine. To give bits of flesh from the mine. Shells from the sea. To be a poet is to be a memory, like the dusk. Is to whine, tortured by a piece of coral. Things were rougher than I thought they’d be. I’m red as a word, raw as a son. Red as a sun burning in the house of a demon. On the wall of a millionaire. It’s not my place to place them. I mine space, working behind a blind spot in thought. Then the gestalt shifts, revealing a mansion.
— Robert Fernandez, featured in Bennington Review, issue 11 (source)
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Meditative Week of Poetry: Matthew Tuckner
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First things first, it took   the word for tangerine,   leaving only orange   to describe the contours   of daylight. Some of us   tried streetlamp to get   at its softness. Others tried   ballet slipper on pinker afternoons   we grew too old to stay in   past sunset. It came   whip fast, moving northward   through the mulch, bursting   from the earth as a tiger lily   or a warning, depending on   where you were standing,   a warning I heard and hid from   under splintered lecterns, in the hearts   and minds of lovers, anywhere   it wouldn’t think to look.   It stripped the very words   from my books. Gone   were parallelogram, cowslip,   the plosive k in kite.   It reckoned itself the king   of me, swinging from the lowest   declension of the tallest trees,   shaking down the leaves   I’d push from my shoulders   as I trudged further into the fat   borders of its country. It shoved   my face into the ruby carpet   of its plans: pesticides tearing   through the belly of a honey bee,   a bushel of oak trees   swallowed by lakes of blue flame,   whorls of cancer trellised   over my bones. I only wanted   the endlessness of this, followed by   that, followed by some more   of this, and decades more of that,   but all I have is the oh no it’s gone   I can squeeze between my fists.   I wanted to be the tusk of a walrus,   something that would continue   to grow from me, in spite of me,   something that could be distilled   for its ivory, shaved down   to the size of a pebble, shaped   into the eyes our children   will hammer into the statues   they sculpt of themselves   to make sure they live forever.
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Book Review: A Conundrum...
Shirley — Susan Scarf Merrell Whilst working on my Murder By Mail series, I ran across a short story penned by Shirley Jackson called The Possibility of Evil. Which gives a fictional first-hand account of how the missives of a poison pen writer affect the community in which they live. A mere six pages, it takes no time at all to finish, and it’s one of the best short stories I’ve ever…
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bigsquirrel18 · 1 year
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So I’ve been binging back through Linkin Park’s discography, and I’ve come to really appreciate different aspects of the different albums.
Hybrid Theory needs no introduction. Possibly one of the greatest breakout albums, LP made their footnote in music from the start. Being one of the bands that catapulted nu-metal to mainstream, capturing all of that teenage angst, and still bringing in a more general audience with catchy choruses.
Meteora was an album that I felt was a bit of a sequel to Hybrid Theory for a long time, and it kinda still is, but it brings so much to be appreciated and is still an amazing album. Out of their entire discography, Meteora has to have the smoothest transitions between songs, making you want to listen to the album in it’s entirety and not just hopping from hit to hit(even though this album is nothing but bangers). This was the album LP used to solidify there position on the top of music, proving they could still hit you with even heavier songs, while also stepping back with possibly their biggest song “Numb”, a softer yet still hard hitting closer. Also, side note, just like to say I love that they put “Session” right before “Numb” to help simultaneously ease you down from the entire album, and build the anticipation for the finale.
Minutes to Midnight is simply my favorite album of Linkin Park’s. This was the first album the band really began to lean into experimenting on their sound. Introducing a lot more poppy elements, tiniest influence of some more electronic elements (foreshadowing for ATS and Living Things), some more softer rock elements, while still holding onto what made the first two albums so special. This album is a real whirlwind of emotions. Going from highs like “Given Up”, straight into softer ballads like “Leave Out All The Rest”. And to stay on “Given Up” for a second, that fucking scream of Chester’s better be remembered for centuries. Sings like an angel, Screams like a devil. Always heard LP fans refer to him like that and there is no better comparison. But this was the album LP proved they weren’t stuck in their sound. They could write whatever they wanted to and it would it still be amazing.
I’m gonna stop for now since I’m still listening to the rest of their discography, but there’s a reason I’ve always loved this band. They never get old. They have songs for any emotion, any mood. They are the band that made me love music. Thank you Linkin Park for everything.
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lyrasky · 2 years
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Linkin Park【In The End】和訳 聞き手次第 Infinite variety
Linkin Park【In The End】和訳 聞き手次第 Infinite variety Lyraブログ更新 #LinkinPark #InTheEnd #HybridTheory #リンキンパーク #ChesterBennington #MrHahn #RobBourdon #MikeShinoda #BradDelson #Infinite #variety #ThePitandthePendulum #EdgarAllanPoe #DonGilmore #Soundtrack #NYC
仲良しが、この曲を歌っていたので「懐い!」と言いながら「当然このブログで書いたよね」と、ハッと我にかえり、確認してみたら和訳したまま又もや放置していました〜。 書いたまま上げるのを忘れているパターン、今に始まったことではないが、溜まりに溜まり 300記事以上ある! 「早くあげないと〜」ということでLinkin Returnがビッグネームバンドになるきっかけを作ったこのビッグヒットを今日は取り上げますね。 一緒に盛り上がりましょ〜!と言ってもかなりHeavyな内容。そこは真面目に解説よ〜ん。 人生は貴方次第。 (more…)
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benningtonstudents · 3 months
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Hi,
Is it possible for Bennington to accept me if my high school grades have a "D" in it, but my other grades are a mix of As and Bs, but mostly As? How can I compensate for my D?
Thanks
Hello!
Sorry for the late reply, the office was closed for the holiday period.
Yes it is definitely possible to get accepted at Bennington with one D. Depending on whether or not this was a AP class or a class that offers college credits you might or might not be able to get transferable credits. For more specific information you can contact your admissions counselor!
The application review process is holistic and we do not just look at a student's grades! As long as you have a shown a good learning arch throughout high school and show promise in areas that would be important for Bennington you should be all good!! Sending deep breaths and once again apologies for the late reply!
Hope this helps!
-Admissions Interns <3
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estherdedlock · 9 months
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It’s been a while since I did a book review, so here goes: Katy Hays’ The Cloisters. This latest entry in would-be successors to The Secret History is a dark academia murder mystery set at The Cloisters, a real museum in New York City dedicated to medieval art.
I can’t separate this book from my feelings about the real Cloisters, which has always been a very special place to me, with great personal and even spiritual meaning. The book reduces this majestic setting to the backdrop of tawdry and highly implausible intrigue that unfolds between Ann Stilwell, (a brilliant grad student from the sticks of Washington state who lands an internship in the research department), and three of her co-workers: Rachel Mondray (gorgeous, rich), Patrick Roland (handsome, rich), and Leo the gardener (bad boy, poor).
There’s a lot going on here: Ann discovers and decodes an ancient deck of tarot cards that backs up some important research of Patrick’s. Rachel conspires with Ann to keep this from Patrick so they can claim the discovery as their own. At the same time, Ann is being lured into the mysticism of tarot and its divination powers -- something Patrick was also obsessed with. She’s also being drawn into Rachel’s luxurious heiress lifestyle. Patrick and Rachel are having sex. Ann and Leo are having sex. Rachel and Leo were having sex. Leo is stealing minor artifacts from the museum and fencing them through a disreputable antiques dealer. Rachel may have murdered her college roommate...and her parents. Patrick is doing ritualistic tarot card readings at the museum at night. Ann has some kind of dark secret in her past, connected to her father’s death. Then they all take some hallucinatory herbs (supplied by Leo from the Cloisters’ garden) and Patrick dies from an apparent overdose. The police immediately and unbelievably label it murder, and then proceed to investigate it as no real cops (I hope) ever would---jumping to conclusions, not following up on glaringly suspicious behavior, etc.
All of this is piled on so fast and furious that there’s no time to develop the kind of haunting atmosphere and tangled relationships that this story cries out for. The book is just too short. Katy Hays had a good idea and some genuinely interesting twists, but it’s all so rushed that you’re left feeling nothing. There’s no sense of mystery, just a lot of foreboding, laid on thick. There’s sex, but no sensuality. The narrator, Ann, is so flat that she wanders through the story with almost no reaction to anything. I think she’s supposed to be a classic unreliable narrator, but she’s our gatekeeper for this story and it’s a problem that she is so closed-off and devoid of emotion.
There’s some gross stuff in here too: Leo’s conduct towards Ann is textbook sexual harassment that gets hand-waved because he’s hot and Ann is attracted to him. He continues to be an awful creep throughout the book. Frankly, no reputable workplace, especially not a world-renowned museum, would tolerate the behavior these characters indulge in on the job. I suffered a lot of second-hand embarrassment for everyone at the real Cloisters for having their workplace and their work parodied by this wildly fictitious potboiler of a story. And it kind of depresses me to think of tourists visiting such a beloved place just because it’s the setting for this goofy book. I wish that Hays had fictionalized The Cloisters the way Donna Tartt fictionalized Bennington into Hampden. I’m just going to have to purge the memory of this novel before I visit the place again, because it’s just too...bleh. No.
It’s a quick read if you want something for the beach or a long flight, but it’s ultimately disappointing and a little bit off-putting.
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liebeli · 4 months
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„Keinen habe ich mehr geliebt.“
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Stefan Zweig. Verwirrung der Gefühle, 1928.
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Todd O'Neal quoted in Lili Anolik. "The Secret Oral History of Bennington: The 1980s' Most Decadent College." Esquire, 28 May 2019.
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Donna Tartt. The Secret History, 1992.
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John Keene. The Art of Fiction 259. The Paris Review 244, Summer 2023, 32-63.
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spookmania · 8 months
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SAW FRANCHISE REVIEW?
My journey with Saw began when I decided to watch Saw 4 (2007). I did not understand the plotline (duh) and, thoroughly intrigued, I started watching more movies from the series. This made me more confused about the plot than I was initially. It was a very underwhelming experience, to say the least. The more you think about it, the weirder the series gets. 
I can’t talk about all 9 movies (the 10th one is coming out this year apparently) but the main plot of all movies is the same so it really doesn’t matter. In the first one, we are introduced to Adam (played by Leigh Wannell) and Lawrence (played by Cary Elwes) chained up in a bathroom from which they have to escape or else they die. Jigsaw (the antagonist) has kept Lawrence’s family hostage, and he is faced with the dilemma of either killing Adam or having his family die.
��It was a pretty decent movie because its main focus was to provide a good story along with some gory scenes. However, as the franchise progresses, we start to see that the main focus has shifted towards gore completely rather than developing an actual plotline. If you just want to see people mutilating themselves, I would definitely recommend these movies.
Before anything else, I want to point out the flawed and twisted morals of the movies that the producers were trying to portray. The main focus of the franchise is to make people appreciate life. How is putting people in life-threatening traps going to achieve that? It would rather do the opposite and give people lifelong trauma. Jigsaw is supposed to be the antagonist, and yet the movies tried to paint him as this person who has a reason and is doing good for the world by…. Killing people? I am well aware he doesn’t kill people himself, but setting up elaborate traps that are almost impossible to escape unscathed is essentially killing them. 
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I cannot go on without talking about the acting in these movies. Tobin Bell was an adequately good actor (and Chester Bennington of course ). But who even thought about casting Betsy Russell for the role of Jill Tuck? It seemed like a thoughtless casting decision. Her expressions remain the same in all the Saw movies she appeared in, no matter what the situation is.
Another extremely annoying trope followed throughout the franchise is the plot twist at the very end of each movie, the twist being a random character working under Jigsaw (how shocking). It gets old very quickly, even if we ignore the fact that the story is not very consistent. The timeline of the events is very confusing and they are interconnected in a very substandard way. A lot of the things rely on plot convenience, like how did John Kramer know he was going to die in Saw 3 and swallow tape recordings, and when did he have the time to instruct his successor to carry out his work? Well, at least the story is consistently bad throughout all 9 movies. 
In conclusion, it would have been better if no other movie except the first installment of Saw was made. The idea was decent, but the execution was very subpar and it is a very long drawn-out series.
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hauntedvermont · 8 months
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A Haunted Ghost Tour in Vermont: Review
We review the latest Kid book, A Haunted Ghost Tour In... Vermont.
Little Ghost is going on a spooky Halloween tour around Vermont, and you’re invited to ride along! Take a trip with the Ghost family as they travel from Bennington to Burlington and visit favorite landmarks such as UVM Old Mill and Shelburne Museum. Along the way, Little Ghost loves tricking everyone . . . until Little Ghost hears the biggest BOO ever! Make this Halloween season spook-tacular…
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anxeyelashxbugx · 8 months
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This review is long overdue. the first time I smelled Angel by thierry mugler was 2003. It was summer- I was at a pre college program that Bennington College ran. High school students would stay in the dorms and go to classes like sculpture, creative writing, dance etc. it was an arts program. I signed up for beat poetry and fashion design. I quickly became disinterested in beat poetry and switched my “major” to philosophy.
I brought my notebook. I was going to take some fucking notes. Philosophy and fashion design- I loved the vibe. Fuck beat poetry.
College students of Bennington would work at the camp as our teachers. My philosophy teacher was this tiny raspy voiced woman. She couldn’t have been older than 30. She dressed in dark denim and a small baby t shirt that was ripped- necklaces and rings and boots. She has black hair with blonde streaks. She smoked cigarettes even though they weren’t allowed to.
I forget her name but halfway through the summer she bought a pug puppy. She was so cool with motorcycle boots and this tiny pug on a rhinestone blue leash. One day she came into class wearing a shirt that she had made, it said “don’t touch my pug”
So cool it was like so Nylon magazine.
The setting at Bennington was summer in Vermont. Sweet grasses and the smell of all different shampoos from the campers. Wet hair and lavender with smokey campfire. My philosophy teacher wore Angel but i didn’t know it was angel. I smelled her and then my life was dedicated to finding out what it was. I was too shy to ask her though. I would smell every perfume at Sephora except angel lol- finally my friend from high school had it in her room one day when we were playing video games. I was so happy, I now knew.
- [ ] I will never not react to smelling Angel. I will always say “love it”. It reminds me so much of my hot smart philosophy teacher. It literally gives me swag when I wear it. I’m not myself for a second. I spray it and my spirit and psyche activate. Memory is nothing without scent- fragrance is nothing without memory
My insane first review on fragrantica
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abellinthecupboard · 4 months
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4'33"
There is no such thing as an empty space or an empty time. There is always something to see, something to hear. In fact, try as we may to make a silence, we cannot. —John Cage I sit alone, but not lonely, inside a Mexican restaurant. On the TV above me, two men in a cage, wearing shiny underwear and fingerless gloves, punch each other repeatedly in the head. Occasionally, one kicks the other in the face or stomach. Right now, the one in red is above and behind, exerting his dominance, doggy style. This is what we, in America, call a “cage match,” where “cage” is not an homage to John Cage, composer of easy to dance to symphonies of silence, but a reference to the chain link crab pot in which the two men battle. With the volume turned off, I can hear, within the composed silence of barbarism, dishes rattling in the kitchen, tortilla chips crunching at the next table over, fizz from the coke the waitress has set before me. Four minutes and thirty-three seconds of the American Sublime, before the guy in blue taps out, blood gushing from a broken nose. I am alone, but not lonely. I am an American, surrounded by my countrymen, several of them undoubtedly armed.
— José A. Alcántara, featured in Bennington Review, Issue 11 (source)
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Meditative Week of Poetry: Matthew Lippman
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You build a bank. You put money in it.   No one knows how much money is in it.   Not even you know how much money is in it.   You deposit 1000 dollars and it’s a mystery.   You take out 1000 dollars and it’s a conundrum.   When you look at the statement the statement says 5 dollars.   How did that get there? Was it a bird with a five-dollar bill? No. It was five birds with five one-dollar bills.   But there’s still 25 cents left after you spend the 5 bucks on an acre of land in Vermont. When you were a kid, you could buy a slice of pizza from Village Pizza for a quarter.   You wish you could get a slice for a quarter, now. No.   You wish you were a kid running across the street, dodging cabs and buses and bullets to play stoop ball with your pals. That’s funny.   You never used the word “pals” when you were a kid.   Never used that word when you were an adult. Now that you are an adult you use the word “boys” or the word “brothers.” Funny how you only got that far.   You got far enough to build a bank with a vault and some safe deposit boxes.   But there’s nothing in there, only clouds of money   that evaporate onto steel and granite and leave you befuddled. It boggles your mind, and all your panic attacks are dollar kamikaze bombers. You go across the street for a slice. You smack 5 dollars down on the counter and there is a thousand dollars out there, floating around between memory and desire, denial and survival. The cheese is so hot it burns your tongue. The sauce drips down your arm in dollar signs.
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pronoun-fucker · 1 year
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““The Flash” star Ezra Miller pleaded not guilty to burglary charges in a Vermont court Monday morning. Miller, who’s charged with burglary into an occupied home and petit larceny, faces up to 26 years in prison if convicted of both charges.
Miller appeared in Bennington Superior Court virtually with their lawyer. The actor is accused of breaking into a residence in Stamford, Vermont, on May 1. After investigating at the time, Vermont State Police had discovered several missing bottles of alcohol from the property while the homeowners were not present. After collecting statements and reviewing surveillance footage, police charged Miller with felony burglary.
The petit larceny charge states that the stolen items were less than $900 in total value. The felony burglary charge has a maximum of 25 years in prison and a $1,000 maximum fine. The larceny charge is a maximum of one year and a similar $1,000 fine. Miller also agreed to not have any contact with the homeowner or return to the residence.
The Vermont charges were just a couple of the controversies and legal issues facing Miller in recent months. The actor was arrested in Hawaii twice within one month’s time, first for disorderly conduct and harassment and then for second-degree assault less than four weeks later. They pled no contest to the assault charge and paid a $500 fine and $30 in court costs. The harassment charge was later dismissed. Miller is also accused of choking one woman in an Icelandic bar and harassing another woman in her home in Berlin.
In August, Miller apologized for their past behavior and began undergoing mental health treatment.
“Having recently gone through a time of intense crisis, I now understand that I am suffering complex mental health issues and have begun ongoing treatment,” Miller had said in a statement. “I want to apologize to everyone that I have alarmed and upset with my past behavior. I am committed to doing the necessary work to get back to a healthy, safe and productive stage in my life.”
After being introduced as DC superhero the Flash in 2017’s “Justice League,” Miller’s solo movie “The Flash” is set for release on June 23, 2023, after many delays.”
Link | Archived Link
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Title: Build Me Up, Buttercup
Words: 4,473
Rated: General, there’s no smut. Idk, teen and up. There's Kissing and Thoughts but no smut
(pspsps it's on Ao3, too)
Creative liberties taken with/setup for this fic: Reid has an uncle who owned an old house 20 mins away from work. He passed, so it went to his mum, but his mum is in Bennington, so it’s fallen to Reid. Going by the age and poor state of it, it really might fall down though. Dr. Spencer Reid needs some sort of builder. Derek Morgan is some sort of builder.
Between the fees for Bennington, his own apartment and utilities, and his constant take-out when home (which isn’t nicely covered by a meal allowance from work), Spencer was stretched thin financially.
Finding out that he’d inherited a house a tolerable distance from work where he wouldn’t have to pay rent, or a mortgage, seemed too good to be true. Standing in the entryway now with flecks of paint on the floor that came off of the peeling walls and ceiling, it became a bit more believable for Spencer.
He walked around and assessed the house. He was a handyman by no definition, and wouldn’t dream of carpentry work by his own efforts, but it would be costly.
He’d be able to stay in the house now, and rent a storage unit for the bulk of his belongings. That’d be cheaper than rent at his apartment, and the funds saved could go towards paying someone who fixes houses like this for a living.
Returning home after a gruelling case, Spencer wanted nothing more than to fall in bed and not get up for maybe a week. Yet, he also didn’t want to get in the clean sheets without having a shower, and also didn’t have the energy for a shower. A tired, frustrated huff passed his lips before he fell onto the couch, bent his legs, and pulled his barely used laptop over to rest on his lap.
He pushed the screen back and started typing at an angle he knew would have his wrists  protesting soon enough, and started looking for someone to help with restorations.
Spencer was growing concerned that restorations would cost quite a bit more than he’d bargained for. The companies he’d found initially hid a lot of their pricing in obscure parts of their websites. The most alarming were those with no pricing details listed anywhere, but incredible, old mansions in like-new condition splashed all over their pages.
With renewed energy, Spencer was pushed into researching and hunting until the sky started to show signs of lighter hues in anticipation of the dawn. But, he’d done it. He’d found an individual contractor who had good reviews in spades until a project five months ago. A negative review gained a lot of traction for a one-man business, and then there wasn’t much after that. They’d relocated, conveniently close enough to Spencer where he might be able to hire their services. Spencer sent an email that he’d deliberated over the wording of for 17 minutes before hitting send.
After, he found himself with enough energy to shower and finally collapse in bed.
It was after another case away from home that Spencer could finally meet the contractor he might be hiring, and he’d used all his free time studying before they were set to meet at his house.
He’d bought a secondhand bookshelf just to hold the books he’d bought and borrowed from the library. Behind the bookshelf, just incidentally really, were a few small sections of bare wall where old paint had been sanded away.
Spencer’s fingertips were still raw from handling the sandpaper for so long, and he hadn’t considered chemical paint stippers until the next day. He was keeping that knowledge to himself for as long as he could.
He almost jumped out of his skin when he heard a knock at the door. He’d almost ran to pull it open, and then decided it felt a bit strange to answer it so quickly, so had a purposeful slow breathing moment to himself before actually opening the door. 
Somehow, he was embarrassed about having someone come into the house; there were paint flecks everywhere, and webs that he didn’t want to move because who was he to ruin the spider’s house? They were there before he was, actually. The floors were in some sort of state that he didn’t know how to explain, but they needed love and care he wasn’t skilled to give. 
Additionally, parts of the floor creaked underfoot that made him think of a very budget nightingale floor. Suddenly, he couldn’t recall if they’d alerted his visitor to how fast he’d moved to answer their knock.
“Mr Reid, right?”
“Uh, Dr Reid, actually. But um, but just ‘Reid’ works fine as well.” The man before him raised his brows before nodding, then gestured to the house behind Spencer.
“Alright, Reid, I’m Derek Morgan. Care to show me around? I’d like to see what I might be getting into.”
I know what I’d like you to get into. Spencer almost choked at the thought; Morgan was a treat to the eyes, and he hadn’t even thought of that as a possibility. He felt he might not be able to continue with his plan at this point.
“Y-yeah, sure. Uh, come in?”
The more he walked around the house, the more animated Derek seemed to become. His hands were non-stop as he smoothed them over old wood, pointed out craftsmanship time had not been kind to, and gestured a lot while explaining how he could fix these things for Reid.
It was quite a lot to take in for the academic, so unused to physical labour like that Derek did for a living. The dark cloud of concern was held at bay, however, by the bright excitement and energy Derek was exuding.
They made their way back to the front entryway when the tour was over, and Spencer’s fingers were twisting together in anticipation of a quote for the work.
“Alright, pretty boy, you got a lot of good here that needs only a little elbow grease to really stand out. But you’ve also got some things just shy of actual structural work that needs more careful handling. I think-”
“Ah, sorry, but before you go on. Would uh, would the cost be reduced by uh, an additional helper?”
The light dimmed a little, and a tinge of disappointment coloured Derek’s next words.
“I don’t play well with others, man, I wish you’d told me about other workers on site right at the start. I don’t-”
“Sorry to cut you off a second time but I-I don’t mean I’ve hired another business. I more mean uh…” He lifted a hand to run his fingers through his hair, embarrassed again. “I mean that this house requires a lot of work, even if in large part it’s only cosmetic. And that much work, well, I have a budget to work within.”
“Right.” Disappointment gave way to confusion as Derek waited for more information, his brow raising at Spencer’s hesitation.
“What I mean to say is, would the cost of renovations b-”
“Restorations; continue.”
“Yes, of restorations, would they be reduced if maybe I also uh, helped?”
Derek laughed then, the tension that had seeped into broad shoulders falling away. Spencer thought about other ways he could relieve tension for the man before him and forgot to feel offended.
“Pretty boy, you think you're capable with those skinny little arms?”
Ever the evader when he doesn't like the answer, Spencer almost scoffs while responding, gesturing to the bookshelf behind him. "Would a person with this many books on the subject not know how to do the work?"
In a shorter time than Spencer had planned on, Derek found that yes, absolutely, someone can have that many books on the subject and still not have the skills required.
But Spencer is paying him in instalments and the man is pretty and brings him snacks and mostly the right tools when asked (he only gets each wrong once).
“Spencer, man, come on. Why are you looking at the sander like you’re afraid of it?”
“I’m not afraid of it!” Spencer looked between the power tool at his feet and the smaller one Derek had left in the corner. “I just think that maybe that circle one might be a bit better to use.” It certainly looked less imposing, and like it might be quieter.
“You think a small orbital sander is gonna be better for you to use than a drywall sander?”
Spencer shrugged, a distasteful gaze trained on the contraption on the floor beside him. Derek watched him for a moment, looking like he was holding back a laugh before he moved to get the smaller sander.
“I’m gonna run you through a scenario real quick, alright?” He came up behind Spencer, leading the younger over to the wall. He put the tool in Spencer’s hands, guiding them to the wall. When he’d asked if Spencer was ready, his lips were near Spencer’s ears, so Spencer just nodded without really thinking it through.
When the sander was turned on, he jumped a little in surprise, and it felt like he could the deep baritone of Derek’s laugh reverberate through him.
He could hear that Derek was grinning. “Easy there, tiger. We’ll do a small bit, hm? Don’t push too hard, or the motor has to work too hard. Don’t move too fast, either. It’ll leave too many marks on the wood if you do.”
Spencer was taking in the information being given, but he was also taking in the press of Derek’s body against his. The heat of Derek’s body at his back, his smooth voice at Spencer’s ear, and his hands guiding Spencer’s along all seemed rather unnecessary, but very welcome.
He hadn’t been able to think of a single thing to respond with by the time Derek started up again.
“You feel that?”
Spencer could have choked, and he couldn’t even use the excuse of mess from the sander being the cause because a surprising amount of it was being pulled into the dust extractor. Thankfully, Derek kept going.
“Your arms will get tired holding this up against a wall. And I don’t know if you noticed, but every wall in this house is in need of some sander TLC.” At Spencer’s nod, he turned off the tool and stepped back, placing it down to pick up the larger, and in Spencer’s eyes more intimidating one.
“But this larger one, that looks heavier, will not tire me out so quickly?” Spencer was sceptical. When he put some thought into it, it probably would be better given its shape. But his limited experience with power tools, or even tools, had him shy away from them.
“Trust me, Spence. Now watch.”
He’d like it a lot more if he could just watch the man at work, but it’d do nothing for his bank account were he to follow through with the urge.
-
When Spencer was told he could use his hands and sandpaper, he was initially excited. This quickly vanished after less than five minutes of sanding skirting boards while sitting on the floor. Sanding was the worst.
Spencer and Derek sat back, an array of mostly plastic containers around them that had held different kinds of sushi in each as they looked at the freshly painted wall.
Personally, Spencer would like to eat outside because the smell of paint was getting a bit strong by this point, but Derek looked comfortable so he wasn’t about to usher him outside.
Outside. It’d be a whole other issue to fix the yard, one he didn’t want to think about yet. So he decided not to.
“I thought this would be done with a paintbrush instead of a roller.” He gestured to the wall the were facing, fumes making him scrunch his nose up.
“If you were rude, rich, and paying me by the hour? I just might.” Derek laughed, changing positions from sitting to laying on his side, propped up by his elbow as he looked over to Spencer. “The finish is usually smoother with rollers than brushes anyway, for this.”
Spencer smiled. His legs were crossed as he sat on the floor, and he’d hunched over with his elbow on his knee so he could prop his chin up in his palm. “So because I’m poor and trying to help instead, you’re being nice?”
“It doesn’t hurt that you’re easy on the eyes, either.” Spencer was glad his hair was long enough to cover his ears; he could feel that they were embarrassingly warm. “Even if you are covered in paint.”
“I’m what-?” Spencer straightened, bringing his hands up to touch his face, then dropping them down to his clothes to see small flecks of paint over them. He cursed.
“Wishing you took my recommendation of wearing less liked clothes for today’s work?”
Spencer sighed, nodding. “Yeah. I liked this one.”
Derek chuckled, “you might be able to get that out. Come on, time to get back to it. I’ll get one of my spare shirts from the car so you don’t make yours any worse.”
He did feel a bit silly; it was very clearly too large for him. Loose at the collar, and about everywhere else as well, it was well worn and sported a couple holes. He was conflicted about how many feelings he had wearing Derek’s shirt, too.
Did it only feel intimate to him?
By the afternoon, he suspected he wasn’t alone in the feeling. He’d caught Derek looking at him more than usual throughout the afternoon, and couldn’t hold back the shy smile he had each time it happened.
“Sorry I’m late!” Spencer rushed in through the front door, tripping but not falling over cords on the way to Derek.
“Less worm from you means more from me, and means I’m getting paid more.” They grinned at each other when Spencer walked into what would be the master bedroom. On Derek’s advice, they’d knocked out a wall to allow what was a separate bathroom be turned into an ensuite. Spencer was amazed at how much Derek completed while he was away on a case.
“So much has changed since I was last here.”
“Good change?” Derek looked mostly confident, but had a hint of uncertainty about him. Spencer liked that the more time they spent together, the better he was at reading Derek’s expressions and tones.
“Good change.” He reaffirmed, leaning in the doorway as he took in the now open space. “I never would have thought to do this on my own. How long have you been doing this for?”
Derek shrugged, taking Spencer’s arrival as an invitation to a break as he leaned against the wall to watch the curly haired man. “A while. Years. It started as a passion project on my own house, then turned into a job after a couple years of that.”
Spencer couldn’t stop the playful snicker. “Getting all sweaty and dusty was part of a passion project?”
“I haven’t noticed you turning up your nose at me all sweaty and dusty.” Having the tables turned on him, with the addition of the flirty glint to Derek’s eyes, wasn’t what Spencer had planned for.
“W-well, it doesn’t hurt that you’re easy on the eyes.” He was at a loss, but borrowing Derek’s comment from a few weeks ago seemed to be the right thing to do. Derek laughed, the full bodied laugh that made Spencer’s chest feel like a shaken box of butterflies.
“Don’t think that sweet-talking will get you more of a discount, pretty thing, because it probably won’t.”
“Only probably?”
Derek scoffed, taking a step closer as he tilted his head. “Well, flattery helps, on occasion.”
Spencer wet his lips nervously. He felt like if this conversation went on even a little bit longer, it might change the dynamic of what they’d built up. He hadn’t had something like this before, and he loved it. While the thought of advancing further wasn’t unappealing in the slightest, the fear of change was.
Still, he couldn’t stop himself from dragging his eyes over Derek’s form. The man was built like he was based off of the god Adonis himself.
Derek seemed to note the hesitance, cocking a brow as he watched Spencer.
“Uh, I was meant to bring us something to eat, but the flight home was later than planned.”
Derek’s smile softened from flirty to something just as intimate, but in a way Spencer couldn’t explain, and he shook his head.
“Don’t stress that pretty little head of yours. You know I fed myself pretty often before I started working with you.”
Spencer caught his lip between his teeth, a coy curve to his smile as he dropped his gaze. “While that may be so, I’d feel better if uh, if I did still treat you to something. It’s a bit late for a lunch now,” despite how self-conscious he felt, he did look back up at Derek then. “So what about dinner?”
Fear of change shouldn’t get in the way of Spencer building on the best thing that had happened to him in a while, he’d decided.
“How could I say no to an offer like that?”
Unable to maintain the eye-contact, he dropped his head again, instead watching his shoe as he scuffed the floor underfoot. He tried to contain his excitement, pressing his lips together. But he could still feel it on his face, and it felt too obvious for Derek to miss it.
“Guess you’d better say yes, then.”
Spencer was losing his mind.
He was seeing Derek so frequently, and each time, their interactions seemed loaded and heady.
He’d learned a lot about restoring a house, and had acquired a bit of muscle, and one hell of a crush. If the girls saw how he interacted with Derek, he was sure Penelope would say something about puppy dog eyes, and Emily would call him ‘whipped’.
Each night where the two had spent some time together, he was torn between loving how they played off each other, and tortured they weren’t doing more.
Derek seemed to find excuses to get in his personal space, which was normally quite unwelcome. And the few times Spencer had given even half a reason for Derek to do so again, the man seemed to run with it.
One of the most replayed memories Spencer had was when Derek, probably not expecting Spencer home so soon, was working with his shirt off. Granted, the temperature was high that day, and Derek was absolutely doing hard work, so it was reasonable. But Spencer’s mind seemed to short circuit.
Surely, Derek didn’t miss how Spencer had reacted. He was only able to think straight once Derek put his shirt back on. Well, think at least a little clearer, at least.
For his own sanity, he was just hoping Derek would be fully clothed when Spencer got to the house today.
Even so, he was disappointed when Derek was.
“You know kid, we’re almost done with this.”
Spencer frowned. Looking around the house; he could see that Derek was right. An electrician had come in -one Derek recommended- and updated fixtures and added more outlets. A plumber had come in to do what Derek wasn’t certified for, again, someone Derek had worked with previously.
The thought of being in the finished house on his own was the original goal, but he felt uneasy at the thought of it. It must have shown on his face, because Derek looked a little concerned, even if his tone was teasing.
“What, you think we oughtta make more changes?”
He slipped his hands into his pocket, shaking his head as he looked anywhere but at Derek. “No. Are there any more changes you’d recommend?”
“None that are in your price range; I think we’ve done pretty well. Don’t you?” Spencer heard him step closer, shook his head in response as he leaned back on the wall.
If he couldn’t outright say that he wanted another excuse to keep hanging around Derek, then where did that leave him?
Derek came to a halt in front of him, head tilted as he tried to get Spencer to look at him.
“Something troubling you, pretty boy?”
Spencer took a breath and lifted his head, then let it all out in a stuttered rush when he realised how close Derek was. He wet his lips again, and saw Derek’s eyes track the movement.
“Derek.”He didn’t know what to say; what to do. His head was just filled with static while his heart was filled with feeling and it left him unable to do much at all.
“Spence.” Derek’s voice was quiet, brimming with the same emotion clogging up Spencer’s chest, and now he was looking at Derek’s lips as his hands twitched in his pockets with the urge to reach out to the man before him.
Derek repeated Spencer’s name, and he didn’t know what to make of it. Was it a question? A request for permission? It felt like a prayer.
Derek moved to press his palm to the wall beside Spencer’s head, and the status hum in his mind seemed to fizzle out with a pop.
As soon as it did, he was rushing forward to press his lips to Derek’s. The man didn’t stumble back or hesitate, but instead brought his other hand up to hold Spencer’s waist.
His grip was firm, like an anchor to Spencer’s roaring emotions. He slipped his hands out of his pockets and up to Derek’s chest, then slid then up a little further to curl around his shoulders.
The moment was ground to a halt by Spencer’s phone ringing. His fingers at Derek’s shoulders gave a gentle squeeze before slipping back down the man’s chest. While they were no longer kissing, they hadn’t pulled away from each other, and Spencer’s quick breaths seemed to be matched by Derek’s.
“You have to answer it, don’t you?”
Spencer hesitated, then nodded, eyes still closed as he curled his fingers into the front of Derek’s shirt. Afraid that if he were pulled away to work, this moment with Derek wouldn’t flourish into something more permanent.
He let his head fall back to the wall behind him, and missed Derek’s eyes roving over the column of his neck as he swallowed.
“Yeah.”
Derek’s thumb rubbed at the skin of Spencer’s hip, and even over his shirt, it left goosebumps in its wake. “Come on then, pretty boy. It’s probably important. You probably have to go.”
It’d happened more than a handful of times when he and Derek had been working together. But he felt like he might yell about it happening now, of all times.
It was important, and he did have to go. Not just to work, but for a trip on the jet as well.
Since he’d need to leave in a rush, he didn’t have time to talk to Derek, to try and figure out what they were doing going forward.
His frustration didn’t go unnoticed by the BAU.
“Come on now, I want to see Reid’s hunky builder.” Penelope was quick in her bright yellow heels, rushing the grinning pair of Emily and JJ.
“And not the house he’s spent months restoring?” JJ tilted her head in question when Pen turned around to wave a hand in exasperation.
“Well obviously that too, Jayj. But come on, Reid’s been talking about this hotshot handyman for far too long; I have to see if he’s meeting my expectations. Given how Reid’s talked him up, I’m expecting Eros.”
“Eros? Why specifically that god?” Emily laced her fingers with JJ’s as they stopped walking and took a moment to admire the front porch.
“He’s the god of love, girlies. Passion and physical desire. I have a feeling he’s struck our beautiful Super Brain with an arrow.” She looked between the two women before waving her hands again. “Eros is also Cupid.” With that, she turned and knocked on the door, a wide smile of anticipation delightfully shaping her lips.
The case that pulled him quite literally out of Derek’s arms was a rough one, and he wasn’t able to return home before the house actually was finished.
He didn’t know how to talk to Derek without using the house as an excuse now, and maybe Derek hadn’t either - the two hadn’t spoken since Derek last updated him about the house and Spencer paid his final instalment to Derek.
With the girls inviting themselves over though, Spencer grabbed the flimsy excuse for what it was.
“They want to see what we’ve done with the place.”
“And you need me around to give them a tour of your house?” Spencer heard the teasing smile in Derek’s voice, and suppressed a smile even though Derek was on the phone and not in the room with him.
“Well, there was a lot of work done. I won’t be able to explain it all, but you could.”
“Alright, handsome, I’ll be there.”
Spencer, who was wringing his hands nervously in the doorway with Derek waiting nearby, was mortified. Derek raised a brow at him while out of sight of the ladies, mouth opening to say something Spencer decided that no, he didn’t want to hear.
“Garcia!” He dutifully ignored Derek’s laugh in favour of a tight hug from Penelope, shooting a look at Emily and JJ they didn’t know the meaning of.
Spencer’s flimsy reasoning of having Derek over was highlighted by the fact that the girls mainly just ‘ooh’ed and ‘ahh’ed without wanting to know much about the technicalities.
Derek was telling them little bits, though, and Penelope let out a noise of surprise. “Wait, you actually had our boy genius working with power tools?” She was looking between an embarrassed Spencer and a grinning Derek.
“Yeah, I’d say he handled them well.”
Spencer thought he felt a bit faint when, in an obvious stage whisper, leaned into JJ saying “I bet that’s not all he got a handle of.”
Spencer may have squawked, tripping over barely started sentences as Derek laughed.
-
“Your friends seemed to like the place.”
“My friends are terrible. I hope they got a good look around because I might not have them back here.”
He was joking, but embarrassed. He and Derek were leaning on opposite sides of the front doorway, the door only just having been closed after watching Penelope, JJ, and Emily drive off.
“Come on now, they weren’t that bad.”
Spencer narrowed his eyes at Derek, his cheeks flushing. They looked at each other for a moment, then Derek stepped closer, a sly look on his face as he spoke again.
“Although Emily wasn’t entirely wrong, you didn’t get too much of a handle on me there.” Spencer’s eyes widened in surprise, a shocked laugh the only reply he could get in before Derek continued. “Not as much as I would have liked, at least.”
It was quickly reaffirmed, many times that day and in those following, that Spencer didn’t need an excuse to contact Derek, to see him in person.
But that didn’t mean either of them wouldn’t take any excuse they could get and run with it.
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claudiosuenaga · 1 year
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A descensão ontológica do homem segundo Eric Voegelin
“Apenas homens singularmente bons podem se ofender tão profundamente com o mal”. (Eric Voegelin)
Nascido em Colônia, na Alemanha, em 3 de fevereiro de 1901, e falecido em Stanford, Califórnia, em 19 de janeiro de 1985, Eric Herman Wilhelm Voegelin foi um cientista político teuto-americano e scholar interdisciplinar conhecido por seus estudos sobre o pensamento político moderno e por seus esforços para criar uma filosofia compreensiva do homem, da sociedade e da história.
Obteve seu Ph.D. na Universidade de Viena em 1922, onde lecionou direito entre 1922 e 1938. Quando os nazistas anexaram a Áustria, Voegelin fugiu para a Suíça e em seguida migrou para os Estados Unidos; em 1944 naturalizou-se norte-americano.
Em seu novo país, lecionou na Universidade de Harvard, no Bennington College, em Vermont, na Universidade do Alabama e na Universidade do Estado da Louisiana. De 1958 a 1969 lecionou ciência política na Universidade de Munique, em sua pátria de origem, retornando em seguida para os Estados Unidos e associando-se como pesquisador sênior ao Hoover Institution on War, Revolution and Peace, junto à Universidade de Stanford, na Califórnia.
Voegelin estudou não só instituições políticas, mas também símbolos linguísticos e a natureza da civilização, tanto em textos antigos como em contemporâneos. Ele argumentava que havia uma “linha de símbolos” dentro da história, que é básica para o sucesso da teoria política. Para Voegelin, o modernismo é gnóstico e imbuído de crise.
Entre suas principais obras enumeram-se: Der Autoritäre Staat (1936), A Nova Ciência da Política (1952), Order And history, 5 vols. (1956, 1957, 1957, 1974 e 1987), Science, Politics and Gnosticism (1959), Anamnesis (1966) e From Enlightment to Revolution (1975). De acordo com a American Political Science Review, Voegelin representou para os americanos “um dos mais distintos intérpretes das correntes não liberais do pensamento europeu”.
O padrão recém-descrito certamente caracteriza as sucessivas ondas dos movimentos, mas concretamente é perturbado por alguns outros fatores. O conceito de padrão se ajusta de forma perfeita apenas à primeira onda, a da Reforma. Na segunda onda, que começou com a Revolução Francesa, o padrão se complica com a entrada da Rússia na política mundial. E, na terceira onda, que começou a Revolução Comunista, as fases do padrão são seriamente perturbadas pelas complicações advindas de dentro e de fora da Civilização Ocidental.
De dentro, o problema de uma Alemanha Nacional Socialista embaça os alinhamentos dos campos antagônicos; ainda de dentro, o caráter da aliança muda profundamente com a emergência dos Estados Unidos como potência mundial; e de fora, novamente a elevação da Rússia a uma nova ordem de grandeza complica a simplicidade que o padrão tinha na primeira onda.
As ondas dos movimentos não constituem um affair de história antiga, pois cada uma delas deixou seu sedimento de posições intelectuais e políticas na composição da civilização contemporânea. Num certo sentido, todas estas ondas “coexistem” hoje; suas posições sedimentadas estão vivas e a luta entre os movimentos e os contra movimentos ainda está em curso em nosso tempo.
O que chamamos de embate de opiniões em nossa sociedade “pluralista” é concretamente a guerra dos movimentos que chega até os dias de hoje. O clima moral de hoje, o problema das comunicações em nossa democracia, somente pode ser compreendido se mergulharmos para além da suposição eufemística de um debate racional — conduzido entre inquiridores da verdade com intenções pacíficas — para dentro do sangue e da fedentina da guerra, que já se alonga por quatro séculos e meio, sem um fim à vista.
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Essa imersão é especialmente necessária, se quisermos entender as recomposições das alianças, que em caso contrário seriam confusas — na verdade tão confusas que muito pensador político se arruinou, por não conseguir compreender o jogo que se praticava. Pois, da mesma forma que as ondas dos movimentos se sucedem umas às outras, ex-inimigos tornam-se amigos quando se defrontam com a iminência de um novo perigo comum; e até mesmo o novo inimigo juntar-se-á, no futuro, às fileiras dos poderes estabelecidos, quando surgir a próxima ameaça.
Aqueles que haviam sido inimigos viscerais na Reforma e na Contra-reforma descobriram, por trás de seu Protestantismo e Catolicismo, que tinham em comum uma religião cristã, quando a Revolução Francesa os confrontou com o culto da razão. E, com a ascensão do Comunismo, não só católicos e protestantes conseguiram cooperar em partidos democrata-cristãos, mas até liberais secularistas conseguiram descobrir a base que tinham em comum com os cristãos.
Este padrão de realinhamento, no entanto, sofre das mesmas complicações de que sofre o próprio padrão dos movimentos. Sob a pressão do perigo Nacional Socialista, aqueles que haviam sido inimigos na terceira onda agora reuniram-se numa frente comum sob a égide da política do Front Popular inaugurada por Stalin em 1934 e continuada nos movimentos de Resistência da Segunda Guerra Mundial.
E, na medida em que se rompia essa aliança artificial, com o fim do perigo Nacional Socialista, ela deixava em sua esteira a batalha pela alma de grandes setores das democracias ocidentais, a qual se expressa, especialmente na França e na Itália, pela discrepância entre a filiação estagnante, senão decrescente, ao Partido Comunista, e o vigor do voto comunista.
Estes são fatos objetivos sobre o caráter da opinião nas sociedades democráticas contemporâneas. Não estamos lidando com seres humanos que têm esta ou aquela opinião enquanto indivíduos, mas com cristãos e secularistas; não com cristãos, mas com católicos e protestantes; não com simples liberais seculares, mas com os liberais da livre iniciativa, de velha cepa, e com os liberais modernos de estilo socialista; e assim por diante.
É a esta rica diversificação de opinião socialmente entrincheirada e violentamente estridente que damos o nome de sociedade pluralista. Ela recebeu sua estrutura em função de guerras, e estas guerras continuam acontecendo.
A nobre e bela imagem de uma busca da verdade, em que a humanidade está engajada, com os meios de persuasão pacífica, em dignificada comunicação e correção de opiniões, está em total desacordo com os fatos. E é no meio dessa grave situação, em que as diferenças de opinião causam guerra, em vez de levar a entendimentos de paz, que encontramos o nosso problema da comunicação.
Segundo nos assegura Voegelin, a sociedade existe na e pela comunicação. Ora, se o objetivo principal da política é a vivência democrática, esta, por sua vez, não pode prescindir de uma perspectiva moral, já que não há democracia sem compostura moral. Dessa forma, democracia, comunicação e moralidade são, pois, três conceitos que se co-implicam, formando um tridimensionalismo polar (parafraseando Miguel Reale), o que ressalta a ideia de que uma não pode subsistir sem a outra, apesar de que comumente possam se mostrar em conflito.
A comunicação de caráter substantivo, no sentido da persuasão platônica, preocupa-se com a ordem correta da psique humana. A ordem da alma depende — se pudermos agora usar a terminologia agostiniana — do amor Dei; ela será perturbada quando o amor sui, o amor próprio, prevalecer sobre o amor a Deus.
Já os movimentos de que falei são um fenômeno de importância histórica mundial, no sentido de que eles constituem a revolta da sociedade ocidental contra Deus. Esta revolta expressou-se em três grandes atos simbólicos: (1) na remoção do Papado, enquanto representação da ordem divina, da cena pública do mundo ocidental; (2) no regicídio; e (3) no deicídio.
O afastamento do papado de seu lugar na ordem pública do mundo ocidental é o resultado simbólico da primeira onda de movimentos. Quando foram negociados os tratados de Münster e de Osnabrück, a Cúria não teve acesso à reunião, apesar de constar em sua pauta o importante item da redistribuição e secularização dos principados eclesiásticos.
Os protestos da Cúria nem sequer receberam resposta. Em 1648, o papado desapareceu da cena diplomática da ordem europeia. O anti-papismo, que se tornou patente nesta época, teve consequências significativas sobre a área das comunicações, na medida em que Milton desejava reservar liberdade de imprensa para a opinião protestante na Inglaterra, enquanto Locke explicitamente excluía os católicos de qualquer tolerância no reino inglês. As restrições políticas aos católicos continuaram até o século 19, na Inglaterra; e as restrições sociais continuam até hoje nos países anglo-saxões.
Se, por um lado, a remoção do papado da ordem pública do Ocidente mal foi reconhecida como o primeiro dos grandes atos de revolta, por outro, é bem compreendida a ligação que existiu entre o regicídio e o deicídio como atos simbólicos de revolta contra Deus. Recomendo-lhes que se reportem a um admirável estudo recente sobre o assunto, a L’homme revolté, de Albert Camus.
A execução de Carlos I não foi uma manifestação violenta de republicanismo contra um tirano, mas um ataque contra o “reino divino”, contra o rei enquanto representante da ordem transcendental na comunidade, e sua substituição como fonte de autoridade pela comunidade dos santos no sentido puritano. E quanto ao sentido da comunidade dos santos, de novo encareço-os a pesquisarem a literatura sobre o assunto, especialmente Hooker e Hobbes. A decapitação do rei foi, então, seguida pela decapitação de Deus, no culto da Revolução Francesa, na declaração da morte de Deus na Fenomenologia de Hegel, na substituição de Deus pelo super-homem levada a termo por Marx e Nietzsche.
Os atos simbólicos de revolta não podiam ser tomados sem desculpas, não podiam fazer sentido se não fossem precedidos pelo florescimento de um novo clima intelectual. E os termos de sua justificação tornaram-se os símbolos da linguagem no embate de opiniões em nossa sociedade pluralista. Vou insistir brevemente sobre esta questão, pois a moralidade da comunicação está intimamente ligada à verdade de seus conteúdos.
A moralidade é inseparável da racionalidade do discurso — a racionalidade entendida no sentido substantivo de veracidade. Se a linguagem empregada na comunicação é irracional, a moralidade da própria comunicação fica prejudicada na proporção direta de sua irracionalidade. Desta seara sem fim de problemas, vou abordar apenas o movimento da redução ontológica quanto à fonte aceita de ordem no homem e na sociedade. Por este movimento entende-se a transformação de nossa concepção de sociedade pelo rebaixamento da substância de ordem do logos, na hierarquia ontológica, para o nível das substâncias orgânicas e dos impulsos.
Nas concepções clássicas e cristãs de sociedade entende-se que a substância da ordem consiste na homonoia de seus membros. Os homens são membros da sociedade na medida em que participam do nous, no sentido clássico, ou do logos, no sentido cristão. Esta concepção de ordem social predominava ainda em pleno século 17.
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Foi só então, no Leviatã, que Hobbes eliminou o summum bonum divino da hierarquia do ser; e como a racionalidade da ordem desapareceu juntamente com o summum bonum, ele de forma dramática introduziu o summum malum, o medo da morte, que é uma paixão, como a nova força que injetaria razão na ordem da sociedade. A questão nunca mais foi reafirmada de maneira tão clara quanto o foi por ocasião de seu aparecimento inicial em Hobbes.
No século 18, a nova situação de uma sociedade sem a ordem de um summum bonum divino já é aceita de forma inquestionável; e a busca por sucedâneos ontológicos para a ordem, apenas semiconsciente das implicações do empreendimento, já se encontra em pleno andamento.
As principais fases da busca são bem conhecidas. A era da razão recebeu seu nome, não porque fosse particularmente razoável, mas porque os pensadores do século 18 acreditavam ter encontrado na Razão, com R maiúsculo, o sucedâneo da ordem divina. A construção era instável, porque a razão humana, no sentido imanentista, isto é, a razão sem participação na ratio aeterna, é desprovida de substância ordenante.
Podia-se falar sobre razão e proclamar que certas verdades eram auto evidentes, desde que os conteúdos da ordem ainda encontrassem aceitação social pela força da tradição; mas a questão da validade não podia ser adiada para sempre. No curso das tentativas de encontrar uma base mais sólida para o novo credo imanentista, a razão que havia sido esvaziada de substância foi dotada com o significado de uma racionalidade no sentido pragmático de coordenação adequada de meios e fins.
A redução do significado da razão, no entanto, apenas tornou mais dolorosamente claro o vácuo criado pela abolição do supremo bem como fonte de ordem racional. Onde deveria a cadeia infinita dos meios e fins em ação encontrar seu ancoradouro, se o logos da ordem desaparecera? O utilitarismo parecia ter encontrado uma resposta no auto interesse do homem, que cuidaria que suas ações não lhe fossem prejudiciais, mas úteis.
Mas a concepção de ordem pelo maior bem do maior número, ou pelo equilíbrio do auto interesse esclarecido, ou pelo equilíbrio mais específico alcançado com a busca do lucro econômico, revelou-se destoante frente à desordem e ao sofrimento humano produzidos concretamente nas sociedades que viveram os primórdios da Revolução Industrial.
Como o amor a Deus era tabu, Comte inventou o amor autônomo ao homem, e cunhou para este sentimento recém-descoberto o termo altruísmo. O auto interesse do homem, que agora adquiria a conotação de egoísmo, poderia ser complementado pelo novo altruísmo como uma força estabilizadora da ordem no utilitarismo de um John Stuart Mill.
A tentativa de substituir a razão pelo útil foi seguida por outras etapas de descensão ontológica — como, por exemplo, pelo descenso às forças tecnológicas da produção, em Marx; à estrutura racial dos grupos humanos, em Gobineau e seus seguidores; e, finalmente, aos impulsos biológicos, na psicologia do inconsciente. Assim, a substância da ordem desceu, na escala ontológica, a partir de Deus, resvalando hierarquia abaixo pela razão, a inteligência pragmática, a utilidade, as forças de produção e determinantes raciais, até chegar aos impulsos biológicos.
Este deslizamento da substância da ordem pelos níveis da hierarquia ontológica interessa tanto ao historiador quanto ao filósofo. Pois, do século 18 ao presente, a redução ontológica completou seu curso. O âmbito de possibilidades teóricas para se encontrar sucedâneos ao summum bonum está em princípio esgotado. Esta observação não implica, porém, que novas variações de etapas anteriores da redução estejam impedidas de se desenvolver e encontrar aceitação temporária; também não sugere que reduções anteriores firmemente entrincheiradas perderão em futuro próximo seu poder como credos sociais. No entanto, o fato de a redução ter completado todo seu curso não deve ser tratado como algo sem importância. Para o cientista social, este fato é o indício mais importante de que a “modernidade” esgotou seu ciclo.
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Vou agora extrair algumas conclusões dos tópicos escolhidos e brevemente esboçados. A moralidade é inseparável da racionalidade. A conexão será esclarecida pela definição de consciência dada por Etienne Gilson: A consciência é o ato de julgamento pelo qual aprovamos ou reprovamos nossas ações à luz de princípios morais racionais. Para agir racionalmente, o homem tem que saber quem ele é, em que espécie de mundo ele vive, e qual é sua posição na ordem do ser. Um homem confuso quanto à essência de sua existência é um homem incapaz de ação racional; e se ele é incapaz de ação racional, é também incapaz de ação moral.
Se a “opinião” é caracterizada pelas concepções de natureza humana e de ordem social que surgiram no decurso da redução ontológica, o conhecimento da essência da existência fica seriamente perturbado. E se perturbações desse tipo determinam o clima de opinião — como de fato o fazem, em nossa sociedade “pluralista” — as opiniões comunicadas se tornam irracionais, enquanto os atos de comunicação se tornam moralmente deficientes na proporção de sua irracionalidade.
A comunicação, mesmo que seja substantiva em intenção, será, não formativa, mas deformativa da personalidade, se a concepção de ordem que ela comunica muda um nível da descensão ontológica. Além disso, o tipo de comunicação pragmática que diferenciamos adquire um significado novo e sinistro, nessa situação, na medida em que a comunicação se torna essencialmente pragmática ao se deslocar para o nível da substância substituta. Ela não consegue, de maneira alguma, funcionar como persuasão, no sentido platônico, mas apenas levar a estados mentais de conformismo e a comportamentos de conformidade.
E, finalmente, como a natureza humana, mesmo sob o ataque da comunicação pragmática, continua a ser o que ela é, deve-se esperar que a resistência ao propósito do comunicador venha a se valer dos recursos de uma alma que é essencialmente aberta a Deus. Desde que se tornou essencialmente pragmática, a comunicação não pode mais confiar na persuasividade da razão, que ela decapitou. Para alcançar seu propósito, o comunicador pragmático, por conseguinte, tem que confiar no arsenal de truques psicológicos — suppressio veri e suggestio falsi, repetição, a “grande mentira”, e assim por diante — para criar as dispersões emocionais que irão prevenir seu público de questionar a autenticidade substantiva de sua comunicação. Por essa razão, a comunicação essencialmente pragmática é inevitavelmente levada à intoxicação.
Texto resgatado, reunido e compilado por Cláudio Suenaga.
Cláudio Suenaga é mestre em História pela Universidade Estadual Paulista (Unesp), onde defendeu a primeira dissertação de mestrado sobre o Fenômeno OVNI no Brasil. Colaborador de inúmeras revistas e escritor com cinco livros publicados, milita como jornalista investigativo à caça de civilizações desaparecidas, cidades perdidas, monumentos megalíticos, tecnologia avançada antiga, fenômenos ufológicos, paranormais, milagrosos e sobrenaturais, seitas messiânicas, milenaristas e satânicas, sociedades secretas e todo tipo de teorias conspiratórias e mistérios em geral.
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