Derrida
Once upon a time there was a philosopher, in wonder of the world in -full.
Though as whole as he was, all he saw was but a fragmented soul.
For all who perceived him, projected onto him, as they saw fit.
From nationality, to religion, to all ways he could be it.
He was taken apart, unable, disabled–unidentified.
Part by part, uncertainty certainly took its toll, departed from a part he id-entified with, rolling into a hole.
Eventually, all of it, every moment and event, did not fit, as all of it unbecoming, as his sense of self crumbled, he stumbled–all of it jumbled.
He tried to belong, oh so, find who he was, he tried and tired untwisting a knot, unknowing how to, he fumbled.
Slowly, gradually, eventually, and inevitably, he became undone.
For where was his home–he yearned to belong–always pushed around, round and round, in surroundings always new.
In circles he went, trying to be–as others wanted to see–chained by the perceived–he desired to be free.
By the ones who thought in squares, categorically boxed him up, in lines, unimagined, unaware.
No matter his route, it always left him circling about with self-doubt.
The pain that was done upon him, multiplied by division that was added to him each time, only subtracted his personhood, by those who created the divide, inside, misunderstood.
However, it did inspire a fire within, making him realize he was going to take care of what was fair, in-dividually–he would go all-in.
Justice, just is, may be so, but he was part of this world too, and he mattered, as much as you do too.
All those who fought that their thought was better than others–is where he would begin–to free others, untaught, to be, again.
And so he started…
Day and night, he worked tirelessly, against those who saw their ideas as true were but structures in their minds, constructed by the context of their lives–the con of text–always seen as fact.
Reading, all he could know, the characters of history, historically known, every authority, but saw absurdity in each text–only confirmed his belief in his story.
He also came to find–he was not alone–but others like him had followed his thinking all along.
Unjust was the world, by those stronger, more powerful, as rich as could be–never saw the oppression they created, without a thought of what the other could be
He slammed the book shut.
He knew enough.
…
Gadamer
Once upon a time there was a philosopher, saw beauty in the world -filled.
A place to live, to call home, secure all around, safe and sound.
He could ponder, wonder, see the beauty, all on his own, without a worry of being wrong.
Nothing would stop him, he was safe to be whatever he pleased to be.
No controversy countered him, he knew himself in all, identity whole, always.
With a family rich, what would he choose to learn, if not, the most prestigious study of them all.
In the heart of a continent, consistently stable, he was truly able.
He could know no better, ironically, than to choose philosophy.
He learned from the best, universities, masters of the arts, degrees and diplomas, earned.
As he grew, he had grown, unusual for a student, interpreting on his own.
He listened closely, better than any other, and spoke clearly.
Each word, each sentence, how to read it again and again, he knew it better every cycle he went, this was new, he called hermeneutical.
He understood, by standing under, as modestly as he could, listening to the other.
Each word held so much meaning, he would spend all night finding the context of what it meant.
Reading, and read he did, thousands of words, text by text.
He cared, he shared, and he took his time, as patiently, until he could see what the other had in mind.
Not a word spoken, nor thought, was wasted, in Gadamer’s world of conversation.
He would look at you with eyes so clear, try, attempt, to understand what the other was saying, questioning everything, until the interpretation of the other came near as best as he could hear.
Leading him to see interpretation as a horizon, from both sides, of his, and of the other, fused together–in a fusion of horizon.
To understand, to listen, and to be heard, was the antidote, for this fission that occurred, in spoken word, in written text–kept being misinterpreted.
If both he and the other truly tried, they would find themselves eye-to-I.
A horizon of two, became a fusion of one, until both felt understood.
Fusion of horizon was that which was his goal–filled his heart and soul.
For he believed that many constructions, metaphysical, phenomenological and so on, were based on falsehoods–unhealthy structures.
Through observing the historical, he saw the development of philosophy, and came to find the best way to unite–a construction with sight.
It was in the mutual, two sides as one, besides the other, in conversation, question and answer, non-debatable, simply discussable, they were able to engage, and eventually see the same.
A method of truth that truly worked, constructed by him, a construction he knew, how to listen to everyone, even the few.
For the metaphysical, nor construction could never be proven, but this was the best, for how else can two meet in the middle, if not for progress, through the process of conversing as one.
Co-, was his prefix, fixed, by the foundation, he had grounded in conversation–as cooperation was vital, both needed to work together to understand one’s subtitle.
His method clear, his definitions precise, rigorous, and concise.
He was armoured with all that was necessary for interpretation to be won, in becoming like the other as one.
Until the day, he met a man, from far away, who did the opposite of all he could say, and made it the most difficult conversation, relation, he had ever had–he wanted to make it possible to any degree, but this man made it impossible–don’t you see?
A philosopher of interpretation, just as he.
But from a completely different stance–giving Gadamer no chance.
His name was Derrida.
…
Two-gether
As both spoke at a lecture about interpretation.
Both had their own interpretative thoughts on interpretation.
For one wanted to understand and the other sought meaning.
One orderly structured, the other chaotically playful.
When both spoke with one another, the strangest thing occurred, for two philosophers of interpretation, could not converse.
Gadamer, listening to each word, asked question after question, in search for direction.
Unexpectedly, Derrida did not answer, instead, he chose to speak about something random.
Gadamer could not get close, and Derrida stayed far.
Gadamer wanted to understand all his methodologies.
But Derrida had no method, nor defined rules, and chose to show meaning in opposition to the position of the other that explained it.
As Gadamer’s understanding came calmly forward, so did Derrida’s misunderstanding simply stay.
Gadamer explained understanding, and Derrida showed meaning.
For how else can one show meaning if not through opposition–what is understanding without misunderstanding–by doing so he would show its meaning.
Both came into conflict by the truth both spoke or displayed.
Derrida needed to misunderstand playfully–to deconstruct understanding.
Gadamer needed to understand structurally–to avoid misunderstanding.
Both were at a stalemate.
…
And so it began.
A story so important about understanding meaning–and the meaning of understanding.
Two came together, neither did what either wanted it to be.
Later would they understand the meaning of their encounter.
The significance that would become the Western version of a balance, unlike any before–would be like the Eastern yin and yang.
So, came to be, the imperfect | perfect analogy, of the…
The Sand–Castle