When did they take away the evidence from us? It is not easy to say. It seems that everything is summed up in the hanging condition of the present. Every day, like flies surgically rendered blind, we run behind the indications of power that programme our existence, even in the negatory prospects indications that suck the glory of the past and spit it out again in pantomimes and collective recitals - for the moment I throw this stone against the cop car, then we'll see - that make us go after the sausage like dogs that have been let off the leash for a moment.
Meanwhile clarity, quite different to evidence that is evident per se, dark and barely comprehensible clarity, moves forward, travels in time, the solution always seems to be at hand and always more tired and debilitated. Reality is always partial and finite we know everything about every particle of reality, or nearly everything, every centimetre of reality that is about to turn into dust has endless documentation , but it is of the evidence that we have no cognition, it is about our life that we do not have certain news. That way, we don’t know where to put our feet.
Yet all our life, not just as individuals, but also humanity, has always been a life that has really been lived, in a solid comforting way. Even in the darkness of the mine, where the black man went down for twelve or fourteen hours, there was a heart that beat violent desires, an obscure activity of the mole in search of the truth. Even in the man of today, even in the servant of the powerful, there is this work, but more and more it is being reduced to something miserable, obscene. Humanity has always had a great thirst for truth, but this has always escaped him. Perhaps in the Renaissance, for a short time, a blinding light lit up near some particularly capable man, and from this, in an almost supernatural way drew force, spreading itself in the minds of many, almost unconsciously, then everything went down, becoming causidica distinction, knowledge to be archived. But life has always in itself been something true. (real). Innately, inside us, there has always been a thrust towards this hidden truth that we carry inside us, but forced to feticise, turn it into a little mark coming from opportune and catalogued production. Every scientific distinction has deposited itself like lime and keel on this life preceding categories, preceding any kind of rational distinction, it has deposited itself and has taken on the features of the technological man, the man of the reality that hosts him.
But to have understood this process of factual sedimentation and mortal coagulation is a step forward towards the consciousness of a base element to start off from to lift up the mantle of factuality and grasp the reality of life in its fullness, not in its interpretative impression maintained alive forcibly in the ambit of its own golden belt. Our being what we are, not what we would like to seem (or that we force ourselves to seem without realising it), has a genesis, and a process, that is it has an origin, therefore its own unapparent destiny, and a starting towards something that is about to begin, a memory.
The base is that which we have done, so also the gravity of forced doing that has always kept us occupied. This base has built that which we shall be, and of which at the moment inexists every even tiny cognition, this base is science and, along with science, it is also the reason that founds our ‘scientifically certain existence’ and proposes it as a garantee to the dangers and worries of the future. We are the gelatinous commonplaces of the bus queue, the desire for order that coagulates in the demand for capital punishment or its apparanet opposite request for an improvement in prison life, we are all this, but, underneath all this we are also the memory of what even for a moment we have been our real life, the world free of categories and catalogation, of morbid fetish and the logic of a little at a time.
And that is because we are life, the only life possible, the life that screams in the veins and tries to come out from its own limbo, that doesn’t explain and doesn’t ask for explanations, that has no historybecause it does not coagulate into something definitive, that does not reduce the horizon because it itself is the irreducible horizon. Philosophical thought, but also daily thought, as soon as we think a little more than that supplied by one that dominates us, supports this toothless world of the catalogue and takes back the urgency of life to the catgoral interpretations that are competing for every specific sector of human knowledge. Sharpening our gaze of this same philosophical thought, taking our critical attention beneath that ambiguity that up until this moment we considered the most advanced line of (militant) critique, there we can find again what had escaped us, or that we had lost by the way: life and the world of life, that is, the world animated by vitsal pulsions never extinguished, because they are in no way assimilable by the repressive arrogance of reason.
Behind the fetish we find the life that aliments the wires that support the same fetish, palid reflex of the walls of the platonically original cave. We find a life precedent to the absurd categories, precedent to whatever dark explanation, to whatever contradiction, to whatever crisis. The more reason conquers the world, manipulating it, the more the successes of the technic become general and incontrastable, the more the urgency of life boils under the apparent successes of the fetish, magically shining in the same misted over eyes of those which make a glory of these successes, by now being used to the stink of shit.
How is it that the period of the greatest success of science, and technology, its armed wing, corresponds to the period of greatest worry of man for his threatened life, for his ‘unique’ life? The answers.....

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