Mahler. The sixth Simphony? Yes. Oh. Certainly. I'll come back to you. The promise of coming back is the inevitable certitude of the distance, of leaving a certain time and space and a unique cultural setup in its non-historical present. Coming back is impossible. He cannot come back, he won't find the traces of his steps. The nomad doesn't leave traces. He just remembers the places where he's been before. He lives in the present being perfectly aware of the passage, of the post factum frailty and of the dynamics in action of a fact that cannot be without history and thus distance and temporal dimenssion. The tragic condition of "I wanted to" can't be overcome otherwise than by adhering to it, overlapping the lack of historical consistency and the self inner rhythm. Thus, inadequacy becomes natural condition for existence and the nomad does not perceive it anymore as the awareness of failure that can be fatal if it's not surpassed in good time. An ethics of the supposed and very dangerous hypothesis of "failure in the history" by aquiring a stressed fatalist view of the "passage" can be "sublimated" for instance through a periplus in the "Ungrund" ("Nothingness" - Jacob Bohme) or in the underground of the nomad's present memory.
(The Ethics of Failure. Underground 1)
The ethics of failure is a norm for the limits of thought, another way to put into practice the extreme nomadism. Tragic knowledge is to be able to see and not see further though. There will always be a "further" ,a "closer" that you couldn't perceive otherwise than by guessing, as you think they are there, somewhere and your ultimate certainty it that you can't reach those things. The horizon appears and you run after it but you can't do more than finding other definition. Always further, to the infinite.
The ethics of failure is a way of surviving to yourself as nomad. It's the engine of your existence, it's haunting space and time forgotten or too actual, so recent that you can't name them yet. The ethics of failure is an ending conclusion and a starting hypothesis. It's realizing infinite limits and the strictly limited infinite to the present experience. It's a certainty that hovers over you as an inevitable peril that can occur anytime. You have always to keep with you a fragment of doubt, the certainty of your nomadism.
The ethics of failure is a morals of things that have to be avoided, of those that shouldn't be avoided and of those that cannot be avoided. It's a morals of drawing, depicting the inner labyrinth.
Traps yous set to yourself, blind alleys you can't get out from, walls you hit, turns you take not knowing what's round them, precipices you jump into, roots you stumble on (pick them up), traces you must step into, abyss over which you float in a moment's equilibrium, frightening gaps, cliffs you try to hang on to fall towards the sky, parallel worlds, extinct animals that devour you, bestiaries of all peoples, fairy tales smoke creatures, stones that hurt you, mud that sucks you down, branches that you cling on, tops in which you poke yourself, spinning over the whirlwind, giants from the future world legends that crush your body at the slightest mistake, one moment's illusions, one life's illusions, traps hidden beneath silk waves, jungles through which you cut your way plucking the roots that are always growing again, insinuating into your body, lianas that coil on your trunk, pull you back and drag you forward, fires that spring out from under your feet, hot liquids that melt your mind and thought, clays that stick you on the ground, fast waterfalls that freeze your courage in glass steam, matter swallowing you, earth that wants you and sky that turns you down, all the good and evil in the world in brief, ideals and aspirations, new deceiving and ideas, continuous refuge into yourself, wishes of a second that are washed like unreal castles in the sands of past memories, time leaking down the icy back of Venus of Milet, unreal and fantastic, artificial paradise and hells of a moment, penance and memories, delirium of a reality that you remember second by second, deceiving yourself with words, lying yourself in words, with words and without words, verbs freezing within abstract brackets, logics canceling your own reality, dialectics that drown you little by little, suffocating you effortlessly, letting you breath by yourself, excess and reasons, futile heroism and extatic weariness, katharsis not enough for itself, walls circling you menacingly and you can't do but sneaking through the rigorous stones to the next circle, chaos and worlds disappearing in a blink of an eye, unseen facets of things, gaps that you hardly imagine, shelves always shut, sunny terraces and subterranean caves, searching support for later on, references that you stumble on clumsily, papers with burned edges, always a new stage and again and again, you think you'er a rocket and you're only a satellite around a point, weak lungs, dreamed of and longed forDante's circles, doors never open for you, doors that you'll never know of, miraculous guides and wonderful places, virtual paradise, passages you pass through forever, chaos of the prime unutterable words, words you cannot think of, corners meeting finally somewhere, edges you slide down when you don't even think of it, underground grass fragrance, ether in a decanter, tress of an outer nature, Dyonisian music that thrills you, muses that follow you everywhere, Orpheus on hire on the lake's shore, false gods that don't believe anymore in themselves, time crushing you after enhancing you, minotaurs and eternal workers of alternative infernoes, all and nothing, now and never, here and nowhere, nomadism pushed to the limits of paper's resistence, liberty that doesn't let you stop and write a full stop, ever ...
And now as reference for the present that he always circles, hear and read: Gielom mangie pioforos/ Ferri jamen jamenge ll/ Biciadizas mandaj kofaros. Names that become his signs. Listen to the melos of some Polish nomads. They are gipsies. They will never realize they are nomads, as their nomadism is their most intimate nature. It's just their nature. They can only be in fact (Dassein) nomads, phenomenologically. They will never achieve the quality stage necessary to form a free hipostasis, ready for processing or abandoning anytime. Their mask is to adherent to their skull. It's just their face. They do not realize the difference, they cannot reach an objective perspective as they don't have towards themselves the thing that Descartes would call "divine indiference" towards the created being. They don't have a pretending play, they won't suffer to be "dephased" and inconsistency, the primitive freedom of dsiconnecting is not available to them. They are caught into their present (eternally repeatable?) and even recorded on "Dolby Hx-Pro Stereo" - surprised ideally in eternity - the nomad recognizes them as signs of a lack of time that is kept open as a possible refuge but also he leaves them behind and surpasses them. He abandons them on the side of the track in a ragged tent near two skinny horses harnessed empirically at a cart with no lights. He goes on. He has no time to stop.