(A Dialogue in the Marketplace)
Socrates:
Tell me, Theaetetus—what is mystery?
Theaetetus:
Mystery is a thing hidden. And when we find it, it is no longer a mystery.
Socrates:
Ah. So mystery is like a coin dropped in the street?
Theaetetus:
Yes, I suppose—until someone picks it up.
Socrates:
And what of the things which, when picked up, only become stranger?
Theaetetus:
Then they were not mysteries, but puzzles.
Socrates:
I see. So when you complete a puzzle, you understand it?
Theaetetus:
Yes.
Socrates:
And when you understand a mystery, it ceases to be one?
Theaetetus:
Certainly. It has been solved.
Socrates:
Then what is it you seek when you say you seek mystery?
Theaetetus:
To find it, of course. To see where it was hidden. To understand it.
Socrates:
Like a child searching for Waldo?
Theaetetus:
Yes! Precisely!
Socrates:
And when the child finds him?
Theaetetus:
They are satisfied. They point and say, “There he is.”
Socrates:
But is the child now changed? Have they crossed a threshold?
Theaetetus:
Well, no. But they have found what they were looking for.
Socrates:
So they have had their eyes pleased, but not their soul stirred?
Theaetetus:
Socrates, must the soul always be stirred?
Socrates:
Only if one wishes to become more than a finder of hats.
Theaetetus:
You are making fun of me.
Socrates:
Never. I am simply wondering—if mystery is a place where one becomes uncertain, then what is it when you make it a spot to be located?
Theaetetus:
A game?
Socrates:
A distraction.
Theaetetus:
But isn’t there joy in that?
Socrates:
Certainly. As there is joy in pastry. But is pastry wisdom?
Theaetetus:
No.
Socrates:
Then if one wishes to be changed by mystery, should they not enter it, rather than point at it?
Theaetetus:
I suppose so.
Socrates:
And is one changed by pointing?
Theaetetus:
No, Socrates.
Socrates:
Then beware, Theaetetus, the mystery that can be pointed at.
It is likely a costume.
Or worse—a prize.
Socrates, Theaetetus, and Diogenes
ReplyDeleteThe Where’s Wallification of Mystery (Extended Dialogue)
Setting: The marketplace in Athens. A small crowd has gathered.
Socrates is mid-philosophical probing. Theaetetus is flustered but game.
Diogenes is nearby, peeling something unripe with his teeth.
Socrates:
Then we agree: the mystery that can be pointed at is no mystery at all?
Theaetetus:
Yes, Socrates. I suppose mystery must be lived through.
Socrates:
And what then shall we say of those who believe mystery is something to be spotted?
Diogenes (spitting out a peel):
We shall say they have good eyesight and bad instincts.
Socrates (turning):
Ah, Diogenes. You arrive like a paradox.
Diogenes:
And you sit like a question mark with legs.
What’s this one blathering about?
Theaetetus:
I said mystery is something hidden. Like Waldo in the children’s scrolls.
Diogenes:
Ah, yes. Waldo. The striped oracle of the cowards.
Find him once and they call you clever.
Find him twice and they sell you the next book.
Socrates:
So you disapprove of the mystery made findable?
Diogenes:
I disapprove of mystery that doesn’t bite.
If you can hold it still, it’s either dead or tamed.
Theaetetus:
But isn’t there joy in the finding?
Diogenes:
There’s joy in chasing a chicken, too.
That doesn’t make it philosophy.
Socrates:
Then what would you call true mystery?
Diogenes (standing):
The kind you sleep beside.
The kind you piss in front of, and it doesn’t flinch.
The kind that won’t let you look away, even after you stop understanding it.
Theaetetus:
That sounds terrifying.
Diogenes:
Then it’s probably real.
Socrates (smiling faintly):
It seems, Theaetetus, that we have wandered from the picture books into the wilderness.
Theaetetus (quietly):
I think I brought the wrong shoes.
Diogenes:
Good.
Take them off.
Mystery walks barefoot.
The Where’s Wallification of Mystery
ReplyDelete(or: how to make the sacred unbearably findable)
this is what happens
when mystery—deep, mythic, lived mystery—
gets turned into something that can be located
but not entered.
like in a Where’s Waldo book.
you take something vast and unknowable,
like divine presence, liminal truth, identity in flux—
and instead of letting people get lost in it,
you hide it in a crowd of noise and say:
“there it is.
you found it.
mystery solved.”
—
you’ve wallified the mystery.
made it visual.
static.
turnable.
an easter egg in an overstimmed landscape.
no longer a place to become undone in—
just a thing to spot and check off.
—
the problem isn’t that people want to find something.
it’s that they’re being told
that’s all it is.
the mystery is now just a location.
not a system.
not a door.
not a danger.
it’s been domesticated.
pasted onto a page and surrounded by distractions
so if you look hard enough,
you’ll think you’ve done the work.
but you haven’t stepped through anything.
you’ve just circled the perimeter
and found the wizard’s hat.
—
this logic shows up when:
trauma is turned into aesthetics
(“spot the sad girl. she’s the one with the poetry filter.”)
god becomes a scavenger hunt
(“look, i saw the sign. i took the photo. mystery confirmed.”)
gender becomes performance instead of emergence
(“if i wear the right markers, maybe they’ll see me. maybe i’ll see me.”)
intimacy becomes a test of recognition
(“do you see the real me hidden in the noise?”)
—
the damage:
when the mystery is reduced to a sighting,
you lose the becoming.
you lose the instability.
you lose the right to be ruined by it.
you only get to point.
not to change.
you get recognition.
not initiation.
—
you were supposed to step into the fog.
not find the red-and-white striped jacket
and feel proud of yourself for spotting it
without ever getting lost.
—
you can’t spot mystery.
you have to be swallowed by it.
or you’re just flipping pages.
and calling that faith.
or knowing.
or love.