Does Beauty have syntax and semantics?

       Meaning: does it have a set of structural rules?

       And do those rules translate into meanings?

       As of current knowledge, Beauty is circumstantially accidental. Just as two awfully unattractive parents make that one child that somehow grows up to be gorgeous while, mind you, every other of their progeny are simply hideous copies of their own physiognomy. One says thus that Beauty simply happens, no cause, no reason, and most crucially no way to plan nor construct it! 

       In this, please forgo what they teach at the Universities and Symposiums. I speak not of tricks such as complementary chords of music or color theories of paint or pleasing, smart ways to write without too much length to each sentence or many cliche adjectives, proper grammar, etcetera, nor the spatial expertise by which a bolshoi maestro choreographs his dance scenes. To be fair, all those methods that teachers teach in vaunted seminaries of learning to enable the pupils to arrive at a “product” that will be “pleasing” and “will sell”, they are all worthy. I do believe that for civilization to continue, we do need “products” that will “sell”! I have nothing against the ordinary “business of beauty”. But for this exercise, allow me to dig deeper than the mere processes of getting close to beautiful, which is what the teachers teach in schools and by which “artists” make a “living”.

       I ask: but is there a (unifying) language of beauty? The alphabets (or the numerals), the feeling of the sounds (or values), the absolute meaning (or mathematical certainty) to the syllogism (or enthymeme) and therefore, if that language is applied critically, lovingly and accurately, one arrives at Beauty (or as close to that absolute, in any form, any format one chooses)? I know this task is likely Herculean (intentional cliche), but even before that you must be surely asking in the language of our times, wait, what the f— did he just ask? 

       Allow me to shed all my thoughts and reach straight down to my visceral killer self, the self that must hunt to survive, rip meat with my own teeth to be true to myself. I’ll let him speak for once. And thus sprach the Sven: b—-, what I’m trying to say is: is there some s—, some basic tools in f—— nature, all around us, everywhere, that any ho, pimp, junkie, loser or even a college professor can build beauty with, 100%, everytime, everyway? 

        Allow me then to continue in that ancient voice of these modern times:

       Yeah dog, there is! But here’s the catch, yo: that language, or whatever the f— you say it is, that language is different for each individual maker. Meaning you can real solid know your own b——g language, but don’t expect the next guy over to understand one s—-y word of what you are saying!

F—! for real?

True that! Unless…

Unless, you strip the beauty down to the basic, non-math, non-word, even no feeling level.

Which is?

Instinct!

Which is?

Take the mother-f—–g clothes off of that b—- a–!

Meaning?

Let her be buck naked! Like every woman in a dark room, nothing to hide, not a thing to guess. Her mystery is all there to know in the dark. There, no lady is ever less than grand! You feel me?

       That buck nakedness, absolute nudity of the thing itself is the only single alphabet of beauty! It is the syntax, the logic unto itself, all the numbers vortexing into one simple value, solution, proof. It is birth and death all in one, birthday, wedding and funeral together. Beethoven’s Fifth and Ninth and Schubert’s Ave Maria (in the middle of siphyllis!) and Caravaggio’s Judith and even that idiot Picasso’s Frugal meal. And Kipling’s If, Emily Dickinson’s # 712 and Frost’s Road not taken. 

       Nudity, no clothes, no hiding, see in the dark, is all there is. And that is the only universal word for Beauty! Absolutely Nothing (capital N) between what you made and who sees it, reads it, listens to, laughs, cries at it and dances to it! Even if they snivel, sneer, mock, curse at the thing you made (for such is the inescapable nature of man!), there should be no clothes, no diaphragm between those aspersions and your creation! This raw coitus in all feelings, whether in praise or in disdain, let this be the only guttural sound of beauty. And so if a man sees your work as a rose, let him go mad and dance as the dervish does, then take the flower to his beloved and kneel at her door forever, never return to his senses again. And if a woman is scarred by that same work, let her be impaled by that injury, so she may everlastingly enjoy the wound and never can she look at a rose again without thinking it is a (beautiful) thorn! 

       Now here comes the most dangerous part: To make something that clothes-less, the maker himself too must forgo all shame. He too must be buck naked in his work for all to behold. Without that the things he made shall never speak, they would not have that (naked) alphabet!

       And so: Taj Mahal is the highest nude!