Archive for October, 2013|Monthly archive page

Flying low

The saddest of all ironies is that we can teach a 12th century primitive to pilot a Boeing 787, but not for him not to execute his sister after she walks home alone.

 

 

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Insults!

Does it not occur to those Taliban who ordered the assassination of a 14 year old girl for having insulted Islam, that the greatest insult to Islam… is them!?

 

 

The Death of Immortality

 

If the Priory is where the Prior resides, is the Theory  where God resides?

Don’t disturb! Philosopher at work!

PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAY

Fairy Tales: A Narrow Escape!***

(Subtitled:       A Dereliction of Reason)

(unedited)

By

Anthony Steyning

“Modern art is what you can get away with,” Andy Warhol told us,  suggesting  ‘artistic’ works get approved not just by the few  acting out of  sometimes perplexing conviction, but  by all  those  who mindlessly tag along. And in this way the limit of the credible often reaches a breaking point, as if the word ‘travesty’  had become obsolete.

 

The same may be said of conventional philosophy and religion, man’s most venerated cerebral and spiritual enterprises. Unchallenged by multitudes thirsting for reverent fantasy and reassurance by way of meticulous  analysis and explanation, their proponents taking themselves as seriously as contemporary art’s high priests do.

 

But does something represent a truth, merely because  people no longer question it?

 

Antonin Artaud said it all when he wrote Pour en finir avec le jugement de dieu, asking us to stop this nonsense with our imaginary friend and the representatives of manicured dreams. For if man needed to create   myths or fairy tales to deal with his own mind and to step out beyond himself so he could look down upon himself and heal himself or give himself that extra bit of courage and strength in the face of mostly cruel and often endless setbacks, then for a time and despite almost immediate, built-in, mostly silly taboos, this was fine. But by beginning to believe his own embroidered fantasies, imposing them as if they were the truth, protecting them as precious property, he created the beginning of his own degradation. Because fable or myth is a series of pretty fibs and an elaborate lie however well meant, however well told, represents the seed of destruction that every grand falsehood carries within itself.

 

Similarly, what’s found at the opposite end of the scale is immoderate pride and satisfaction, as for its part formal western thought is built on the  contention, its point-de-départ, that if we’re not there, well, then nothing’s there. That our collective death would be the death of all meaningful life, in the same way that the human ‘forever’ arbitrarily starts at  birth, fast forward  from a fixed point on and so a ‘start’   apparently managed by us, when in fact beginning and end with or without us are  fused,  already and always ‘there’, everything not only cyclical but circular. (As Mark Twain astutely pointed out, he was dead for millions of years before he was born, and it didn’t bother him one bit…) A thinking again wholly directed by the fact that even if immediate life ends,  destiny goes on and is ours alone. Plus, that while it ought to be philosophy’s only function to remove all nonsense from the world, we  never ceased creating it: all that sweet bunk, those exquisite, near lyrical fictions and  learned conjectures of ours. I know, no Sein no  Zen, but notions like Heidegger’s Sein or Descartes’ Je pense, donc je suis, I think therefore I am, both essentially flawed as deprived  of our consciousness, our Sein, we don’t necessarily or immediately cease to ‘Be’. In Descartes’ case  the most that we could let him get away with: I think, therefore I am what or who I am (i.e. as opposed to others or  animals; better still what André Breton exhorted: I think, therefore I disturb!).

 

When re-reading so many hallowed texts then, consider the self-indulgent hokum often meriting some sort of stage direction saying: STOP! Here Mind Disappears Up Rectum! Because, one more time, after close scrutiny nearly all established conventions ultimately point in one single direction—they confirm our pre-eminence and successful continuity in the universe with a mind set far more interested in bunker consolidation and preservation than in keeping structures open to new thought. Man  still secretly  convinced  he’s  the measure of all that matters, that there’s some sort of finality to the scheme of things and this finality is him, when  most likely there’s not even a scheme and  the earth  not the center of anything, merely the third and most beautiful be it somewhat obese bauble  from the sun. For so called nothingness and the absence of human existence or awareness are not synonymous. Eons  simply episodes in which  nothingness arising from emptiness is not only a non sequitur but a non plus, though the answer to the question ‘What is is??’ admittedly remaining a tempting and elusive one. Or those ultimate ones of course ‘Where does the Universe itself come from? How is it there’s anything, Mr Higgs?’. Meantime the body of western thought  mainly having  to do with the mechanics of thinking and formation of action in thought, called will. Including indexation and the  supplying of comfort through carefully constructed metaphysical truths  no more real than  large collections of inane  wax figures in a morbid museum staring us in the face. Or something like Gustave Courbet’s The Origin of the World, a portrait equally grotesque and self-absorbed. And yet with ultimate intellectual perversion, some brazenly suggesting that we’re not here at all, that everything is an illusion. Even though, and after the onion soup, a bathroom door regrettably left ajar pretty well kills off this notion. For no  doubt this time, the mind stays undernourished and utterly useless without the senses, except to control our muscles,  enabling us to move. Goodbye  cognition without sensual perception, but, except in Plato’s Cave and in the form of   allegory, where are  the  dissertations that include references to our ears and  our eyes? Or  in subsequent philosophy and academically speaking     is the nose not glamerous enough? Yes, where are Kant’s nose or Hegel’s eyes and ears?

 

At any rate, it did and does always come down to the same and unfortunately remains the canard: I know, who else’s, but our  take on the world and beyond rules all because no tangible ‘outside’ condition exists showing us the contrary or tells us to buzz off.

 

My point then, with ultimate wisdom, can’t we shrugg it off, does there absolutely have to be a ‘take’? For has the foul, this sudden other whiff of reckless certainty and learned self-importance not become quite unbearable by now? Even dangerous in places? Doctors of Divinity and Philosophy at one point having to be dragged out of their own mind and returned  to earth, in order that    someone like their  proctologist    may get them over themselves? Or get  shocked into reality like I was by a quick but sobering look at my own skeleton, through a most revealing X-Ray. Reminding me of our total nakedness and all of us too often forgetting  that most of our convictions are linked to moments of  self-assurance,  timeless only in our head!  Yes, why not send the tenured and the ordained naked and alone into the Kalahari. While there,    re-igniting their curiosity, noticing     an animal’s  hide or plumage perfectly assimilating  the colours of surroundings by  optical, mimetic,  non-tactile transfer. And I’m not talking about the mechanics of it all, other than to say this is not osmosis,  that somewhere along the line a different, invisible perception/awareness  between  the animate and the inert including a primal recognition factor  must have occurred. Colours and fake shadows turning  into stunning camouflages enough  to     forget old parchments and   dead idioms for a while. In general, seeing how in this light our  sublime theories and notions continue to hold, for are they, nay, most of us, not all too soon very comfortable,  self-immersed  armchair champions, mired deeply in our own abstractions instead of realising that our only real possession may be… passionate individual joy!

 

Ah, yes, I  can see it now! Those purple socks in  burning sand but  some passing elephant   shouting ‘Man, how can he breathe through that ridiculous little thing?!’ Or if he were an uncovered she, some roaming camel roaring ‘Hey Joe, check out those puny humps!’. Though before you know it, and after having cleansed him or herself of all jaded assumption, our  near nude and  two-legged walker      starting all over again. Amid apparent desolation likely finding a tall monolith,  sitting down on it and  coming up with  brand new dreams or extravagant explanations, the way, ostensibly,  old Simon of the Desert   did. But why? For the salient question   is not how or why life, but  why the question? With everyone always asking what is the purpose of man, but unless you’re someone like Kafka, nobody  asking what is the purpose of elephants. Still unable as most are, to accept that, yes, we’re small elephants with perhaps the only sad real difference between us that we   question, and they can’t. Yet when standing before a masterpiece, do we ask Why? For is the beauty or  ingenuity of it not the message, evident? Secret and answer, not intertwined? So then when it comes to life, Why the Why?!. And  those  obsessed with the question,   are they in a certain way not already dead…?!

 

It’s a fact, there has been only one animal ever to tame itself, getting uncaged  and   caging knowledge instead. But this animal, becoming known as man, dumb jumper become ringmaster, spoiled it  all by trying to place  the entire universe on his minuscule shoulders, unable to  accept that in the end awareness changes  very little! In the process accumulating and piling up real  but also false wisdom to  towering heights while learning to preserve it and permanently pass it on. For contrary to frivolous lore it’s not prostitution, but philosophy that’s our oldest profession, though certainly not as well paid. And significant the day he discovered he could even invent ‘knowledge’, and nothing would strike him down. I’m speaking here not of original sin, but of the original lie. Yes, in classical Greek the word philosophy  meaning “love of knowledge”, but isn’t it a fact we loved it so much that we started manufacturing it? Simultaneously mystifying and sanctifying it as time went by? Received wisdom beefed up more than anything to  cater to something deep inside our human psyche, namely our extraordinary vanity, our unquenchable thirst for survival, our need for order, but mostly our dual addiction to certainty and the still  deeper emotional need to feel wanted? Knowledge manipulated the way a child closes its eyes pretending it’s no longer there, or  makes believe it lives in a world with which it feels more comfortable? The formal study of which  the pious investigation of old innuendo,  half truth and fantastic conjecture,   with all recent doubt  quashed practically before these studies are undertaken in places where anything new, gets barred? In other words an excellent variation on the theme No Sex Please, We’re British: Nothing Inconclusive Please, We’re Humans! A set of circumstances and states of mind leading directly to official fantasy,  dogma, and the sometimes terrible powers of  suggestion.   

 

 

What mastery! What  control! King of the hill, top of the heap, are we? Yes Sir! But perhaps more like a fantasizing ostrich sticking its head and neck deep into the sand proclaiming it’s Sovereign of the savannah,  forgetting its feathered arse sticks out and  subject to laughter or savage attack. Plus speaking of darkness, unlike the momentary closed eyes of that child, a child eventually  snapping out of it, what if we had all been born moles, subterranians, eyeless, yet with the same ingenuity? How would ‘knowledge’ have evolved? For there is no molecular reason there cannot be intelligent life without the same, old   exterior reference points. And would we then have ‘imagined’ light, days, mountains, oceans, still have invented our gods, our Virgins, God, heaven, the heavens, never even having seen daybreak, seen a bloody thing but darkness? Or  no eyes, no skies, and so no pies….? At any rate, for those deriding this playful notion, perhaps they should be more generous. It’s doing what   they’ve been doing  for centuries, and that is… labouring under assumptions a lot. With the huge difference that they always first accepted the prevailing Status Quo  as definite and immutable, the kind of  mental immobility that has made man  become earth’s mostly disastrous tenant, eyes always firmly fixed on most convenient appearances,  brains when possible   suspended as opposed to the child’s mind meandering in a small, dreamy playroom, hiding  sweet, new  worlds. (Don’t touch that sky, Grrrrr!, Don’t touch that theory, it’s sacred, IT’S  OURS..!!)    

 

 

Let’s face it,  to a blind man all the world goes naked. Affirming that human perception and intelligence are pretty circumstantial and by definition  conditional. And what about  wisdom, knowledge’s incidental step-child, isn’t it also bewilderingly relative, particularly in the additional light of everything written in and around us having been so blatantly self-rigged? Oh dear, does this a sinner make, the refusal to be that submissive, ever following, ignorant Agnus Dei? (Thou shalt not eat from the tree of knowledge: Genesis, to which it’s proper to respond Sapere Aude: Dare to Think.) Or a positivist and an irascible polemicist? A reductionist? An objectivist? A well-meaning, doubting relativist then? Well, no, no, no, no and no again because laborers in the sagacity, veneration or dignity trade measure learned nonsense against learned nonsense, and what is being attempted here is to remove beautiful irrelevance gently in its entirety from its august but withering plinth, placing it in the playroom, away from our addiction to predictable subjective, absolutist, deterministic thinking— the battle between reason and desire, between fact and fancy having been uneven far too long.

 

 

For hasn’t the time come to cease inventing certainties covering that arse? Because  one time I saw an exhibition of aquarelles produced by Down Syndrome children. They were the most unusual and unimaginably beautiful works of art that I have ever seen. Pointing towards a beguiling world all their own, not one beneath us, but one rivalling ours. And by  saying the body perishes and cleverly suggesting the spirit is immortal, where is this hidden world these children occupy to be found in religion and for that matter in philosophy? What happens when our chemicals suddenly settle into a different mixture, altering gods,   playing fields? Do established disciplines really have any idea what such a person  sees and feels,   presumably  no less real to him or her? And will their  ‘soul’  forever carry on this way? One that wouldn’t die? ‘Truth’ and ‘relevance’  only to be found in quantity, in volume, because fewer of these people    at stake? Yes, what and where is more real, decided upon by whom, especially when the choice is not between onion soup reality or illusion, but between reality that for one reason or another… is  multiple? Like with sophistry and its many respectable guises,  by implication presenting mostly soothing definitions, yet mostly suitable nonsense and not much more. Or mysticism,  escapism of the highest order,  though happilly mystics not murdering much. Alchemy and black magic then, treated with contempt these days, but not the rest of the hocus-pocus— collective rationality somehow stopping half way down-road, turning itself inside out, rolling itself into a ball before getting kicked anywhere it wishes to go. Reason turning surreal, or at least slipping into the skin of completely irrational notions with few noticing or volunteering to admit what’s going on.

 

Most of this evolving in the epoch between Euclid and Copernicus, when we were visited upon by a thousand years of darkness, a time of reason lost, when most of the damage was sustained,  the birth of insidious intellectual perversion. And  the reason  Greek and Roman thinkers  such astute theorists mainly because they were free-thinkers, unburdened by intellectual straight-jackets, checks and other dogmatic smoked mirrors, double curtains and traps or having to worry about Christmas  coming up. No geniuses these chaps, just healthy, free and well-adjusted debaters when after a millennium or more of monotheism all we have to show for  are murder, deceit, oppression and threats in massive attempts to corner fluid thought, coming up with proof upon proof that a matter is truth, when there’s no proof the proof is proof. (Bring on the pagan pantheists?) And even now this persisting twilight, these lingering fogs in so many quarters on this planet plus recent, truistical so called Intelligent Design nothing more than yet another determinant ‘truth’ job by people making sure    nothing interferes with their delusions. The elimination of which to them  akin to some sort of dismemberment, when strictly speaking we  can’t ‘know’   anything. A gnosis never to be ours for the simple reason that  truth is  enormous and elusive, can’t be  copied, caught, bought or contained. Can’t be  domesticated or tamed. Savage. Beautiful. Not for private use, not for anything. Delusion  making religion so addictive, even to a paleontologist and scientist like Teilhard de Chardin who despite millions of years of overwhelming natural evidence to the contrary managed to remain a Jesuit priest and thus a creationist,   for some apparently a way to  legitimize themselves. Manifesting  underpinnings of a near  sexual instinct, sex  so much more than physical, orgasmic, the blind drive of multiplication,     at a deeper level confirming, making man   feeling not just accepted, but wanted, needed. With religion, while itself not in need of man,  falsely I feel, seen to protect and thereby confirm   and so, identically to sex,    making  people  feel so very wanted. And then whoever is wanted: must be SAFE? Right? Sex and religion, both of them  strong and completely irrational sentiments, sharing an irrepressible desire for belonging, a lair for which many will kill if threatened by eviction. Or from where to prudishly divert  eyes from what’s really going on.

 

So that it is just as derisory for some to claim all is well, we’re needed and looked after on the basis of fairy tales, as it is a form of arrogance  to shut the doors of all mystery because it would pre-assume that we now know  everything there is to know. And none of which goes to say that centuries of mainly self-stroking musings have been a complete waste, far from it. They were extremely useful in making ethics systemic and having us understand the structures and mechanics of language and thought, never mind the hundreds of  immature conclusions that were arrived at: it was all part of our moral teething, of our growing up. Works, even though radiant considering the primitive times in which they were conceived, never to be taken as an end onto themselves. As is the case with Spinoza’s dozen or so formulae first ‘proving’ there is a single creator and telling us God is everything, then concluding that on the contrary, everything is God, but basically only turning his back on constructed religion. Or Kant’s three pure “irrefutable” proofs of God’s existence now, bar the obstinate believer, mainly making many shoulders getting shrugged. I mean, how can one come up with this and  still be called one of our first ‘modern’ rationalists. (Or as his old friend Johann B. growing up across the street in Königsberg already fondly told him: ‘Immanuel, you’re a real Kant!’). Just like Sartre defining freedom for us while being an unapologetic Stalinist, a more recent example of not only spurious but even corrupt reasoning. As with de Beauvoir, in 1939 proclaiming that all fear of Hitler was grossly exaggerated, on top of this duplicating her stunning  moral and political assessment when it came to Mao twenty years later. Let’s just call a spade a spade and brand some of it  pathetic practical intellectual posturing. So with modern language-based deconstruction theories which, pursued to their extreme, lead to a nasty case of… decomposition: intellectual figure skating all of it, with circles beautifully drawn, exquisite axles and soaring tripple toe loops, just about choking the bishop in mid-air and much coveted medals in the end, searching, searching maybe, but with absolutely no place to go. Beckett stumbling upon it, in Godot,  Lucky’s soliloquy to be precise, suggesting that massive words don’t constitute more life, deliver more meaning, deliver anything. On another level  also this simple analogy to ponder: recently Swiss aero-dynamic engineers ‘proved’ (that word again) that it’s quite impossible for our dear old bumble-bee… to fly! And what about all those notions of time? Besides the filling in of distance, isn’t time mostly the mental space in which we move? Isn’t our ontological ‘zeit’ immaterial in terms of the universe, given that in all our thinking the fatal inhibitor is our own ephemeral fire-fly status, that old three score and ten business, disqualifying us from dealing with issues of enormity, making much vaunted relativity theories so relative that strictly speaking they become null and void? Lost in the endless waters of space and motion, at least as far as physical man is concerned? And if you don’t agree, Prof Dr Heinz Zweidrei-Klean and Herr Dr Schneeweiss of the Max Planck Institute of Extra-terrestrial Physics have accepted to investigate my point, but indicate they’ll need 1.3 million ‘years’ to prove or disprove it. Yes, I jest, or do they? Because in biological terms aren’t we mere temporary syntheses? In cosmic terms somewhat ingenious, electro-chemical flames? Yes, man the flame, extension of a larger fire until he or it or both burn out? Oh, certainly life repeats itself, but never by leaving things exactly the way they were.   

Meaning that in the same way that we must deal with inherited credo much more knowingly, we must equally accept that there are limits to our importance and perception. That  images of groups of galaxies thrust together into clusters detected through light so far and slow in reaching us,  probably  happening 13 billion years ago, thus  no longer around in quite the same state, is in our terms  a bit  of an impractical, nay, futile show at which point   best to sit down, have a cold beer, relax and  pretend  that what we saw  was a squirt of mayonnaise on Hubble’s mirror telescope. That astonished as we are to find  an atom is in fact another pint-sized universe, or at least a solar system with whirling bodies of its own, and earth, for all we know, a proton in an atom in a molecule of some giant leg of lamb,  forcing us to stand back and reflect at levels we  never contemplated before. That the cosmos as a womb or a universe inside a universe inside a universe and so on are all distinct possibilities and our  ‘playing with and inside this space’,  though all too human,  not uninteresting and representative of our remarkable intellect, but   Big Bang or Unified String theories not having to become  obsessions in that there could be many space bangs and ripples, folds and strands beyond our mental range, imagination or sight, the unknowable dimensions. And that while not having to give up all exploration which is in our blood, man has to remain  much, much more philosophical   in the truest, purest sense of the word: above all no dogma or theory, por favor! For a single universe or megaverse of multiverses shrinking, twisting or expanding with black holes as mere maelstroms in huge  rivers and oceans of gravity or  the detection of the tides of space in general and figuring out what gravity really is, making all those stars and planets spin and spin (should this stop, would they cease to be round and  float away?): it’s all very well and entertaining, but what does it really matter when there’s every possibility the human species itself will have disappeared or   been eclipsed in say 20.000, 30.000 years in the way that strains of insects were found frozen in time and inside droplets of primordial amber? Man the new fossil, our collective umbilical cord  already stretched to roughly 200.000 years, isn’t it going to snap at one point? There being only so much genetic mileage to be extracted from the overly complex human mammal, plus given that as organised societies we’ve been around a scant 8000 ‘years’ (with our very limited perspective naively calling the first of these ‘ancient’, though happily one historian, when asked what influence the Roman Empire had exercised on modern western society, retorting that it was much too recent a situation for him to comment on!), yet not organised enough to suspend depletion of our planet when looking at its diseased oceans and forests, its festering coastlines? 

(Image provided by the magnificent young sculptor and sub aqua artist Jason  de Caires Taylor, see Jason Taylor )

Of course it can be argued that nothing disappears in thin air, the earth forever feeding on itself  in the way  that forests live on their own fallen leaves, branches and trunks, over the ages  creating our atmosphere and  a topsoil  that  covers otherwise inhospitable rock. Still, it seems we may be way too clever to survive, not a forest humanity, only one among those many branches, one becoming much too heavy for its own good, and ready to break perhaps. Or put differently: humanity one day  found hanging from its own family tree, done in by natural factors that   include… itself: Omphalos  lost.

 

And even miraculously starting another cycle on another planet blessed with vegetation probably representing only a stay of execution, seeing how we constantly foul our nest, some day  bequeathing eerie, ghostly piles of vine-covered rubble formerly known as New York, Cairo, Shanghai:  Angkor Wat on the Hudson, on the Nile, on the Yangtze. So that you can forget about walking your dog along the Milky Way or open a bar on Mars (Ah, yes, those Mars bars…), today everyone fighting over how it all began, biological evolution or creation, but no one asking how it’ll all end. Not apocalyptic claptrap this, only that at one point there’ll follow an organic scaling down, a drastic planetary housekeeping of Permian or Cretaceous proportion, and not because anyone says so but because of the way things work, the chemical seasons of all living matter, everything  chemical, the majestic but unequivocal seasons of being. That, mutatis mutandis, constant molecular processing and being processed  are the only way there can be delicious life and why even our dear Queen defecates or  the living human mouth at any given time contains more active bacteria than Mexico City has inhabitants. With this I mean let’s move away from sophisticated sentimentalism,  injecting some pragmatism and realism. For when two of among millions of galaxies collide, events taking tens of millions of ‘our’ years to culminate, how can Jesuits, Jews, Muslims, Sikhs and so many other gentlemen for instance, really, really believe this is all with them in mind? Deny that their extra-existential reveries and aspirations, their pursuit of certain dis-realities and dis-identities   not mere, contrived survival tools,  often awakening a taste for   domination? Or is it  all fear of ‘boire la mer’, man so overwhelmed by infinity and space that he must set boundaries, shores, respite, by way of  made-up answers as buoys… thinking he’s drowning before he fully tastes existence? Believing, swimming in other words. Much like an airplane pilot  connives an artificial horizon… so he won’t crash.

 

Either way, beliefs, customs, traditions and institutions, the eminent Dr Lévi-Strauss tells us, a by-product of a world that started without us and one day will end without us. So that for now let’s  at least accept that tectonic plates move and are still capable of making mountains come and go. That a small planetary wobble can make all mammals extinct including man, that volcanic ashes induced ice ages covering continents with hundreds of meters of unliveable deep frost are not a thing of the past, in short that life and terrain have not stopped evolving now that we’re here. That whale skulls and enormous jawbones have been found high, high up in the Peruvian desert and that lush northern Africa  turned into the burning Sahara    as recently as 15000 years ago and that none of this had  anything to do with human behaviour, activity, punishment or salvation. And so  that while it behoves us to clean up our act, greenhouse periods  also form part of cosmic seasons and any other scenario’s a fairy tale because we’re only that flame in the pan, that off-spring of light,  that spark  in boots, in trousers and skirts, that short wild dance in the universe, together with our bosom friends   the plants, insects and  those sometimes bizarre looking striped, spotted, hoofed, pawed, clawed, scaled, horned, finned or feathered cousins of ours. A ball too crazy, too magnificent to end until the fires die, only to  spring up elsewhere in that long, long night… probably with  entirely new creatures in attendance. We, that third force between volcanic and solar  action only until these very fires through core exhaustion and solidification or else some sort of collision decide to alter everything, and we’re asked to   quietly dematerialize. Adaptation by disappearance, as it’s called. And NONE of this  adequately  reflected in contemporary philosophical treatises and dissertations, still carefully looking the other way, still carefully building outmoded thought on outmoded thought only for academic purposes, meaning  completely adrift from reality,   devoid of common sense just like religious contemplation and manufacture anywhere and, at the same time, everywhere. As if the  word ‘new’ itself  anathema. Good grief, do some  hang on to that Messiah and Moses  lore, but what about the very Mount disappearing? Wouldn’t that change the story somewhat? And as for the rest of our thinkers, this has nothing to do with the quality of their reasoning,   but, over the centuries and even now, where out of some sort of obedience they  arbitrarily applied what is called premature  closure, likened by me to serious intellectual coitus interruptus! Held back by limits   set up by themselves, not going the distance, drawing lines in the sand where  none can be drawn, carefully constructing sometimes  admirable but nevertheless incomplete thought, dismissing that what is ultimately required  is not more thought… but more courage, a minimal degree of defiance. Some not even aware  they’re  wrapped in  intricately spun linguistic cocoons. Innately afraid. Of the potential beauty of limitlessness.

 

Because slow, essential change like this making all things tick, is assuming that somehow we’re above it all, not  part and parcel of it,  not a little silly or worse: the height of egregious ignorance? For what are those 20.000 or 30.000 man years anyway but a quick drop in the ocean of cosmic ‘matter/time/space’, organic or not, in a place where in human terms when all is said and done and except for brief but enormous and violent outbursts, nothing much takes place? Not inherently of course, but  because of our abysmally limited perspective, that severely curtailed and therefore insignificant presence. We, sadly, the universe’s ephemeral and totally immaterial witnesses? Making that even should we be the universe’s prize biological trophy, by implication  also representing its failure, unable as it is to sustain us beyond the fleeting and the contingent or for that matter prevent our very self-destruction? Human minds then, capable of spanning the ages but in an immediate, searing physical sense remaining brutally perishable; brilliant bubbles below hair and a hat,   electro-chemically animated yet  built  to  burst. Puff! Puff!  Pity! Next! Suivant!

 

No, with all due respect, what we as fire-flies ought  to do perhaps is turn A Brief History of Time into A Timely History of Briefs and String Theory into as many as Bach’s Air on a G-String melodies as possible: precisely the down to earth joy that’s missing from most ‘traditional’ thought, except perhaps for Socrates suggesting that a personal life in itself left unexamined to the fullest is not worth living: examined he said, not manufactured, not crafted, not fabricated, not devised, in complete denial of the natural world! Because putting it like Duke Ellington, And a One, and a Two and a One more Time, besides the real but perhaps impractical, however elegantly dreaming up the rest, is not the same. In fact it can be damned dishonest and either way, no longer acceptable. Like making up the news.

 

The significance then of most pioneering philosophers, those early Greeks, then Hume, Hegel, Rousseau, Schopenhauer, Wittgenstein et al, remaining mostly a historical one and after a close reading their thoughts to be affectionately put aside.  Especially Wittgenstein’s maintaining that the answer lies in language,  like getting obsessed with the arrow, but not with its destination or path. Or that there cannot be absolute truth as mathematics are unable to prove this. But it dawning on many that mathematics are imperfect and finite in their capacity to embrace all of reality for the simple reason that not all reality is  logical, but random and fluid at best,  a cameleon nearly impossible to define or trap. The Stoics coming closest to understanding what life here really has to offer, but  far too self-centred for a world by definition needing to be shared, even though they could once in a while  look over their shoulder and conclude that only a good man can be wise. Or Erasmus of Rotterdam, showing us how difficult it is to become and remain a humanist, while exposing many of man’s ugly faces in In Praise of Folly. A work so earnest it must have been close to heresy in its day, a hay-day of artificial truths. He an anti-philosopher really, who to his credit rejected silly, arid, punctilious rationale in favour of passion—a measured dose of sweet madness. Not bad for a fifteenth century chap, traveling on a mule, who didn’t take himself all that seriously but had trouble separating himself from the Church. Then again who hadn’t during the times Rome had a suffocating, totalitarian hold over every aspect of society? And then there was Nietzsche the nonconformist, first to totally break the mould, that hold of a priori divine presence over nearly all traditional western thinking, in the end spoiling things with incoherent, syphilitic twaddle, already losing the plot before getting hit by that horse in Turin. A philosopher who  only wanted  man to be strong, independent and free at the expense of no one;  a desire that I rather share. But somewhat  of a pessimistic, self-contradictory chap and as such an aphorist for all takers,  capable of fighting  good and evil  simultaneously. One tragically turning into Stuporman with no consistent line of thought, not quite saying that  profound, temporal joy unlike shallow hedonistic stuff is our only meaning,  perhaps because in his humourless personal life he hadn’t run into  much. A man detesting all religions for being utopian and playing up to our weakest instincts, yet not blushing to reinvent an ancient prophet for his postulations with the ridiculous, gospel structured Thus Spake Zarathustra, and  well on his way to be  his own God. An extremely lucid but hit-and-miss cannon then, with highly interesting yet disconcertingly dispersed shots, in the end  suggesting we not only learn to face the truth,  but   love it. As if we really, really had a choice. For  besides mostly abusive and abused fantasy, would the only remaining alternative not be mass suicide?

 

So that yes, these men and so many others having made an indisputable but transitory contribution to our development as speaking, feeling and reasoning beings, if anything by showing us how no longer to proceed. We, the blessed,   through enlightened, break-through scientific investigation (from Galileo and da Vinci through Newton, from Darwin through Planck, particle physics, paleo-anthropology, the double helix and modern evolutionary molecular/cellular biology at its deepest level, neutrino technology, the origin world of isotopes,  bosons, fermions and so on) able to assess by new means. Suddenly set free of cumbersome, preset pieties and begging to differ by placing mind over myth and matter over mind even when this means cutting our own species down to size. Regaining that natural sense of awe and joy we nearly lost through all that artificiality, all that learnedness, all those utterly contrived formulae and ‘revelations’. As for morals, it is clear by now that tolerance is entirely linked to developed intelligence, the lack of it, coarse stupidity, producing inequity and  unspeakable social cruelty. That religion is derived from morality, and not the other way round and the saddest irony of all, the spectacle of arrested thought having  man turn himself back into   an animal. That nature as such is unforgiving and amoral,  only man  potentially considerate for the simple reason that while it takes two to be decent, in the long run compassion  making such   eminent personal sense. In addition, that the purest and noblest among us  are precisely those whose generosity comes without held out reward or some ‘divine’ trade-off. The real saints, secular souls, unheralded, unpaid, remaining completely anonymous while others appropriate religion and go to Calcutta to elevate themselves as if there can be no goodness without the circus of incense.

 

Realistic, total re-self-assessment  thus becoming a distinct possibility as we no longer need to be governed by primitive impulses like the physical one-upmanship, territorialism, or awkward philosophical theory and religious doctrine that marked us for a millennium or more. In other words: in an immediate sense we’re free, free at last, but only if we want to be. No more beautiful bullshit that once saw us through, but also kept us down. No more dress-up, child-like exalted fantasy, no more deliberate mystery and obscuration. No more subjecting, horoscopic, all-fitting texts. For only this last century or so, while in possession of the hard, straightforward facts, the simple truth and a sense of proportion can we ordinary citizens stand back in large numbers and truly contemplate our common, limited yet quite fascinating destiny with unfettered appreciation.      

 

Q: Excuse me, could you tell me which one is the Christian heaven?

A: Ah, yes! Down there! Third one on the left!

 

We’ve been to space and found neither heaven nor hell. Even looking back at Earth seeing absolutely nothing, not even ourselves toasting on the beach—only a blessed, precious, blue heavenly body circling an amazing mass of light and warmth when seen from nearby, yet only a humiliatingly ridiculous dot when spotted from as little as 10 million miles away! So is this not the moment to accept the magnificence of life on its own unique terms for perhaps only the second time; first then, so innocently, in the very, very beginning, and again only of late? Without the intervening interference of sanctimony, of artificial despair, silly threats of damnation, the torments of a sulfurous hell, the fire, the brimstone of it, the deliberate perdition of it, places where even seraphs fear to tread? Without the feeble crutch of tailor-made eternity or sainthood and all its supporting ritual and dogma, without feeling that for us, here, there’s no grand role left to play, that we have lost our ‘other’ purpose, as if we ever really had one or for that matter….really need one!? Not as übermensch, superman, but simply as man. Man whose only greatness lies in his capacity to face and manage, if not completely influence, his own destiny. For haven’t we put far too much capital in the search of ‘meaning’ and even if there is some other, higher purpose at work, do we think it will reveal itself by our grovelling, by our writing sainted comic-strips, by our preemptive sucking up, our singing  those bloody, awful songs of praise that if I were God, would not only bore me to death but really piss me off? You see, for now we are our own meaning, isn’t that obvious? Besides, what happened to dignity? Do we know? Shouldn’t we?

 

Consider  if you will one Spanish thinker whose name escapes me, reasoning that as  they haven’t contacted us by itself    represents sufficient proof  that there’s intelligent life up there. Or another Spaniard, the mathematician Sampedro, postulating that a powerful metaphor is so much more useful than any mathematical equation,  as such this wise thing to say… Whereby dog-fighting or arguing over these specific notions  or not, true discovery rather than incessant inference or mere glib phrase-making needing to be the game. Remaining practical at all times instead of   incongruously  turning philosophy or  modern science into some religion, yet again. New, holy hierarchies accommodating classical power-seekers aided by the ususal suspects, their paladins, their acolytes, but also their zero worshippers and sycophants,  while bearing in mind that scientifically speaking man still is unable to  concoct a tiny capsule, from which,  under a hot lamp and pouring some water  over it, a beautiful rose or strawberry will grow.

 

It’s amazing to note that the crowds  knowing so much about philosophy and theology, know so little about being philosophical. That only   earnest enquiry and the inevitable victory of real knowledge over subjective pontification can lead us to victory over our lingering cowardice, testify in favour of our ultimate maturity, our final peace. And just as it is foolish to  cut down forward-going reasoning, the same applies to those  only daring to dream in name. For  friends, dreamers,  believers, why not entertain the notion that He struggles to keep it all together. That like most of us and with the  best of intentions, He miserably fails sometimes, with so few giving Him a  helping hand. That when all is said and done, He’s so Human... Rather  than that perfect but Inhuman God waiting to get us, a bit of a sadist to boot. I mean once you believe, can’t you believe anything you want, owners of  glorious devotion? Why then shackle yourselves, and when dreaming not  dream all the way… to guiltfree here-here-land?  Or  is this  too rational? And if you won’t be rational, will you at least be reasonable? Not practical, like that American  I read about, a matter-of-fact believer, praying year after year for the Lord to give him  a new bike and never receiving one,  concluding that stealing one  and asking for forgiveness  worked far, far better. Signifying that  bespoke dreaming is what we  get,   reveries on demand. And the philosophical and religious  lead-up to it only exposing comforting pettiness,   a tragic lack of humour and all too often the deep absence of  true understanding limited by what was decided upon  by long dead, equally restricted minds, today  only creating   jealously sought-after, fine-frozen academic jobs. All of this perpetuating the formation of idealogues and calculating fantasists,  looking for that bike,  not giving,  only taking, from beneath  pharasaic toga and robe. No not a real bike of course, and one won’t see them on  the Tube,  owning next to nothing, going no place in particular,  mainly because… they’re riding us!

 

In this light all guiding philosophy, like all guiding religion, sooner than later and slowly but gently,   to be put out to pasture, or even better into the realm of children’s morality fables where surely they belonged all along. Leaving us with only one broad formal philosophical and theological discipline, termed perhaps (Studies of) The History of Unfinished Human Thought. Or is it The Redundant Plea Contained In All Past Human Rumination And Reflection?! In his Library of Babel the  opposite of what Borges calls a detailed history of the future. Because we should  study, precisely so we don’t repeat… Something the comfortable clerks of philosophy and creed, adorers of the established, have been totally removed from. And what a terrible state of affairs, those  in charge of stimulating intellect, killing it. Going not only and exclusively deeper,  but in  solipsistic extremes getting ever denser,  darker.  Yes, INWARD! Always IN! Never OUT!  Towards splendid new light! And even if, as the saying goes, curiosity kills the cat,  the  rankling question Who killed any measure of curiosity itself? …. but them?!

Giambattista Vico, a XVIIth century Italian philosopher coming close to freeing himself, attacking the Church and also the reigning brain of his day, Descartes,  who pretended to be a supreme anthropocentric rationalist while thriving on ‘methodical doubt’, but somehow managed to remain a devout Catholic all his life (as Pascal already said of him: talk about triple contradictions, talk about confusion…), the Italian saying man had successfully faced three ages: the Age of Gods, the Age of Heroes and was now embarking on the Age of Man, with no further need for morale boosters. But Vico also talking himself out of a comfortable job by refusing to sit on a Faculty in ultimate denial of its members’… faculties, at the University of Naples in 1699, selling all his worldly belongings to prove his point and going on to starve to death for lack of income. But this now no longer needing to happen to men of utter intellectual integrity, and if some do feel trapped, why  magnificently insist on working only on the intricacies… of the trap? In order to show off, merely exhibiting corrupt, perverse cleverness? Like a lawyer not for a moment believing in a murderer’s innocence,  pleading it  only… so he can prove that he’s smarter than all  others, smarter even than the truth and  purely a matter of ambition!?

 

In addition, here, now, today, and in conclusion there are a handful of myths and faerie or fairy tales from which we needn’t escape, from which we needn’t be set free. We don’t have to deprive ourselves altogether of our fantasies. We only need to carefully remember how perverted political and religious romanticism have accounted for much abject cruelty and suffering, ignominiously producing millions of dead; belief systems and doctrines still thriving in too many places out there. These other fables then the happy exception: bereft of the inherent dishonesty of  all the rest. Differing from your run-of-the-mill, multi-striped scribbling and scripture in that they attempt to unmask ostensibly benign falsehoods, near hypnotic to so many, while neither creating nor perpetuating them. Alice in Wonderland’s adventures from the other side of the mirror in Through the Looking-Glass coming to mind (contrariwise, continued Tweedleedee, if it was so, it might be; and if it were so, it would be; but as it isn’t, it ain’t. That’s the logic.) or else The Emperor’s New Clothes, without forgetting Orwell’s farm of course. And what about toothless Tigger in Winnie-the-Pooh, isn’t he absitively, posolutely honester than most of us will ever be? With one superb quote remaining to end this brief exposé and somewhat personal tour d’horizon, not intended to offend but to set free the slaves,   even though    in their bewilderment and as a primitive response these’ll often attack anyone attempting to liberate them. How bizarre, slaves rising up wishing to remain slaves, but it happens moreoften than not.

 

This quote then from another one of these rare works, The Wizard of Oz, the old fool caught in the act of deception. Dorothy’s exclamation to be precise, on another farm, at the end of the tempest, after she awakes: 

“Auntie Em, Auntie Em!

     There’s no place like home!…   

There’s no place like home!”

That’s right, there is absolutely nothing wrong with home: our here and our now. Human existence not needing to be fraught with feelings of fear or a colossal sense of futility once official fairy tales have been exposed for what they are. Simply put, we must cut  out the crap for even if we’re not particularly significant, we’re NOT worthless. And at the risk of sounding like Peter Sellers as Chauncey the dim-witted gardener in Being There, I truly think it’s what Voltaire meant a couple or more centuries ago when he closed Candide with the open-ended Il faut cultiver notre jardin, urging us to value our delicious earthly garden, retrieve lost dignity and move on to living authentically.  Never missing a beat, a notion to which before him Epicurus and Montaigne certainly were no strangers, both moralists of the first order to whom pleasure remained essential. Lusty  moralists they, not moralist sybarites and already aware that we often observe and think from within a too self-assured, partially constructed, partially delivered comfort zone,  with few guessing what can happen to our house-of-cards moral balancing act,   capable of the overnight crashing into arbitrary ugliness. And that what we like to think of as free will, is in fact the response to so much by itself precarious feedback. So that overseeing this with much humility is the only key to  successful continuation. Not the fanciful attempt at spiritual  emigration, to some place  nowhere to be found.

Put differently again, all this representing the last and hopefully longest lasting phase of all. The First, at the dawn of ‘our’ days, one of light and innocence, the Second, one of fear and survival, the Third, one of fear and sustenance, the Fourth, one of fear, fantasy and order. The Fifth, one of power, fear, fantasy and enslavement, followed by the Sixth, one of self-induced darkness and the beginning of the struggle to free ourselves, then more recently the Seventh, one of drift into despair and a sense of the absurd as reflected in bleak XXth Century theatre and literature, but now, possibly, the time ripe to do away with all that fear, irrational fear, and more of it: there’s nothing to be afraid of, nothingness as such does not exist, therefore nothing is ‘absurd’ except perhaps wasting our stay on this heavenly body. And what’s nothing to some is every bit as magnificent as the small piece of art that man himself represents, except that this piece of art has attitude, cannot abide its own ultimate insignificance and seemingly mere decorative status, often remaining incapable of submission to the whole and as such nature’s only sad rebellion. Yes, sadness is man, rebellian is man, for despite that fleeting magnificence still perhaps the cosmos’ sole failure. Unless we cease to make it so;  majestic, heroic after all!

 

Now if only all would listen and stop defending their faith with distorted reasoning, as if a rational approach to the completely irrational suddenly establishes… fact. Instead of throwing those  archaic bombs in the name of indefensible nursery stuff, becoming a friend of hours. Because really, from any perspective, besides untimely death, man’s only persistent enemy is widespread incomprehension. And he doesn’t improve matters by not ‘farming’ himself more responsibly, by the fear induced abrogation of a good slice of his intellect and the delegation of his judgment, or, worse, his conscience. By denying himself a real joie de vivre in the face of the miracle of this life, by thinking that dignity’s putting on a uniform or a robe, by favouring myopic arrogance over  suitable humility and huge, elaborate lies over simple courageous truth: man the abdicator, the conformist, the  derelict, the great pretender with a frightening capacity to inflict pain and block out genuine thought. Don’t let him search for perverse solace, machinate purpose,  invent an existential alibi: living as such is never a crime and something which cannot easily be explained, not necessarily empty, or, again, absurd. And while Signore Vico called it the Third Age, why don’t we just call all of this Phase Eight, and see what happens?! If lived equitably it will cause fewer  societal convulsions and  even fight heartburn.

Unedited April, 2011 draft

Originated some time during 2002

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***Fairy Tales (Merriam-Webster Dictionary): A story in which improbable events lead to a happy ending. Hence the suggestion  of achieving a narrow escape from ‘improbable events’ or for that matter apocryphal endings, by inching back to something closer to probability but still rather good. Like  saving the life of a girl trapped in some unreal comedy. Snow White, stepping into our living room, wiping her brow, exclaiming, phew, finally got out of this goddamn fairy tale, may I come in?

Everything you’ve read here  has  been said or written before by people as far back as Democritus, Lucretius, Heraclitus, Diderot and Holbach, I later found out. This a summing up by an ordinary XXI Century citizen,  arriving at his own perspective without ‘formal’ indoctrination, pre-conconceived notions or pre-acquired certainties. Just common sense, absolutely no despair and a good pinch of ontological courage, although I have bad days too. Yes, cognition commotes,  it is not for the fainthearted, but priceless if one has  balls. The trick is not to waste time on  self-stroking Revelation, or  on being an  arrogant atheist, but insist on becoming a compassionate… Be-ist. Be-ists not  Beasts, the taming of ourselves our only victory,    our sole and distant glance at purely symbolic eternity! Become men modern, as Dylan Thomas put it, who do not go gentle into that good night! But rage, rage against the dying of the light….

 

Accompanying seminal prose poem

A FUNERAL FOR IMMORTALITY

(Subtitle:  The Lodes of Time)

There is no sweeter contingency

Yet consider the promise of endlessness and finding all things good, become all hell

So that the possibility of immortality’s own death sneaking up, to this deception we should not over-react,

cuddled as

we were

by her

only

when still in need of

nurture

Indeed, if immortality were a woman who had a certain way with us, holding herself out, making us go and go on, when otherwise and long ago we would have given up: yes, such is the power of suggestion and the degree to which our fears and at once the self-preservation behind our beliefs, do stimulate

The terrible power of fantasy,  as it is called

For as it turns out her generosity  always exactly mirrors our generosity towards ourselves

Now one day such a lady surely deserves a warm-hearted elegy, seeing how before our very eyes she suddenly  grew so very old, and cold. Or was it slowly, but nobody paid attention? The cause of death, since you ask, usually ignored in as formal an outpouring as an obituary, and futile bringing the matter up except perhaps for  those themselves blindly moribund. And having loads of time coming up with a suitable epitaph, there rarely existing need for impatience or thrusts of other sorts

For it is nearly impossible to write a well-reasoned prose poem on something that isn’t quite real, something like a real enough obituary or elegy for immortality and the reason lady-embodiment serves us well. For in defence of things it must be given a try as life only valued as a constant ‘raging against the dying of the light’ so often leads to the de facto denial of one. Like the stating, as so many do, that wisdom is ‘accepting life’s limitations’ and from there swiftly going on to suggest how terrific and infinite and un-‘limitated’ the next one is. Commencing the search for the holy grail of this immortality, even when there is not the faintest hope of finding it, the real, organic universe unable to function in this fashion. Or, as a friend of mine expresses it, immortality having no future at all

And which I only now  begin to understand

But let us return to the task of burying a lady: it is not easy celebrating someone who never was and could not be, someone comforting and fanciful, alive superbly in our desires, one we only recently and to our great shock learned no longer lives among us. Gone, defunct, dead and needing to be buried with great pomp, out of respect for what we perceived were her extraordinary accomplishments: dishing out limitless, beguiling reward as recompense for our own perceived victories and qualities. A spell-binding, an overly generous lady, deserving an elaborate grave, a solid grave, for she was uncommonly elusive and thought to be extremely tall, with all of us knowing her but none of us ever really seeing her, even though, incredibly, we would kill for her if we had to, chips down and seemingly in the service of some deep need

With an elegy or obituary that could say a lot or not so much, because she meant a lot or not so much, depending on to whom one spoke. In fact there could be more than one of each, the irony that she knew so many and survived such a long, long time in the minds of most. Longer, and get this, than all her admirers, adherents and good friends put together.  The Daily Telegraph probably celebrating her service to King and Country. The Times her estates. The Guardian her fellow man and Radio Four her forceful voice. And that is because we are all so very much inspired by anything or anyone confirming what we already stand for, making every attestation like it rich, because… in fact… our own

Though strangely, dead or simply disappeared, she keeps on popping up, sighted by those who can’t give up, wanting to have a fresh go at her. When the only thing the poor dear wanted was to be remembered, not be seduced again or in the other extreme driven to exhaustion. Or ridiculed by some, because that’s the way we are: sometimes good, sometimes nasty, just don’t push and as long as either way we bag   redemption. But seriously and swiftly removing tongue from cheek, is it not the premise of promise of such another life, the one after the one we know to be so short, precarious and cruel, the sole element of change that possibly makes sense? For what is the point of extending life, with one just as fraught with uncertainty? And therefore making the dreaming up of one that is neither, such a perfectly natural endeavour? Putting to good use the one faculty which makes us differ from all other living creatures: Need something you cannot have, thus badly want? Why, invent it!

Then buy it! And need itself then, so very facultative. And artificiality on the surface so very beneficiary. For it certainly seems to work in other parts of our existence, like matters economic: half the world living decently by the fabrication of products that are useless or invisible. Goods and services based on fear and contingency. On mere impression and suggestion, with them crazy or smart enough to provide the stuff and us daft enough to buy it. Yes, along broad lines it works, just like the Cold War. The economic catalyst without which we would all have been eating dirt and for decades fostering industry upon industry keeping us directly or indirectly in a job. Though nothing ever happened, no shots fired, only those empty, angry menaces and threats. And what did Yves Saint Laurent ever do for Joe Pizza? Sodomy and velvet hats? Just what everyman was pining for? Of course not, but let the poor designer be, you do get the point: he successfully employed thousands of us in hundreds of stores in a dozen countries, or more. But in the end, both Yves and the Cold War tired and went. Yet fatuous immortality, despite all funerals, ever so kept her allures

For on a further level it seems self-evident that there can be no life without death. So why then eliminate death? It is like trying to steal the horizon: it cannot be done and to begin with does not make sense. But by insisting on doing so, by trampling on others in the act, by being blind to every breath-taking landscape on our way, what are we achieving, anyway? To a growing number of us the secret lying in staying away from this sort of thing, by overcoming existential fears and silly ambition. Not craving immortality and reward the answer,  ignoring that innate vulnerability to incentives of the kind. For it may be that in this ignoring and the human dignity it engenders lie the only timelessness that matters. Additionally and as a by-product, a delightful element of discovery left to our children, a stretch of road truly their own, nothing handed down or for much longer. The case before. Yes, not having their existence cut and dried after the ignoring… no longer ignored

Is this not the very least that we can do, bequeathing them life’s magnificent sense of adventure, the one that we are busy claiming on the late side? Therefore, besides her obituary, the funeral for immortality, our lovely but somewhat sly and once ancient lady, should be an extremely joyous and even repetitive one. Itself an unending New Orleans jazz funeral with laughter and dance flowing through the streets of five continents. Listen! Listen to the sway of that music, slow drums rolling, brash brass and soft reeds blowing, all feet moving, all man’s skins aglow

What a way to live

as live we must,

within thin

lodes of time

the party

far from over

 

(Conceived just prior to Fairy Tales, the Essay)

(plus this)

Rage

Man should neither   live

like   mole afraid

of   darkness,

nor as   someone’s slave

‘ been   given

sight.

Only taming himself

by   feeding not stealing his other,

raging   at injustice

and at   day’s end,

any   held out

false

white

night

P.S: Unless man   learns how to alter orbits and spheres, he’ll  essentially remain meaningless, except to himself. So I’d be  impressed meeting someone who’s not a slow-burning chemical reaction, a walking bio-factory, and still says hello… Someone not taking in 3 times a day, excreting no waste, not having to breathe for a life. Someone equal to the Universe, not a slave to it, not a  bubble. Without a penis as  link, become a small roving planet. Yes, man the Planet, Planet Man, not even a Nietzschean Man God, a true phenomenon, not insignificant, not even Promethean, so much more than small Emperors  and little Popes…

 

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