Zionism is racism, which is why so many Americans support it. American political consciousness has as its consensus a rainbow coalition of varieties of racism; and racism is a religious faith whose sacrament is money, whose mythology is real estate, and whose original sin is genocide.
Global warming climate change is the coming Great Flood for which we will ever be absent a Noah, because there is no True God to inspire a True Noah. God is dead because we are our own gods, who are dying in the rising tide of entropy seeping out as the lifeblood from the body of the True God we have murdered.
So many of those whose lives will be cut short, and whose dreams will be cut off, are innocent of the crime; but it is ever the privilege of wealth in its pyramid death cult to sacrifice abundances of young life on the altars of its mausoleums: glorious memories imagined that will only blow in the wind as dust in the not so distant unknown.
For some: ideas liberate the mind, and time offers promise. For others: ideology cages mind, and time is a sentence. Gratitude is the experience of Everlasting Life, and No soul immersed in gratitude is ever alone.
The warmth of sunlight on skin, the brush of cool breeze against the cheek, the ringing of birdsong through the trees, the blushing of day into night before the eyes, the slow cascade of wispy cloud down the mountain, the sparkle of moonlight in the brook, the density of quiet in the dark, are all the eternal caress and lullaby by the Mother, always sustaining a refuge of love, always welcoming home her lost children.
I stretched my legs and curled them under the blankets while the cat pressed his weight down into them, walking and coiling above. I ringed them into a bowl, a plush crater, and he settled his body pressing against them. And thus we slept through the late night dark into the bright of morning: connected in the eternal.
The struggle for life is real, but we misuse it. Wisdom is life lived in the calm of grateful awareness.
If I am moderate in my speech, it is ignored in favor of existing biases. If I am immoderate in my speech, it sparks thought which is met with denial and a hostile defense of ignorance, which is always threatened by any truth however moderated its appearance. So to be truthful to myself I must offend the delicate sensibilities of your falsity.
Socrates was insufferable, and was insufferably responded to. Plato was elegantly snobbish in playing Socrates without hazard. Shelley was Dionysian, but with his lordly airs could never be Euripidean; his Ionian reflection was Keats, that flowering of the sublime into the radiance above Wordsworthian mulch. Bukowski, that guttural Boudu, played at Diogenes without his wit or insight. Ginsberg, as frenzied Whitman, played Kerouac in the feminine; Kerouac played Ryokan as cool jazz Nietzsche; Ryokan was pure moonlight on the river; and Camus was the river of conscience into Melville’s sea of morality. Our taste in poets, for those that are true poets, reflects on our flaws not theirs. True poets are diamonds of imperfection forged out of the coal of humanity.
When Ozymandias is forgotten we will have let go and been enfolded.
“Indeed, I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just: that his justice cannot sleep forever.”
— Thomas Jefferson, unrepentant slaveowner, in 1781, 80 years later came the Civil War.
May 2021: In Sheikh Jarrah, East Jerusalem, Israeli mobs shielded by Israeli soldiers expropriate Palestinian homes: more living room for Greater Israel.
Israeli airplanes, unopposed, bomb Gaza 84 years after Guernica, retaliating for Palestine’s right to exist: infants, children, women, men die, civilians all: blown up, buried in the rubble of their homes, bleeding away in hospitals denied pandemic vaccines: all eyed hungrily by bulldozer blades eager to raze more living room for Greater Israel.
Triumphally does America’s largess to Zionism clear out another Western Expansion to echoes of Crazy Horse: “My lands are where my people lie buried”; raining hellfire on infidels to White Supremacy. USS Liberty continues to sink: the Associated Press Building is bombed; Americans, too, like Abraham of yore, must be willing to offer blood sacrifices on the altar of Biblical Glory: more living room for Greater Israel.
The Conquest continues because empty souls with blank hearts cling to tribal hate with loaded guns.
When will “God’s justice” rain down on us in retribution for our lush sponsorship of Zionist war crimes?
We have forgotten Nuremberg, and “never again,” only 76 years ago: so I tremble for my country.
SPACE: is filled with emptiness, everything else is a garnish.
TOTALITY: The unknown reality is of infinite depth; but consciousness has limits, which are unknown.
CONSCIOUSNESS: The most captivating image to human consciousness is the female form.
TIME: No matter how much you think you have, it is never enough. No matter how much you actually have, it will always be too little.
BOOKS: A good book captivates you, a great book changes you.
CAPITALISM: Capitalism is the ideology of parasites.
GLOBAL WARMING: Global Warming is the Universe’s way of telling us that making money is contrary to Nature.
WAR: War is a societally catastrophic theft by a group of criminals who compel two sets of victims to destroy each other. For decades I studied looking for the root causes of nuclear war, and then for war in all its forms: conventional, economic, genocidal, imperialistic, and now climate-destroying; and I have come to this: Lack of moral character expressed individually as selfishness through bigotry and greed, and organized socially as capitalism and exclusionary bureaucratic hierarchies for the defense of mediocrity.
PATRIARCHY: The religious strictures enforced as sacred traditions by men against sex and women are them fleeing from the recognition of their own simplistic bestial lusts and fearful insecurity in their manhood, before the nurturing face of love seen by all as female: the mother.
GOVERNMENT: It is always the rulers against the people, and so in defense it has to be the people against the rulers. What rulers everywhere fear most is the people united.
The first victory of political rebellion is to free yourself from the self censorship imposed by your fear of loss of approval by “authority.”
There will always be a new emergency to distract people from the institutionalized theft of life they are paying for.
The fact that charities exist shows that governments are failures, and moral character far too lacking all around.
Never underestimate the power of the Status Quo to protect itself from reform by tossing out members who have become liabilities.
I’m all for Socialism, I’d just hate having to do it with Americans.
Being a Republican in these United States today is to have an emotional attachment to sexist White Supremacy ignorance.
THEM: I only care about the effect of a person’s actions on other individuals and on society; I do not care how they choose to imagine their relationship to eternity.
People can’t be changed, they either evolve on their own, or they persist as they are to the death. The best you can do, for the rare few, is tell them the truth if they ask. I cannot change the world, I can only affect the people I interact with: rarely.
Going out among the people is the best way to lose any concern about human extinction.
The effort to lead a moral life in an immoral society causes much personal suffering, only partially relieved by gaining a righteous sense of self-respect.
The most pernicious idea in human history is: profits. The most important idea in human history is: gratitude.
Great star! What would your happiness be, if you had not those for whom you shine!
Behold! I am weary of my wisdom, like a bee that has gathered too much honey; I need hands outstretched to take it.
— Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), Thus Spoke Zarathustra, (1883-1885)
<> “As the bee takes the essence of a flower and flies away without destroying its beauty and perfume, so let the sage wander in this life.”
— The Dhammapada, 49 <>
Zarathustra answered: ‘I love mankind.’ ’Why’, said the saint, did I go into the forest and the desert? Was it not because I loved mankind all too much? Now I love God: mankind I do not love. Man is too imperfect a thing for me. Love of mankind would destroy me.’ Zarathustra answered: ‘What did I say of love? I am bringing mankind a gift.’ ‘Give them nothing,’ said the saint. ‘Rather take something off them and bear it with them — that will please them best; if only it be pleasing to you!
But when Zarathustra was alone, he spoke to his heart: ’Could it be possible! This old saint has not yet heard in his forest that God is dead!
I teach you the Superman. Man is something that should be overcome. What have you done to overcome him? All creatures hitherto have created something beyond themselves; and do you want to be the ebb of this great tide, and return to the animals rather than overcome man? What is the ape to men? A laughing-stock or a painful embarrassment. And just so shall man be to the Superman: a laughing-stock or a painful embarrassment. You have made your way from worm to man, and much in you is still worm. Once you were apes, and even now man is more of an ape than any ape. But he who is the wisest among you, he also is only a discord and hybrid of plant and of ghost. But do I bid you become ghosts or plants? Behold, I teach you the Superman. The Superman is the meaning of the earth. Let your will say: The Superman shall be the meaning of the earth! I entreat you, my brothers, remain true to the earth, and do not believe those who speak to you of superterrestrial hopes! They are poisoners, whether they know it or not. They are despisers of life, atrophying and self-poisoned men, of whom the earth is weary: so let them be gone! Once blasphemy against God was the greatest blasphemy, but God died, and thereupon these blasphemers died too. To blaspheme the earth is now the most dreadful offence, and to esteem the bowels of the Inscrutable more highly than the meaning of the earth. Once the soul looked contemptuously upon the body: and then this contempt was the supreme good — the soul wanted the body lean, monstrous, famished. So the soul thought to escape from the body and from the earth. Oh, this soul was itself lean, monstrous, and famished: and cruelty was the delight of this soul! But tell me, my brothers: What does your body say about your soul? Is your soul not poverty and dirt and a miserable ease? In truth, man is a polluted river. One must be a sea, to receive a polluted river and not be defiled. Behold, I teach you the Superman: he is this sea, in him your great contempt can go under. What is the greatest thing you can experience? It is the hour of the great contempt. The hour in which even your happiness grows loathsome to you, and your reason and your virtue also. The hour when you say: ‘What good is my happiness? It is poverty and dirt and a miserable ease. But my happiness should justify existence itself!’ The hour when you say: ‘What good is my reason? Does it long for knowledge as the lion for its food? It is poverty and dirt and a miserable ease!’ The hour when you say: ‘What good is my virtue? It has not yet driven me mad! How tired I am of my good and my evil! It is all poverty and dirt and a miserable ease!’ The hour when you say: ‘What good is my justice? I do not see that I am fire and hot coals. But the just man is fire and hot coals!’ The hour when you say: ‘What good is my pity? Is not pity the cross upon which he who loves man is nailed? But my pity is no crucifixion!’ Have you ever spoken thus? Have you ever cried thus? Ah, that I had heard you crying thus! It is not your sin, but your moderation that cries to heaven, your very meanness in sinning cries to heaven! Where is the lightning to lick you with its tongue? Where is the madness, with which you should be cleansed? Behold, I teach you the Superman: he is this lightning, he is this madness!
I love all those who are like heavy drops falling singly from the dark cloud that hangs over mankind: they prophesy the coming of the lightning and as prophets they perish. Behold, I am a prophet of the lightning and a heavy drop from the cloud: but this lightning is called Superman.
I will not be herdsman or gravedigger. I will not speak again to the people: I have spoken to a dead man for the last time.
His wisdom is: stay awake in order to sleep well. And truly, if life had no sense and I had to choose nonsense, this would be the most desirable nonsense for me, too.
There have always been many sickly people among those who invent fables and long for God: they have a raging hate for the enlightened man and for the youngest of virtues which is called honesty. They are always looking back to dark ages: then, indeed, illusion and faith were a different question; raving of the reason was likeness to God, and doubt was sin.
He whom the flames of jealousy surround at last turns his poisoned sting against himself, like a scorpion.
He who writes in blood and aphorisms does not want to be read, he wants to be learned by heart.
Untroubled, scornful, outrageous — that is how wisdom wants to be: she is a woman and never loves anyone but a warrior.
It is true we love life, not because we are used to living but because we are used to loving. There is always a certain madness in love, but also there is always a certain method in madness. And to me, too, who love life, it seems that butterflies and soap-bubbles, and whatever is like them among men, know most about happiness.
Learn that everyone finds the noble man an obstruction.
I do not exhort you to work but to battle. I do not exhort you to peace, but to victory. May your work be battle, may your peace be victory!
The state is the coldest of all cold monsters. Coldly it lies, too; and this lie creeps from its mouth: ‘I, the state, am the people.’
But the state lies in all languages of good and evil; and whatever it says, it lies — and whatever it has, it has stolen.
I call it the state where everyone, good and bad, is a poison-drinker: the state where everyone, good and bad, loses himself: the state where universal slow suicide is called — life.
A free life still remains for great souls. Truly, he who possesses little is so much the less possessed: praise be a moderate poverty!
The market-place is full of solemn buffoons — and the people boast of their great men! These are their heroes of the hour. But the hour presses them: so they press you. And from you too they require a Yes or a No. And woe to you if you want to set your chair between For and Against.
— Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), Thus Spoke Zarathustra, (1883-1885)
<> “The preference For or Against is the mind’s worst disease.”
— Jianzhi Sengcan, 3rd Zen Patriarch (496?-606) <>
Perhaps what he loves in you is the undimmed eye and the glance of eternity.
My impatient love overflows in torrents down towards morning and evening. My soul streams into the valleys out of silent mountains and storms of grief. I have desired and gazed into the distance too long. I have belonged to solitude too long: thus I have forgotten how to be silent. I have become nothing but speech and the tumbling of a brook from high rocks: I want to hurl my words down into the valleys. And let my stream of love plunge into impassible and pathless places! How should a stream not find its way to the sea at last! There is surely a lake in me, a secluded, self-sufficing lake; but my stream of love draws it down with it — to the sea! I go new ways, a new speech has come to me; like all creators, I have grown weary of old tongues. My spirit no longer wants to walk on worn-out soles.
The enlightened man calles himself: the animal with red cheeks. How did this happen to man? Is it not because he has had to be ashamed too often? Oh my friends! Thus speaks the enlightened man: ‘Shame, shame, shame — that is the history of man!’
— Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), Thus Spoke Zarathustra, (1883-1885)
<> “Man is the only animal that blushes. Or needs to.”
Mark Twain (1835-1910) <>
One has to speak with thunder and heavenly fireworks to feeble and dormant senses. But the voice of beauty speaks softly: it steals into only the most awakened souls.
For that man may be freed from the bonds of revenge: that is the bridge to my highest hope and a rainbow after protracted storms… Revenge rings in all their complaints, a malevolence is in all their praise, and to be a judge seems bliss to them. Thus, however, I advise you, my friends: Mistrust all in whom the urge to punish is strong!
Have you never seen a sail faring over the sea, rounded and swelling and shuddering before the impetuosity of the wind? Like a sail, shuddering before the impetuosity of the spirit, my wisdom fares over the sea — my untamed wisdom!
Beauty is unattainable to all violent wills.
You should aspire to the virtue of a pillar: the higher it rises, the fairer and more graceful it grows, but inwardly harder and able to bear more weight.
Alas, whither shall I climb now with my longing? I look out from every mountain for fatherlands and motherlands. But nowhere have I found a home; I am unsettled in every city and I depart from every gate. The men of the present, to whom my heart once drove me, are strange to me and a mockery; and I have been driven from fatherlands and motherlands. So now I love only my children’s land, the undiscovered land in the furthest sea: I bid my sails seek it and seek it. I will always make amends to my children for being the child of my fathers: and to all the future — for this present!
Where is innocence? Where there is will to begetting. And for me, he who wants to create beyond himself has the purest will.
Is wounded vanity not the mother of all tragedies? … I have found all vain people to be good actors: They act and desire that others shall want to watch them — all their spirit is in this desire. … He wants to learn belief in himself from you; he feeds upon your glances, he eats praise out of your hands. He believes even your lies when you lie favourably to him: for his heart sighs in its depths: What am I?
Now, as Zarathustra was climbing the mountain he recalled as he went the many lonely wanderings he had made from the time of his youth, and how many mountains and ridges and summits he had already climbed. … I am a wanderer and a mountain-climber (he said to his heart), I do not like the plains and it seems I cannot sit still for long. And whatever may come to me as fate and experience — a wandering and a mountain-climbing will be in it: in the final analysis one only experiences oneself. … In order to see much one must learn to look away from one-self — every mountain-climber needs this hardness.
Courage is the best destroyer: courage also destroys pity. Pity, however, is the deepest abyss: as deeply as man looks into life, so deeply does he look also into suffering.
For one love from the very heart only one’s child and one’s work.
To desire — that now means to me: to have lost myself.
Happiness runs after me. That is because I do not run after women. Happiness, however, is a woman.
We do not speak to one another, because we know too much: we are silent together, we smile our knowledge to one another.
Together we learned everything; together we learned to mount above ourselves to ourselves and to smile uncloudedly — to smile uncloudedly down from bright eyes and from miles away when under us compulsion and purpose and guilt stream like rain.
A little wisdom is no doubt possible; but I have found this happy certainty in all things: that they prefer — to dance on the feet of chance.
Never in my life have I crawled before the powerful; and if I ever lied, I lied from love.
For one person, solitude is the escape from an invalid; for another, solitude is escape from the invalids.
Once they fluttered around light and freedom like flies and young poets. A little older, a little colder: and already they are mystifiers and mutterers and stay-at-homes. … Alas! They are always few whose heart possesses a long-enduring courage and wantonness; and in such, the spirit, too, is patient. The remainder, however, are cowardly.
Loneliness is one thing, solitude another: you have learned that — now! And that among men you will always be wild and strange: wild and strange even when they love you: for above all they want to be indulged!
Man is difficult to discover, most of all to himself; the spirit often tells lies about the soul.
He who wants to learn to fly one day must first learn to stand and to walk and to run and to climb and to dance — you cannot learn to fly by flying!
Meanwhile I talk to myself, as one who has plenty of time. No one tells me anything new, so I tell myself to myself.
You shall love your children’s land: let this love be your new nobility — the undiscovered land of the furthest sea! I bid your sails seek it and seek it! You shall make amends to your children for being children of your fathers: thus you shall redeem all that is past!
Life is a fountain of delight: but all wells are poisoned for him from whom an aching stomach, the father of affliction, speaks.
To know: that is delight to the lion-willed!
There are many excellent inventions on earth, some useful, some pleasant: the earth is to be loved for their sake. And there are many things so well devised that they are like women’s breasts: at the same time useful and pleasant.
And let that wisdom be false to us that brought no laughter with it!
How sweet it is, that words and sounds of music exist; are words and music not rainbows and seeming bridges between things eternally separated?
With music does our love dance on many-coloured rainbows.
Everything goes, everything returns; the wheel of existence rolls for ever. Everything dies, everything blossoms anew; the year of existence runs on for ever. Everything breaks, everything is joined anew; the same house of existence builds itself for ever. Everything departs, everything meets again; the ring of existence is true to itself for ever. Existence begins in every instant; the ball There rolls around every Here. The middle is everywhere. The path of eternity is crooked.
For man is the cruellest animal. More than anything on earth he enjoys tragedies, bullfights, and crucifixions; and when he invented Hell for himself, behold, it was his heaven on earth.
For I count nothing more valuable and rare today than honesty.
He who cannot lie does not know what truth is.
It is what one takes into solitude that grows there, the beast within included.
Great love does not desire love — it desires more.
For fear — is the exception with us. Courage, however, and adventure and joy in the unknown. the unattempted — courage seems to me the whole pre-history of man.
For the sake of this day — I am content for the first time to have lived my whole life.
Alas! This world is deep!
Did you ever say Yes to one joy? O my friends, then you said Yes to all woe as well. All things are chained and entwined together, all things are in love; if ever you wanted one moment twice, if ever you said:’ You please me, happiness, instant, moment!’ then you wanted everything to return!
‘My suffering and my pity — what of them! For do I aspire after happiness? I aspire after my work!’
— Friedrich Nietzsche (1844-1900), Thus Spoke Zarathustra, (1883-1885)
[from the R. J. Hollingdale translation]
On Reading THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA
THUS SPOKE ZARATHUSTRA, by FRIEDRICH NIETZSCHE. I just finished reading R. J. Hollingdale’s English translation of this book; here is my immediate and short reaction: It is impossible to know the greatest joy unless you have also lived through the deepest and most tragic of sorrows: joy is inextricably entwined with sorrow. Question: What one experience in your life can you say of: “For the sake of this day — I am content for the first time to have lived my whole life.”? I can think of a very few in my life (and you don’t have to reveal yours here). Life must be lived with full intent and enthusiasm, despite all the joys and sorrows it will heap upon you, otherwise we have wasted a unique, precious and miraculous gift. THAT joyful intent for living life to your fullest is your SUPERMAN power! Do I recommend you read this book? “What does it matter!” My own experience of reading it is: “O Nietzsche! Reading your words is like gargling with gravel to sift out gold! I am sinking in my deepening dotage awash in memories of youthful debaucheries! Is this deserved punishment for my unintended cruelties and ignorant harshness, or rewarded grace for my clumsy kindnesses and stumbling harmlessness?” And there is gold in it, plenty, but one must dig, and pan and gargle through the muddy wash and sand and gravel of Nietzsche’s torrent, to extract it. At a minimum know this: whoever invokes Nietzsche to justify their own bigotries and cruelties is DEAD WRONG!
Bright sunlight falls through clear air with fresh coolness in the shadows touching skin with warmth as imperceptible eddies sway green leaves gently beneath a blue sky under which an unmeshing fragmenting spray of white wispiness skims over the hillcrests framing my canyon ringing with the songs of thrushes, the darting sparkling forays of twizzling hummingbirds, and the chirping calls of White-Throated swifts swooping all about to and fro from their attic-hidden nests through corridors of tree fronds with scattered emerging hints of drought yellowing, while Brown Creepers flutter by in their nervously butterfly-like dropping flight hops; and all is under the confident and commanding eyes of Red-Tailed Hawks, a pair, wheeling majestically so close overhead, their shadows whisking across the panorama arrayed to view, their tails glowing gold with translucent sun, their arcing wingtip feathers scribing crisp the moment flashed to eye onto the crystal of memory.
O Nietzsche! Reading your words is like gargling with gravel to sift out gold! I am sinking in my deepening dotage awash in memories of youthful debaucheries! Is this deserved punishment for my unintended cruelties and ignorant harshness, or rewarded grace for my clumsy kindnesses and stumbling harmlessness?
I marinate in memories of your presence, my fulsome love, flesh-instilled beyond the force of thought, punished by the absence of presence irredeemable by time, rewarded by the presence of absence of fading spirit, the scent and hunger and skin-feel of that lost eternity of your warm smiling gaze enfolding all. My candle flames melting the cold hardened wax of the past lofting its vaporous luminosity into the pitch blackness of all futures’s oblivion, a flare along the passage from the unknown to the forgotten. Stars are the luminous hot bubbles of light in the roiling cold boil of existence into nonexistence, time into timelessness, space into self-absorption, substance into void.
Smoke from extinct rainbows burnt in offerings by dead souls to imaginary gods lifts memories of lost oceans into night’s blackness to fall slowly rolling down from canyon rim hillcrests the cool mist diffusing space disappearing before penetrating earth’s thirsting embrace, submerging this island of forest in an ocean of quiet whose silence can be heard far past distant unseen horizons beyond which the sun is being reborn in the womb of eternity, as hummingbirds sit hunched on their perches snoring. The singing light of day again will wake me soon, for all I know.
Smelling burnt haze Morning sunlight Warming back Hot coffee aroma Steaming face Jays squawk Chickadees cheep Hummingbirds twizzle Pale light caresses Smooth barkskin, leaves Green fading to dull rusts Silence, mostly Police siren far far away Downwind stillness After deep night cold fog All our sins infected air Drying, burning, flooded away Nature claws back At our flawed caresses Sleepwalkers everyone Sad unseeing Paradise shrivel Staccato minds Illusions coiled Atomize As we all sink Beneath fantasy clouds Fragments floating on the sea Of a void, avoid What could be Voices calling out deafly Ears awash in echoes Falsely, drones Of inner emptiness Engulfed by ignorance Despite the richness Embracing us Cocooned in shells Of helpless absorption. The world collapses from our loss of soul.
The Coldness of Distant Burning
The morning’s hazy sunlight smells of burning From far off distance past last night’s cold deep fog
Coffee aroma steams waking in my face The spreading sunlight soaks warmth into my back
Jays squawk, Chickadees cheep, Hummingbirds twizzle Pale light caresses smooth eucalyptus bark And drying leaves that fade dull from greens to rusts
The silent air hints of sirens far away This downwind stillness infected by our sins
Of dying life, burning lands, flooding away As Nature claws repelling our failed caress
Sleepwalkers everyone sadly unseeing Paradise shrivel with their staccato minds
Illusions coiled so tightly we atomize To sink like stones under fantasy’s clouds
Our shattered world floats as fragements on the sea The once so certain is now a void of dreams
Unrealized castaways are droning still Engulfed by echoes from shallowness within
Despite nature’s richness embracing us all Cocooned in our shells of helpless absorption
While America closes its door-to-the-future to its youth, its aspiring hotshots smash their guitars onto the impervious consciousness of the video-streaming narcoleptic herd, furiously hammering away at the portals of hipness lusting for penetration into the voluptuous folds of affluence and renown they want so badly to deserve and which are only never-to-be-achieved potentialities in their feverish imaginations.
And so they “smash fascism” in virtual print while parading their righteous revolutionary irrelevance for all to see, if all those others bothered to look as a few pseudo-intellectual armchair hobos do to help survive their consumerist boredom.
We live in the age of the gimmick in a country unmoored from reality in a world floundering in its own waste. And so we focus on the sparkly trumpeted gimmick of the moment, the never-before-heard-of outrage of the week, the rush of today’s roulette wheel-spin to nail the mega-sale by phone or publication, and the eternal obsession to polish one’s pedestal in anticipation of the yearned-for coronation.
And through it all the great gear-train of Planetary Nature just keeps turning its awesome and for-us-eternal clockwork of evolution and extinction relentlessly drawing us ever deeper into the meshing of its teeth. Ah, what bright ephemeral monkeys we all are, like babies crawling in the aisles of a theater during a fabulous and majestic spectacle, oblivious to all but the glitter and sheen of the carpet threads reflecting the panorama on stage as the thundering music of the spheres unheard vibrates our crawling frames.
We are forever victims of neglect because we are endlessly neglectful, despite our hard-won omniscience by dismissal of the past left far below us by the rocketing elevation of our pedestals, now piercing through the stratospheric clouds of the tinnitus of our electronic babble-in-tongues of pleasure, pain, pander, pathos, patriotism, puffery, panic, perfidy and pontification. Like Simon-of-the-Desert we see it all from our olympian heights of self-delusion and we exalt in our earth-shaking powerlessness to alter the course of fate as the Spectacle of Man reflects blindingly in our eyes as ourselves first as tragedy and then as farce.
Whoo-ha! Praise the Gorgon and pass the amnesia!
…And I borrow from The Master whilst drifting back to the Blissful Isles where savage indignation no longer lacerates my heart…
by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
I met a traveller from an antique land,
Who said—“Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. . . . Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed;
And on the pedestal, these words appear:
My name is Ozymandias, King of Kings;
Look on my Works, ye Mighty, and despair!
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal Wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.”
They hate us because we remind them of what they fear most — dying — and so they torture us, withholding morphine to punish us for our dying, to deny us some final joy, and they call that morality, righteousness against the sin of addiction. But, I know what it really is, deep down, it is the pleasure of cruelty inflicted on the helpless by terrified weaklings. Our only vengeance is knowing that in time they too in all likelihood will suffer this if they are unfortunate enough to fall under the power of those now young whom they abuse by training, which they call religion, to carry on with the same dreary deadness of soul and emptiness of mind and spirit. So open the valve, then turn out the light and go home, and you will have fulfilled your humanity by letting me fulfill mine.