It takes time to distance far and low never in a recordable instance vast vast depths and unknown faces laughing at all the deaths like balloons full of air bang bang bang blows over there
space is deeper than we know it may be our instruments that only grow spinning wildly after incoming each one warps and shadows always becoming frozen in a jewel cannot move in time with the dancing duel
the horizon has breadth that we see as being between birth and death a hope for posterity tangible and fattened full of rotting verity being honest is unbecoming of a idea that doesn’t exist no matter all our fucking running
The mountains, the seas the sun and the moon, nothing changes so it seems, except everything changes now and forever, even the air that I breathe.
From this vantage many view points, I can live this day, day by day until my mountains are struck, torn down and ravaged my emotions run out and out further until I am new again.
The Lion has done his work, destruction and endings and entrails lie everywhere, all roots trace back into nothingness of meaning and source, of endless life’s lived in disinterest and dead senses, doomed to repeat.
Still emergence and appearance even silence is all, the widest and broadest view no contrast is too thick or too thin, and then out of the silence comes a song, a playful melody from long before sung by a dancing child, unencumbered and free.
The child plays and creates, building castles made of sand, dancing and falling the child builds anew until memory comes full circle and I know I’ve been here before, dancing in the eternal return of the same.
The sword that benefits from the pen is mightier. And vice versa. For the most part, history is a result of the pen benefiting from the sword. So that’s another myth (sacred cow) demolished.
A proper understanding (feeling) of chronology, it’s literal position in comprehension, is necessary in understanding all history, including your own. Especially your own. For modern day idols, see sacred cows. Every culture has them, especially post-god-is-dead cultures. In the west our pampered post-culture has the sacred cow of ‘guilt-free democracy’. Basically freedom-without-responsibility. We vote for them but we’re not responsible for them.
The search for Being, history foretells this, has lead to colonialism, slavery and the own goal of climate change. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot. Unfortunately we are stuck with the complete misreading of the runes of history. The so-called ‘last man’, bloated with the facts of history (all practical understanding) though without interpretation, walks around as though blind. Thus, climate change is a clear example of this blindness through misunderstanding: a correct reading of history would enable the understanding of how our use of resources changes the chemistry of our environment. Denile of this is still very active. Follow the money, follow the psychology of ‘progress and technology’, even science.
It’s very Heraclitian: science and technology, both take and give, but not necessarily in equal volume. Imbalance is our natural condition, just scratch the surface.
What next? Has this question even been conceived yet?
Nietzsche: ‘I fear we shall never be rid of God as long as we believe in grammar.’ Extrapolate…
2 The language of love, of beauty, of perfection, the language of the one, of God. We tell ourselves little myths every time we speak.
3 No two things are the same, indeed there is no ‘thing’. No straight line, anywhere. Grammar mythologizes origins, it is guilty of our consciousness and the first tool of repression used against our genuine emotions.
4 The free spirit unlearns life as it has been told to him previously. It gets to the point when language is of no more use in describing what is real as it can only point to a mythical past. What then?
5 What then? Understand that you have an overriding will to power, not a will of the appetites, these must be overcome by the higher will, not cause and effect, but your own quantum of will, your own quantum of power. Enact.
6 Free will is a myth of grammar, as is determinism. Freedom is only relative to your power, your whole being is defined by your higher will to gather power. It is of secondary nature that you will to live.
7 From Plato onward we ‘have a woeful history: man looks for a principal, from a standpoint of which he will be able to condemn man – he invents a world in order to slander and throw mud at this world: …he snatches..at nothing and construes this nothing as “God”.. Nietzsche.
8 …’the history of philosophy (truth) is a secret raging against the prerequisites of life, against the feeling of the value of life, against the championship of life. The philosophers have never hesitated to affirm a world provided it contradicted this world and supplied them with a handle with which to calumniate this world. Up to the present it has been the great school of slander.’ Nietzsche.
9 So, to know thyself means to be able to unlearn your past life and, essentially, to understand that man, as you are, is to be surpassed by the higher man who beautifully combines his animal nature with his hard won intellect that enables him to create authentically in his own history.
10 We must extrapolate the latter point even more….
11 …Mankind has no action, no endeavour, big or small, that doesn’t come down to: good or bad. Any subject, any movement. Everything is a moral question, especially logic and reason.
12 Because morality underpins all our actions, history itself is a morality tale. The vast corpus of morality is the expression of nay saying. The higher man, the free spirit is an example of yea saying. Transcend good and evil.
13 The more you say ‘yes’ the freer you are. Bob Marley sang, “no chains around my feet but I’m not free”: this is applicable to all peoples everywhere. Your historical culture weighs you down.
14 It is the philosopher’s disposition that he has a categorical imperative and nothing more.
1 Philosopher, definition: Lover of wisdom = love = beauty = art = creativity = truth.
2 Humans keep repeating the wrong history. Our existence is of a life of error and, therein, lies the possibility of our creative goal, our step beyond nihilism.
3 The free spirit knows how to deal with the nihilist foundation of being: by having joy in the countless opportunities of becoming.
4 Practically, what does this mean? It means the free spirit conjures up the strength (physical strength in that what you do moves you) to be his own artist in life. Takes joy in his own creations, is his history.
5 Such a creative life cannot have ressentiment because a truthful existence is full of tragedy, fateful tragedy. One must laugh in the face of tragedy, take strength from tragedy in the joyful Dionysiac orgy of creating out of the chaos of nihilistic being.
6 Great individuals have been before maybe they will be again..dare I think other cultures too?
To be a nihilist who wants to give value to the world.
2
The philosopher must become a child
3
The ‘blonde beast’ is actually the lion tearing away history so the child can play.
4
You are finite but your potential is infinite. This is our fate.
5
An infinite becoming is yours, ‘What was scattered gathers. What was gathered blows apart.’ Everything you do, now that the lion has finished, can be a new becoming.
What do I want? ……What do I want, really, really, want? ………. This must be one of the hardest questions one can ask themselves. If the question was less vague and more qualified where the various answers stood out before you and you were left with a reasonable choice then the question wouldn’t be so difficult. But we can all answer, to a certain degree, the questions with multiple choice answers.
When I was drunk, and I mean drunk all of the time, the answer to this question was quite easy: I wanted to be sober and with better sleep so as I could make the most of each day. I followed that with another answer: to be able to read and write more. I am now sober and have plenty of the day and am reading more and writing (not very well, I admit) more. Yet the question still nags at me. If I was writing better, even getting some recognition from it, would that answer the question? Possibly yes, but like the promised land, one doesn’t know until one gets there.
So, I’m stuck. What do I want?
Do I want to be happy? To be rich? To have lots of friends? To be free of pain, threats, anguish and anxiety? Do I want to be successful – whatever success is defined by?
Everyone wants the above. So that can’t be the answer to the question.
Maybe I should look at other people and ask the question of them, in my mind. I could use the people I met while I was in detox. Some people had families: I could imagine their answer to the question would be to get better and to be back with their family. What does this answer entail? It says that being in a loving family is what that person wants. So, as long as it doesn’t affect their being in a loving family, they could have any position in society and it wouldn’t be a priority. Eg: “Okay, I’m unemployed but I still have what I want because I have a loving partner and children.” Another person, who also has a loving wife, I met, was there for his bi-polar moods which he got because he took a substance to help him stop smoking. Clearly he wanted to stop smoking to such a degree that he risked his own life towards that aim. Now, he still has a loving wife but now he has an additional problem to add to his smoking. Other people had problems, not addiction problems, that wouldn’t go away (depression, bi-polar, traumatic events in their life) that they wanted to at least learn how to live with so they can have a certain “wellness” in their life. But, with this example we have someone who, like me before, wanted a particular issue dealt with which would still leave the question, What do I want? untouched.
So, what do I want?
At the moment I come to the conclusion that I must just keep on doing what I’m doing, like having regular hours, being active, reading and writing more, staying in touch with the few people I do have. Maybe it will come to me, maybe I have already answered the question.
A walk, a bridge over a motorway, jammed with cars, people hanging out of their window haranguing each other under the merciless sun. The explorer walks into a wooded area, another bridge over empty wasteland. Halfway across this bridge is a modern steel building adorned with a huge, garish Union Jack. A small outer building (more a wooded shed) is to the right of the larger building as the explorer sees it from the bridge. Two monks appear in rough brown robes walking towards the explorer calling out, “Do you like it?”, over and over again. The explorer gets nervous and retreats the way he came.
Another day with the explorer and he’s back on the third bridge, the two monks appear again, this time silent. A youth passes the explorer and steps off the bridge meeting the first monk who’s advancing towards him. The second monk is nowhere to be seen. The explorer hesitantly follows the monk and the youth some way behind. There is a missing step, or maybe its a hole, at the end of this bridge as though its a test of commitment and bravery.
The explorer is brave, he steps off the last bridge and hurries towards the youth and the monk. He is greeted but the explorer only recognises this through his mind alone. They walk and there is a large space that they either walk into or it opens up before their eyes, no one can be sure. They are on a platform, below them and growing beyond them is a vast circular expanse outlined with large desktops. The explorer can see people at the desks, not well defined but with loud colours not one the same. It looks like the colourful people are working on something but its hard to see what exactly. Nothing is well defined apart from the colours. There seems a shadow of objects on the desks, machine or other cannot be told. Suddenly out of the silence comes a heavy beat and a deep base noise. The beat is regular and it penetrates the explorer’s chest, the youth seems to be dancing.
A large carousel slides silently into view. The remaining monk motions us to the platform so we can take a seat. The youth jumps on, the explorer hesitates then with a nod, climbs into the chariot. It is noticeable that the beat and base slow and it is also noticeable that its origin is not electronic, maybe its a primal beat? The carousel swings smoothly around. We watch the people below moving but what for the explorer cannot tell. Eventually the carousel parks up against another platform equidistant from the departure platform. The explorer and the youth disembark and the music stops.
Two looks one thought: Is this some kind of game? The explorer and the youth do not even realise that they can communicate without talking, just a look will do. Before either of them could answer another vast expanse develops before them, very bright but not white. Slowly a wooden building appears as though it was walking, two monks, a man and a woman, naked, come out of the door beckoning towards the explorer and the youth. In a not before heard voice they say, “Do you like it?” over and over again until a plaque just above the door of the wooden building becomes legible, it says, Know Thyself and onward into infinity the letters reach.
The explorer and the youth walk into the building.
A man sits alone in the sand making a crevice with his arse that perfectly fitted the dimensions of his arse. Everything seems comfortable, the weather warm the sea calm and even his mind had serenity, a serenity caused by being alone, alone on a desert island.
This isolation could not last for much longer, a wave came like a sperm and deposited a bottle with paper in it. With finger and fore-finger he teased some paper from the bottle and read this:
“It came to me the other day as I was sitting listlessly frightened on my chair: what a waste yet again. It’s disconcerting, I’m thinking, existence feels impossible to me, absurd and at the same time natural. What else can I compare it to? What would non-existence be like? This way of thinking leads to death, I didn’t tell myself, instead I thought, romantically: existence = absurdity, therefore death = non-existence.
The only problem, I decided, was that nothing ever stays the same for me. I wasn’t happy with my equation and my face tingled with a new thought, what if death was absurd too? Soon I couldn’t stop the thoughts: Does anything ever exist? Does my life have to be absurd? Why does nothing ever stay the same? Does any of this matter if you wish to live a rational life?
Doubt convulsed all over me, I sat and swung my arms just so I knew they were there, but I couldn’t escape them even if I wanted to. I close my eyes and the image of me running away from my arms swam before me, the panic spreading over my face as I realised my arms were helping me to run. I open my eyes and feel my body before me. I wonder just where my body is, I can see it, feel it even, but where is it? I can never see myself properly.
I got out of my chair and walk over to the mirror, except I move as though in a dream. I stand and look at my reflection, it seemed three dimensional but it is still only an image. My mind raced, where am I? it asked. I wish I was someone else but the horror was that I would still have the same problem. I cannot locate myself and even though I am everything real and nothing unreal, I still don’t know who I am.
Am I just depressed?”
*
The man moved in the sand destroying the crevice and creating a jagged swish of lumpy sand where his arse was planted. “What is this shit?”, he said aloud being more than used to talking alone, to himself and his enormous beard. Wait, there’s more, he harrumphed.
“There are too many questions. It fatigues me and for the moment I can only sit and stare. How wonderful!
But nothing stays the same. I think again and I think about my inability to do anything. I am nothing! I feel the irony, I can’t think of nothing for long even though I am nothing. Everyday the prospect of doing things of going out into the world fills me with dread. When I awake in the morning , when I slowly awake in the afternoon, getting out of bed is so hard. I am comfortable in my bed, it is the one place where doing nothing is acceptable (no sex for me), my bed is shaped around me. Yet, I tell myself, I must do something.
My life, in retrospect is so compartmentalised. Year in year out I never stick to any plan of action, except that I will do nothing. I try to fill the void with attempts of doing. Maybe, I tell myself, I could join this or go there, even take up a hobby so I could meet other people. Then my mind turns to nothing and it’s all lost, again.
Ach! Idealistic bullshit, I lie to myself. I get a headache just thinking about it all.”
*
What a sad sounding fucker, the man chuckles to himself. Why does he feel alone when he’s surrounded by life and culture, streets and sounds? If only he knew. Then the man paused, thinking, will my latest catch be dry cured by now? He asked himself. He turned over the crumpled page and carried on reading.
“I was kicking through the dust and debris of my squalid bedsit and came across a blue journal. I dimly remember that one time I tried to write poetry. I felt sick on opening the pages.
Sitting around the house all day can be very very boring I didn’t mean to but I’ve become very very lazy.
I should get that old job back again I should try it would be good for me to work and move good for my health and well-being Get MOTIVATED!!!
What the fuck? This is shit, really embarrassing. How old was I when I did that? Trying to push it from my mind, it was only two years ago.
I fling the journal across the room, sit staring into space, arms dangling by my side. I try to think of nothing but all I can think about are the soul destroying jobs I’ve had in the past serving annoying people, people who look like ghouls scrambling and grabbing at stuff they don’t really need. And for what? So management and shareholders can make more money that they know not what to do with. Self-respect is synonymous with poverty. This is what nothing comes to.”
*
The man’s laughter slowly fades into the empty sea before him. ‘This kid’s really ill, he needs help,’ he says to himself. Getting up from the hot sand he retreats to his small shelter made from drift wood and other materials he scrambled from the island he was on. The fish he had caught were almost dry cured over the low fire he had made. Sitting down on a log he munched on a fish while turning the last page.
“Another day, same chair, same arms dangling. I see in the corner the blue journal I threw the other day and then just beside it I notice a bicycle, dusty and with flat tires hidden with an old sheet half covering it. I find a tire pump in a draw and pump up the tires, easily the most active I’ve been in ages. The sun shines outside, it’s summer.
I think of going for a ride. It’s a heavy thought as I go through all of the shit that might happen. Fuck it, I think I’m going to open the door.
Gently turning the handle the door slowly opens, the bike that was balanced on my arse slips to the floor with a louder noise than I expected. I flinch, swear and pick the bike up. There is no one in the hall so my embarrassment I hold alone. I awkwardly wheel the bike out while closing the door. I have my keys, I think, I think.
Suddenly a door two doors from mine opens with a flourish and a girl breezes out turning towards me. My heart races and sweat was forming on my forehead, I didn’t know where to look. She walks to me, I start to panic thinking what will I say if she talks to me? But she starts to veer to my left heading for the corridor that leads to the washing room. I take a deep breath, she smiles at me as she passes and my front bike wheel seems to have a life of it’s own as it volts forward and embeds itself between the girl’s moving legs, trapped.
I fluster, apologising, sorry, so sorry I’m saying but she just laughs with a light sweet laugh saying it’s ok, not to worry, as she carries on towards the washing room.
I, ashen faced, turn back into my room, throwing the bike to the floor and collapse into my chair, arms dangling. It starts to rain outside.”
*
The man on the island finishes the last of his fish and slowly rolls the paper back into it’s bottle. He gets up with thought in his face debating whether to try that fishing spot again, the sun was setting and there could be some lazy fish for the taking. Dropping the bottle into the sand by his nearly dead fire, enough embers left to rekindle it later, he walks off towards the blue ocean.
Kevin Nebula 