Here and Now

Suddenly every sentence seems important. Urgent somehow. Those pre-linguistic sensory data are growing ripe for posterity: the pattern of the bricks on the facade of a library, the speed with which the mouse bit the bars of its cage, the curious body position of a dead cockroach reminding me of a picture of a swami or a yogi I had seen somewhere long ago, the trembling of a greeen oscilliscope tracing, the posture with which prince Myshkin sat in a third-class railroad car, the tear on my couch, the mandala drawn in preconscious stupor working on a recursive square-diamond-circle pattern, the peculiar inflections of a recovering brian injury victim (the curious fact that I mistyped "recovering" as "recoveting"--there's something to that). Why did I write this? Because in a world of generalities (Boyle's law, for example) we need a counterbalance, so we can go forth and make what sense there is to be made while never forgetting that the real question is whether or not to commit suicide right now. If you stick your mind in generalities, you might as well snuff yourself out of them: you won't be missed. But if you manage to pay attention to anything in your immediate vicinity, you draw yourself back in. It's a matter of keeping yourself here, and that level is phenomenological, not cosmological; phenomenological, not ecological or molecular or quantum; phenomenological, not moral or metaphysical or political; phenomenological, not intellectual or aesthetic or social; phenomenological, not hedonistic or sexually motivated. I'm not saying other things aren't important, but your drive to live comes from here (or wherever you are), not all these other supra- or superordinate structures. This is why we don't beat down people's realities. You're here; be here. Am I sounding like a motivational seminar? So what? It has to be said, otherwise there'll be a lot of talk about the "meaninglessness of modern" existence, which are part intellectual wankery and part failure to fucking pay attention. Try telling me that when you're hungry, or going through creative block, or nervous for an opening night of a play, playing an instrument, dropping acid. Whatever. I don't do all these things, but they give it some fucking meaning. But keep in mind nothing is consisitent and nothing lasts forever. All these things will pass away. Deal with it.

Consider: "The opposite of love is not hate, it's indifference. The opposite of art is not ugliness, it's indifference. The opposite of faith is not heresy, it's indifference. And the opposite of life is not death, it's indifference."