Prolix

Go dance the light-beam; go play the accordion with a gypsy band; dance in the forest groves, by the fire, telling tales of great Mithras, the sun-phallus. Endure through the cricket-night of your loneliness, the whirr of machinery and the beaten-down fleshy stamping of meteors crashing to the Earth all around you, lighting up the sky like some on-fire spiderweb, the inferno and Holocaust of the flies, the sweat and rank male must of the wife-beaters of the trailer camp, the garishly decorated caravans of the theater troupe. It’s horrible, I know, but wait or sunrise! It’ll make you remember why you became a Nietzschean: to see the stirring colours, the omens in the mechanistic universe, the snake clutching a furry rodent, itself clutched by an eagle, which is itself adrift on currents beyond explanation and so immense they no longer have to justify themselves to anything that lives and exists; it no longer feels alive—we are all that feels alive. The currents weep for us! Except for the stars! Nothing justified to the stars: that ultimate senseless falling in! The furnaces all else does its fire-dance over: all else casts shadows of the original flame. All else; and, perhaps, in the end, this will be the meaning of Mithras—aphoristically, crushingly. Mithras the death by fire in meteor showers; the cowering moral belch on the streets of a small Ukrainian shtetl with nothing to guide us but dreams, the great cog that animates stuck deep inside each animal’s brain, lost at the moment of the meteor shower. I don’t know all the thoughts that led me to this; the world will crush my great thoughts—self-great. How other-great are they? Can I still systematically push the boundaries of my own language, my crib, my delimitation by centuries of praxis and refinement, the centuries when the death-dust piled on volumes of wet, breathing, pus-infested lore, the changeable, folkish, carnivalesque opponent of all hegemony. It was easier a hundred years ago. Back then we almost believed our words could span the streets and lights, and the grimy overall-stained lumpen masses. We thought our cocktail-straws could tap the bark of the archetypal great Deku Tree. Where are we now? We have millions of names for what could not be simpler, if only we bothered to look—within, inside, introspectively, unreliably, foolishly, mystically, crazily, hastily. If only we risk getting overwhelmed for the sake of theory. How much are we in love with our own theories?

Consider: "To know a person's religion we need not listen to his profession of faith but must find his brand of intolerance."

Olduvai

You are a kludge as much as I am—maybe more—maybe I can modify myself, and modify you. Maybe. I can’t tell from all the bubbling life below the surface. But I’ll keep you in mind. In sleepy mind; in mind sinking down to the fundament where figures and gestures long concealed are now walking down hallways, standing on hillsides, admiring thunderstorms, washing their eyelids in the rain. They are mapping inner landscapes with astrolabes and a pure-bred Epsilon semi-moron specialized in memorizing landscape with a minimum of interpretation—sure is cheaper than a 300 gig hard drive to serve the same purpose. He remembers the long hallways where the outstreaming fog-light of the Other, but thinks nothing of it; not like me: that still cuts to the quick. What did you give me, Other? Did you give me an image for the inner struggle? Did you remind me that perhaps the images are there all along? Did you find perspective for me? Did you take me for a semicircular walks around the Quantum Elephant of human experiences—the wellsprings of action? Or did you fill up an ill-developed part that was dragging everything else back? Did you engage me in soul searching (by which I mean a dialogue with your murky tumescent waters, your hills breathing with life actual and potential, lines streaming to the sky, to the sun, from the sun and to the moon, reflecting off cliffs and surfaces of dead lakes clear all the way down. Once I experienced sea slime; it repulsed me somewhat; is it like that all the way down)? Can I handle that? But what is I in this place, anyway? Promethian controllers are falling apart, and all illusions of unified agency are fragmenting? But what have we, then, if not that? We have the psychic unity of humanity: the kernel which does not admit of being split up, spilt upon, or debased in any way: it is not perfect or clean or holy or lit up with the original animating spark, though if you want to talk like that you are entitled, but you’ll end up too literal—but you can be a mystic. Anyway: it is a kernel of dirt, carrying all the crying and the terrors of primeval nights inconceivable, but also the triumphs of the cooking fires at Olduvai, the stone tools smashed into an opponent’s face, the pangs of cuckoldry, the insolent creeping bond of attachment, fear, disgust, laughter signalling “all’s clear!”, and myth. There was always myth. No obelisks here: just the march of the quivering meat wheel of generations growing and dying, watering the tree roots with primate meat. The ribs that point to the streaming source of the sun—but the sun has its own kernel, at once more alien but less mysterious. It’s funny: we the little blobs on the surface, the interface between this vast inner machinery and this ridiculous outer mechanism, this flux—we look to the flux for stability, because we know the causes within our causes are stranger than we can conceive.

Consider: "It is a contradiction in terms and ideas to call anything a revelation that comes to us at second hand..."