Tuesday, July 24, 2007

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."

3 Comments:

Anonymous Anonymous said...

this may be somewhat crude, but when you publish your first works, please email randomativity@yahoo.co.uk so i can read them!

E.

2:11 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

you haven't posted anything for a while..your anonymous readers are getting anxious.

4:12 AM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

obstructivelycynical.blogspot.com is very informative. The article is very professionally written. I enjoy reading obstructivelycynical.blogspot.com every day.
payday advance
canadian payday loans

5:23 PM  

Post a Comment

<< Home