On Work and Labour.

Work is not labour.

Work is done with the awareness that it is a necessity for the given Cause. Art is greater than the artist; work is necessary to unify the two.
The worker does not take days off. The worker has become what he or she does. To rest from work is to die. The Artist must always perform Art to survive. The Scientific Method pervades all that the Scientist does. The poet must have an ear constantly open to the wind.

The laborer is strange to the worker, and vice versa.
The laborer is not in service to the Ideal but to one's self. The laborer works with the intent of finishing; she flees at the earliest opportunity.
All that she does feels to the outsider as though it were procrastination.
There is a restlessness to Escape the very environment as though the 'work' were not a ritual that absorbed one totally.
Yet what does one escape to?
The stifling routine of labour, a crime in the world of all Creative Innovation, persists into one's rest. One becomes a divided being with all the inconsistencies of a fractured, undeveloped personality. If consistency of internal character and inconsistency of external circumstance are the ingredients of a worthwhile Life, then Labour is a crime against one's own Humanity, and thereby all Humanity.

Work is intrinsically rewarding. The untold Joys of the Quest for which work is a vehicle are a measure of what one has done for Humanity.

Labour offers the false hope of some reward in the future. Labour does not adapt; it stagnates.

Work is a push into the Unknown. Labour is a perpetuation of the Known. Work does not look down upon others, but only passes judgement in self-defense. Labour condemns all that challenge its paradigm, enviously and jealously.

Work reforms. Labour conforms. Work cannot be hammered into a routine because the intrinsic Order of the Ideal lies beyond all control.
The zeal of the worker is his piety. It is a service to all humans who can be inspired by it.

How does one work for a living? Clearly, the Artist must become so open in every valve and cartridge -- every Atrium -- that when one Being becomes concealed to him another waits to enter into relationship. The professional artist's life must be a polyamorous love affair. Others will criticise him, yet even more (especially those who labour) will criticise the monogamous artist, wandering about on call for a break-through that like any emergency may occur at any time.

It is imperative that the Artist stand his ground. The guilt of unemployment, one knows in all private honesty, is nothing to the Shame of having fallen short of one's potential.

dm.A.A.

On Authenticity.

On Authenticity.

 

Just as, as Heidegger pointed out, one cannot have Truth without Untruth, Unconcealment without Concealment, or Rightness without Error, so it is and so it follows that one cannot have Authenticity without Fakeness. Any artistic act requires for it to be Art Contrivance (though not in the negative sense I had used that word previously). Any Act requires the filling of a Role, as does any game. If one is intent upon becoming a fixed entity, one will obsess over authenticity. One will ask one’s self, needlessly, “Am I REALLY being Real with my friends and family? With my world and with myself?” Yet the Absurdist will not bother to answer that question. One’s self is not a set of rigid values to be imposed upon others and to make others uncomfortable. Authenticity is not a noun but a verb: BEING authentic is the act of standing up for a value that is however ARTIFICIALLY chosen. Artifice is sometimes described as “that which is man-made”. So it is that all human action is “fake”, unless it is fanatical or nihilistic. How is one to retain the fluidity and playfulness of a child if one is fixed in place, unable to role-play and to experiment frivolously and spontaneously, without prior meditation, with the corcnucopia of personalities that are probably latent within one’s self? If Camus was right, and if Hope is illusory and Meaning unnecessary because the human condition is Absurd, then Authenticity must never be a solemn conviction except when it is in dynamic interdependence with Artifice. The mystery of one’s self can only be explored if one sheds the notion that the Self has been found; most often, what one clings to as the Self in such a crippling circumstance is no other, at root, than one of the earliest conditioned egos. One’s true Nature may never be permanently unveiled.

 

Dm.A.A.

Conclusion Regarding Certainty.

Certainty is not the result of an accurate assessment. On the contrary, it is a foregone conclusion and a driving motive that even surpasses the appeal of Reason and Mercy. The Will to Know, that primordial nostalgia for security or that craving for a comfort zone cradled from the World, can be so tempting a deluding agent that one can become fanatical about the most absurdly minute distinctions. In fact, one will usually only target those very absurd distinctions*, because those are the ones that one can seem to stake a claim on. One is tempted to the illusion of control.
It can be experienced in the absence of Reason and Passion: A crippling obsession. This would lead one to believe that the sensation of certainty rests in a different region of the brain than do the functions that produce Assuredness. That part of the brain may very well possess itself of some pretense to sovereignty.
Certainty is a  cognitive distortion.

dm.A.A.

* Yet, as I have pointed out, these are the distinctions which are most prone to the Sinking House.

On Why the Sinking House goes Unnoticed and its Relation to the Absurd.

As I have stated, it is not so much in large matters of import that we question ourselves, but in small matters. The more minute the stretch of time within which something occurs, the more difficult it is to be precise. I can say with some certainty what I did a few days ago, especially if not asked for or offered a specific date, yet when asked to account for the content of single second, I would be lost, for in that single second there are more Planck-seconds than there have been seconds in the entire history of the Universe. Only meticulous self-study in the process of the mind -- how it forms Truths, how it sheds Truths, the impetus for its reluctance to change despite the inevitability* of this change -- can produce the facts of Uncertainty; Common sense and pragmatism depend upon a leap of faith in spite of Uncertainty: An Absurd Protest.

* A parallel may be drawn between this dichtomy of Old-Mind-to-New-Mind and Camus' notion of a dynamic opposition between Rational Human and Irrational Universe.

dm.A.A.

On Instances of the Sinking House and Another Possible Explanation.

On Instances of the Sinking House and Another Possible Explanation.

 

The Sinking House Problem, as a theory, is corroborated in individual circumstances by the evidence of neurological science. In states of stress, especially when one is challenged with a threat to one’s views*, the Reasoning faculty, which is in essence the Ordering faculty, has been proven scientifically to shut down.

 

Heidegger was ahead of his time when he pointed out that we are only cast into the Void betwixt all Beings when we are in a state of Anxiety. To him, Anxiety was the fundamental human predicament, and it appears that, in Heidegger’s view, he believed, as Freud seemed to, that civilization was a mere veneer for the underlying, unreliable animal nature of the human predicament.

 

*Criticism may have such an ancient origin and so profound and widespread a use and abuse that it would reach deeply into the Unconscious with its primitive origins, touching upon the Survivalistic tendency that usurps all civilized judgment, including our leaps of faith in regards to the “structure of time” and, above all, the common sense view we take for granted (in conventional conversation) in regards to the continuity of our own minds and specifically our memories over time.

 

To the degree that one wishes to simulate a perfectly Certain microcosm in the snow-globe of one’s mind, to that degree subjective factors such as Memory have a God-like Authority. Yet in the very process of flexing this muscle for the sake of flexing it, beyond the perceived necessity of having done so, as though one were a gymnast of the mind, one finds, as does the gymnast, the limits of that muscle. The benefit to the gymnast of the exercise is that the muscle becomes sore, with luck and all the necessary safety precautions, in a controlled setting, as it were, and not by surprise in the use of these muscles in practical life.

 

Memories are servants, but like quantum particles they are fickle. No pedestal has an impenetrable fortitude in a post-modern world.

 

One logical explanation for the fallibility of memories is that memories themselves change over time, as do we their subjects. Were our minds themselves constant, we would lend them the authority of gods. Yet our minds themselves change, and so it seems that any Constant is merely a Temporary lapse in Perception and/or Reason: The result of a disconnect between the Mind and the Facts at Hand. Yet naturally this runs its course in time. No one is really ever hopelessly insane, because we never know in what fashion the mind will grow.

 

If Memory, as a function of Consciousness and of Lucid Reason, itself changes over time, then it is open to distortion and substitution. If it is our memory itself that motivates all sorts of neurotic behaviours, then it is quite sensible to presume that our success or failure in the execution of these neurotic behaviours would be indistinguishable from the “incontrovertible” presence of the original impetus.

This is why, as I have stated, the Sinking House is often constructed from the rotting matter of useless thoughts. Yet why do we persist in the absurdity of trying to construct a house from useless thoughts? Why do we entertain all manner of fruitless calculations and put on all sorts of superficial masks to act out more and more absurd acts?

It is because, as Nietzsche observed precisely, we cannot rid ourselves of the Bad Conscience without directing it at the very ideals that established it. Society in superficial culture imposes upon us all sorts of cognitive distortions by sheer force of habit. This is nothing for one to be ashamed of if one aims to change the culture or to live in accord with it, yet with lucidity and maybe some disgust. Some degree of madness is symptomatic of the civilized man who is active in society.

If, as Camus put it, Intelligence envelops and transcends Lucid Reason, then the sense of Uncertainty that comes about with the untangling of a web of neuroses is only to be seen as a symptom of health. This must be done in the privacy of one’s own mind. Intersubjectivity offers no reprieve from the Sinking House. The words we use with which to relate the most personal of our uncertainties fall short of touching upon that ineffable ground. We can only Describe to those who have shared the experience; we cannot Express to those who have not had it. This is the predicament of Directed Thinking; it can only depict the Non-directed process to those who have had the same Non-directed experience. It is quite likely that someone who has not had the experience that I have described and has not ventured into the issue of memory loss will only have a hint as to what I am talking about.

 

Dm.A.A.

On Intersubjectivity and the Sinking House.

In light of my conversation yesterday with ---, the notion of the Sinking House seemed absurd. Yet why should I have my insights cast into obscurity? I don't know if he bothered to remember every detail of the conversation. If he were to make the same investigations, would he attain the same results?

-------- always casts light upon this predicament, because of her memory-loss. No matter how much we may repeat a given experiment of thought, we can NEVER attain CERTAINTY that we had hit all the bases; we only endure in the repetitions until we attain a state of comfort, but no Certainty Construct remains within the mind to tell us "we did that"; it rests only in the heart, as a guess as to the fact that we do not delude ourselves.

Even if two people AGREE with some certainty that they discussed this or that, that's a leap of faith. One is tempted to remember things in the most convenient way, and birds of one feather share a common cultural view of convenience. Yet what actually occurs in each individual psyche will always be condemned to Mystery.

dm.A.A.

No Good Act Unpunished.

    Andrew called me on Sunday. He impressed upon me, in a tone weary but restless in its enthusiasm, that he had finally had a dream that neither Kresten nor I would be able to make any sense of. I accepted the challenge.
    In fact, that 'call' must have been a text. I do not recall. It evades me. I have a vague notion of a message from Andrew by text made the promise. We would not speak about it for about three days.
   
    It was a peculiar day at Joann Fabrics. Usually, I would maintain an amiable and calm demeanour that extended to my mindset. I had taken the 'Idealist' personality type to heart. I suppose that I had wanted to know what ENFJ felt like. That was at least how I rationalised it. Something pushed me into a state of anxiety that embarassed me. Before me stood a woman of middle-age. SHe was talking to her friend. Usually, I thought, I would tolerate the tone of adolescence with which they convdersed. Yet today, either by virtue of will or instinctdisguised as will, I felt myself becoming, as by choice, barely tolerably notieably -- publicly -- tense. The women must have felt that I was having a panic-attack or a nervous break-down on a lesser scale.
   
    When my lunch-break came, I went to visit Rosario pizza, across the street, for perhaps the last time.
    Years ago, Andrew, Kresten, and I had visited -- 'haunted' -- Rosaria Pizza.
    It was the first place we went when Andrew returned home for that summer.
    Being an ENFJ had apparently entailed an unprecedented generosity. Just before leaving the Joann building, I received a jocular request from Melissa, the young manager who smoked and had chameleon-like eyes. 'Be sure to get us all a slice,' had been something to the effect of her joke.
    She had not expected me to take her seriously. But I took her up on her offer. I had never done such a thing before.

    The owner had come to know me by now. I articulated my request to the white-hared, surly Asian man. We agreed that whoever had the next dinner shift would pick up the pizza when it was ready. That had turned out to be the peculiar, red-headed girl whose name escapes me. haley. She was matter-of-factly sarcastic and had taken 'a lot of drugs', apparently, a long time ago. Everyone was taken aback, if not even frightened a bit, not knowing what to say and embarassed.
    There had been one other young man working at Joann when I joined them months prior. Drew now worked at the neighbouring liquor store. He was a rampant stoner.
    About half the pizza remained within the box when it was time to go home for the day. I took the liberty, maybe reluctantly and not without approval, of taking the remains of the pizza home.
   
    It was just as we were exiting the building that Drew was also leaving the liquor store. I had never hung out with him before. I struck up a conversation with him, in my usual tone of self-deprecation and timidity before his reptilian, confident eyes. I had only hung out with him once before, when I happened to run into him at Rosaria, weeks if not months prior. Later that night, I had had a shift in my songwriting style. I had written and recorded my most mystical and impressive demo.
   
    I still retained vague and fanciful hopes that eventually Drew would drum for my 'band'. Whatever the reason, I decided to accompany Drew to his car. The others girls saw us as they were about to enter their own car. Drew exchanged tongue-in-cheek greetings with one or two of them before getting into the driver's seat. I said nothing.
    It had probably been that incident that prompted Haley to suspect that I was a stoner.
   
    I still had the pizza-box with me when Drew and I got out of the car, at night-time several minutes up the street, at the plaza.
    I had been naiive enough to take the box from the car. Naivete is just the other side of paranoia.
    We began to walk in the direction of the Carl's, Junior.

    Drew asked out of the side of his eyes why I was carrying the pizza.
    'I don't know. I guess I forgot that we could keep it in your car.'
    'Well, it's too late now,' he drawled jeeringly but sincerely. 'You'll just have to take it with you.' I suppose that it's how he made decisions.

    I will say little about what sitting across from Drew at Carl's, Jr. was like. He ate fries from a bag and lectured me absent-mindedly about girls and drugs. I merely sat across from him, the pizza box atop the plastic table betwixt us. I explained to him that working at JOann actually made me less enchanted by women than I would. He dimly acknowledged that he knew what I meant, or thought he did, having taken a moment to contemplate it. He probed me with his eyes. I hoped that he did not think I was a homosexual.

    It was within seconds, I think, of my having arrived at home that the call from Andrew came. Drew had driven me home in the dark.
    Andrew told me his dream. It is too long and too personal to describe here and now.
    We spent more than an hour analysing it. By then, we had divided the dream into three Acts. They had probably been of Andrew's invention -- the distinctions.
    What interests me still is a certain thing he said halfway through the first Act. Mind you: He was calling, by this point, from Ohio.
    He had woken up at the wheel with his car parked in a fast-food restaurant owned by his girlfriend's father. He emerged to find that there was no furniture in the establishment. This was after he had tried, sleepily, to exit the establishment by starting up the vehicle. He ended up scratching the interior wall of the building with the automobile, unwitting.
    When he emerged, he was holding a slice of pizza that he had inexplicably found within the car. Tia's father emerged from the kitchen. He had a Mexican moustache. He castigated Andrew. Andrew wearily apologised for the damage, promising to pay for it. Tia's father was assuaged. He agreed.
    Andrew set foot outside in order to retrieve the money. He was still holding the pizza slice in his hand.
    Setting foot into day light, Andrew looked behind and upwards. A sign indicated that the restaurant was Carl's, Junior.
    He looked down at the pizza slice in his hand, perplexed, and asked, 'What's PIZZA doing at Carl's, Jr.?'