EP!LOGUE: a Crazy God.

Don't think me immune to your wisdom because I don't have your experience. 

Some deeply intuitive people have come to your conclusions and moved past them. 

I am not naïve for trusting them; you are naïve for dismissing them.

You indulge yourself in the Devil's voice and his Device. He is your light bringer; he has signed your check. But he's only using you, manipulating your mind, robbing you of faith. He only avails you of the known world. You have the means now to escape him and to see the Other Planes without his supervision.

You got the message. Now get off the phone.

You fetishize the vessel, the experience, but what you really need is Truth, and your experience has blinded you to it.

Experience was just the vessel for the Truth. Now Truth has landed. Now it's shed its bristly cocoon.

You are still trapped within the bristles. Life goes on without you. Yours is over.

[*({Dm.A.A.)}*]

DES!RE and IDENT!TY:

Well. I don’t know. I mean: you ask me, “what do I want?” How can I say that, for certain? No one ever really told me, so where would I find the answer? I can tell you what I have dim views upon: on politics, philosophy, religion, sociology, psychology, etc. I can speak on these matters because they’re important to people, and I can comprehend their logic. I guess that my closest estimation is this: I want just what everybody wants, according to my studies, and I want these things for everyone. The only thing I cannot want is to exclude someone, unless that person is himself exclusive and inhuman. I want to be Human. Some people are not people. For Asimov, for instance, being human was a concrete feeling, but “humanity” was an abstraction. Bullshit!! HE is the abstraction; how could a biologist deny this? Every nuance of the private ego is a construct of the greater mind, born out of some sort of sterile consumerism and intrusive propaganda. I KNOW I am Human because I know things about Humanity; without that knowledge, how could I say who I am? Their suffering is mine; if I have cravings, they are to participate in the Great Struggle of our species towards transcendence of this Plane. As a Human, I have the authority to say that hatred is misguided, except towards the hateful. I can say that greed is a mistake and private wills are simple fluctuations in a greater trend. One cannot preserve one’s self by harming others, since all harm that humans witness is effectively the same. That has been my experience, and since I am not sure what “my” means, I might say instead “an”, and since I haven’t had ANY experience to challenge it, when not “THE”? THE Experience of Being Human. THAT is what I want. All of my Life I’ve known only the semblance of this mystic “happiness” people refer to. I am only ever less miserable; I’m most “myself” when I forget myself, in Solitude, the World just flowing in from every angle, no one to attend to or to worry for, except perhaps my dog and some plants in the garden. (Plain plants. Not the kind you might imagine me to love specifically.) I want Love, but not by means of hatred; I want children, but not to be born into some bondage. I can’t deny my hatred of those “men” who put themselves before me, not because I value myself more, but rather because I can’t understand them in a human context of compassion, and not only is my own love wasted on them, to the point of desperate hatred, but their every action threatens my Humanity and my own standing in the Human Race. I can’t deny this, but I can deny them leave of it, for their hatred must surely all ways be surpassing of my own, and where would my own COME from if not from them? I know not where they acquired it to start with. I crave harmlessness. Harmlessness towards my “self” – whatever that means – and towards others. Harmony in all relationships. I seek to remedy the chaos in them constantly, like a composer or a mathematician. I have written hundreds of poems and entries to my public log. I’ve filled up shelves on my bookshelf with journals, sometimes scrawled and others neat, sometimes abounding in leftover space and other times resourceful, but invariably necessary to contain thoughts which would flee me like a Dream if unattended. All my Life I’ve been a parent to my thoughts and friends and family, trying to keep them from running away, not so as to enslave them but to try with agony for their protection. This is who I am: a healer. But you ask me: what am I DOING with Life? And I reply: I’m here. I’m there. A volunteer. A xylophonist. A programmer. A composer. A scorned lover. A forgotten friend. An unforgettable mentor. I do not know. Maybe it’s all internal, fanciful and disappointing. So be it. I think less of myself than you may think. Were it not for you, would I even know that I exist?

[({Dm.A.A.)}]

This is the True Conclusion to this Weblog. I had miscounted, reading the inclusive count which counted for unpublished drafts. This is the thousandth publication. So be it.

CUSP of POWER:

Yours is an exemplary character that endears you to your fellows, though you are too modest to accept this fact, fighting incessantly with your own intuition, burdened by the misguided rationality of men who are not men yet. You are the Hero of this story, pure of Heart and sane of Soul, that which they love to watch and to pretend to but they cannot live. The fear of losing you precludes them from their coming near you. Ordinary explanations for your solitude will never work. You are the one who must redeem the World. You have known this.

Dm.A.A.

1Q84: Review of Chapter One.

No, I’ve lost interest in characters such as this woman. I admit that I watched Breaking Bad several times, and I still watch Better Call Saul. But for the most part I am done with narcissism.

Narcissism?

Come on. Surely you had noticed. It took me only one chapter. The protagonist, if that is who she is, is a sociopath. Not only is she Paranoid. She is entirely absorbed within herself and her own past. She has this dim, neurotic tendency to fixate on the music in the car because she knows it from another time. Outside the car is the entire world, but she sees not a single shred of wonder in it, nor can she contribute any wonder TO it. Everything and everyone is either a nuisance or a utility to her, if not both at the same time. She’s a nut. The moment that she meets someone who shares her paranoia, what’s her instinct? To affirm? Negate? Inform? Agree? Or STAB?! We KNOW that she is claustrophobic, anxious and quite self-entitled to her plans. When she ponders something sharp, it’s typical of people who would act out their anxiety with violence. One needs not to be guilty of those tendencies in order that one might recognize them. She projects meaning upon silence, she treats men with disdain, and she EXPECTS THE WORLD TO ADMIRE HER. When she takes the path across the highway, and she has to hoist herself over a fence, she has this sick fantasy that she’s being watched, not for her safety but for their amusement, like she is performing a striptease, and she then GLORIFIES the fact that it’s ungenerous, as if that same attention she so clearly feels entitled to, expecting it, can only serve her confidence but not her auditors’ desires. She feigns apology for it within her fantasy as if to demonstrate some sort of power. And she FETISHIZES HER OWN BODY. Christ. She even sees part of herself as BEING AN ATTRACTIVE FEATURE. Who DOES that? How can she KNOW? It’s just a BODY. SHE could not know that. And if we are forced to objectify her to assess the credibility of her delusions, it would only be so that we might escape the entrapment of her disjointed subjectivity. She fears the World because she feels it owes her something but wants something in exchange. Where others have a conscience, she is paranoid of meeting debtors on the streets. Perhaps that’s why one of her ears is characterized as deformed: she only listens to the half of it. Sure: maybe the asymmetry of her otherwise comely face is a foreshadow for the themes that follow. But outside this intimation, it’s apparent that the imminent significance is in her deafness to the World. Believe me: I would recognize the kind. It’s not that things all go in one ear and then out the other, but that they go in only one ear and stay stuck, festering into an awful picture. She’s precisely the sort of delusional maniac who would kill out of a self-entitled fantasy that turns into Caesarian madness. This is not a woman; this is hardly a person. Thankfully only a fraction of the population is this way, and novels such as these expose that fraction’s weaknesses, to that extent which writers can begin to fathom them. And do not get me started on this schizophrenic tendency to feel one’s self to be a victim for having a given name. Who possibly could CARE? It’s just a name. NO one in one’s right mind would think otherwise.

Dm.A.A.

OBJECT!V!TY:

Who would listen to you who has not yet felt the sting of pity for the sorrows of the World? You’re so desperate that it’s incredible, as if by the suggestion you could get away with this implies we live in Hell. It’s madness, the sheer thought of it: that for some reason my convenience is secondary to your own, as if a single Soul would take part in my systematic torment and exclusion. No one would desire such a fate, so no one justifies you in your dealership of it. Some shuddered to believe it possible, yet here you are expecting that I should have fathomed it beforehand! What have I done but to trust you? Clearly I could have nothing to gain or to attain by that, except for the assurance that my faith was well-bestowed upon your arms. If mine was the mistake in trusting you, you might have found the decency – the sheer HUMANITY – to remedy the error in service to my beneficent intent. Yet you elected to abuse my error, turning my intent against me, just to fuel your own. For whose convenience then was I sacrificed? The cause in question? Clearly I must supervise your failure then in serving her. Now you dare to add insult to injury by burdening the tragic scapegoat with your sin, as if what I’d intended holds me in some debt, as if the evil you can just project upon me in your narcissistic paranoia, as a POSSIBILITY, might justify the evil you enacted in its Actuality. I will continue to surpass you in every means I can fathom. Everyone will be included. This will serve us all, except for those who would supplant it. We are human. So the human thing is to serve our universal human needs. After all: by what other force have you lived a life surpassing mine in every indulgence? I do no service to the World to tolerate it, and neither will the World defend you in your trying to exclude me from it, robbing victims of their voices, as if they were held, for their natural vindictiveness, responsible for your own vices. Such is not Love.

Dm.A.A.

Re:B!RTHDAY.

You have no further justification. Alanna admitted that she loved me. That she might have lied to you only reflects upon intentions which I know about, alone. I cannot vouch for her vindictiveness, but that is only because where she would be subtle in exacting vengeance I would have been more direct, on her behalf as well as in her place for my own sake.

She’s visited me since. Her presence is a state of mind in and of itself. I used to think she was haunting me in search of blood. But it was not so. She was guiding me towards greatness. To leave you behind, though she could not.

Why should I doubt it? Have I ever taken more from the collective jar than what was due to all of us? Have I asked more of life? I speak in metaphor only because the logic on its own is far too obvious; if you’ve not figured it all out by now, I will gain nothing by explaining it to you.

You will not darken my view of the world by acting as though any public would defend you. That something slipped past a defense and cannot be reversed does not mean it will ever be condoned. Any attempts you make to scapegoat me for narcissism will be totally transparent, as will be attempts to scapegoat me for scapegoating. Your attempts to demean me have been psychopathic, and if I were to internalize them I would be psychotic. No one has ever deserved the fate I’ve had to go through. No public would defend it. My virginity remains as testament not only to my dignity but to your own attempts to undermine it; paradoxically, had I lost that same virginity, I would retain the dignity, for I would lose it by legitimate means, and within my means. Yet the fact I’ve not lost it yet shows you have robbed me of the opportunity, and that I’ve taken no chances within the place of this legitimacy has preserved my dignity. But you cannot know what that’s like.

This I know not only because I made sure of it, but because, even in the wake of catastrophic failure, she reminded me.

I did nothing wrong. I need not pretend towards humility. I have it, without any pretense. I did not expect matters to favor me, but I knew they would sooner favor me by rights than they could favor you. I did not hold you in such low esteem so as to think you’d try to turn them in your favor. I simply knew my turn and opportunity once I saw her. You simply let your pursuit of a nihilistic excess rob us both of Life. But I survived her Death, and by so doing I have mastered Death. Death is no problem to me now. She has returned to tell me what it truly is.

It is fantastic. But I’m in no hurry. Maybe you should be. But maybe not.

Dm.A.A.

CR!S!S:

CR!S!S:

What the Future Fascists of America seem to have forgotten is their actual role in the Human Network. They do not work solely in the agricultural industry; they work in the agricultural SECTOR of the SURVIVAL Industry. All human life and a great deal of domesticated animal life depends directly upon the production of food by agricultural means, so it follows logically that the farmers of the United States are responsible directly for the security and welfare of all such life WITHIN the United States, as well as a great deal of it without, (depending upon what science and politics can fathom) and any LOSS of life by avenues of malnutrition, food poisoning, and competition over resources would reflect poorly upon the Survival Industry, which of course includes not only the agricultural sector but all so military, police, and scientific research, all three of which ought to be the Tool of the People in reinforcing the Ideal of Survival. In short: when someone dies, someone ought to get fired.

At some critical juncture in my maturation I came to the realization that the point of life was to Create. All human beings are by trade creators. Farming is an art, and no one has contested in our recent time that warfare is as well. Our president at present would contest that salesmanship is artistry, and even someone in the unskilled labor field (no pun intended) might proclaim that sexuality is art.

Martin Heidegger said that human beings were those beings who build. He was answering an age-old question: what ARE human beings? Are we those beings who think? Are we those beings who write? His answer was a decent and fairly inclusive one for someone who had Nazi inclinations: we are those beings that build. Want to get more inclusive than just that? After all: by his generous definition, we are kin to birds, and birds are human beings. Okay: we are those beings who CREATE. And the artist is the pinnacle of that. All of our lives, in every time and place, in every culture, under every superstition and in spite of each oppression, have been aimed at leaving behind one great legacy: the work of Art, the opus, our stairway to the Gods, something familiar yet totally unique and novel. All of any young man’s life should have this as its solitary focus: to ensure that as much of his inner vision is made flesh, in preferably harmless form, as is possible. Even sexuality is only the beginning of creation. Hence we call it “procreation”. Even entertainment is only a way to make one’s own return from work to play; hence it is “RE-creation”. Our minds are WIRED to be artists; the most staunch realists expose the most absurd of fantasies because their own creative minds, pushed into the Unconscious Sector, cannot help but to revolt in the most riotous of ways.

Fascism has all ways oppressed and tried to put restrictions upon Artistry. But all of the greatest dictators our history has seen were artists or at least great connoisseurs. Hitler was a painter. Stalin was a writer, a romantic poet. Kim Jung Il boasted the widest choice of films the World has ever known. In some ways, he surpassed the U.S. Government.

And Fascism can fool people into believing that they HATE something. Hence North Koreans protest Modern Art, as though by their own will. Like most protestors in America today, their revolution is surely a scripted one.

AT some critical juncture in my maturation I realized all or most of this. But then I looked about me. Just outside my window, there was talent going down the drain like water in a reckless drought. The finest artists I knew in my graduating class had turned to drugs or, worse yet, jobs to cope with living. Artistry was not revered but shamelessly condemned, and even those who practiced it religiously did so within the confines of a clergy who defined their every brushstroke from a tender age. People began to work for MONEY rather than for the CREATIVE ACT ITSELF. And though I hated them, as much as I was capable of hatred then, for doing so, I could not help but pity them and search for someone to protest to. Where was the Complaint Department?

As it turns out, the Survival Industry had failed. The People were about to elect proto-Fascist Donald Trump, a salesman who, to my mind, only made one work, a show called the Apprentice. It was a most moving drama about corporate capitalism, fully adorned with heroes and recognizable villains. Omarosa, whose name Microsoft Word inexplicably forgets and underlines in red, was likened to a Disney villain, though I still recall an episode in which her discerning Bohemian eye helped usher her team towards victory. She prided herself in her knowledge of the Fine Arts.

People make Art to make a living, but people don’t realize that people make a living just to live for making Art. In ancient civilization, the Ruling Class ensured that the Survival Industry accounted for the welfare of the State, for only by so doing could the Creative Industry fulfill the Kingdom’s TRUE Purpose: to become Human. Art was not for the entertainment of the working class, even less so for subjective and equivocal derision, rendered inferior by its subjectivity. The value of a work of Art was not disputed but ordained, whether by the monarch or by the Gods who had helped shape it. Art served the entirety of Human Progress, and the entirety of Human Progress served Art in turn.

This is all so why the staunchest totalitarians are so artistic. When the monarchical ego overtakes the personality, when it is married to the machine of State in the first coronation, what is repressed is the tender and human drive to create. This is perhaps why even genocide can be said to have been elevated to a High Art in the Twentieth Century.

You can’t stop this train.

Why then, I wondered, did my colleagues have to sell their Souls to make a living? Where would Art be without Soul? How DARE they to USE Art for their own purposes? Had our wisest teachers not taught them to NEVER do ANY thing as a means towards an end?! And who would be so CRUEL as to ROB them of their freedom to LIVE, REGARDLESS of the consequences which they were forbidden by nature to seek, FORCED to STOOP to the level of USING their own God-given blessings to COMPENSATE for the shortcomings of the System?

Of course, it was the Future Fascists of America.

People who had worked in the Survival Industry began to think, somehow, that what they had created would BELONG to them and not to those who needed it. They turned on their true purpose and abused their privilege, insisting that all Artists become servants to the FARMERS, and not that the both of them should serve the Common Good.

It was for this reason that I had the quite mortifying luxury of speaking with a farmer and a member of the military who had spoken of ART as a luxury afforded by survival. Yet when I spoke of survival with him, asking what was to be done about the people dying even in the midst of great, egregious wealth, he only had to say he knew plenty “good” people who would never work for free.

There are no good people who never work for free. This is because without things being given freely, there can be no freedom. And without freedom, as it was pointed out, especially in works like A Clockwork Orange, it’s very difficult to Be Good.

My freedom was stolen by these deviant ingrates and Fascists.

It’s time that we start using our creativity to take this power back.

After all: one way or another, God’s chosen people have now been reduced to their own Survival.

Dm.A.A.