Wednesday, January 23, 2008


Well, I'm taking Heidegger, so lucky you guys.

The anti-traditionalist revolution takes place on the level of the self. It is a rejection not merely of societal mores and scientific truths, but, more importantly, of the being that inheres beneath these things. The revolution is already underway. The history of western philosophy is and has been rejecting itself. If there is no single way the world is, no correct interpretation, and if the world always depends on us for any interpretation what-so-ever, then we are free (or at least potentially free) to focus on the different ways the world can be in relationship to ourselves. So, being occupied--when the world is almost not there--is one way the world can be; or when I am happy, and the world is a happier place; or in love, and it glows. The manner in which I hold myself out to the world defines the being of myself in relationship with the world. I must therefore recognize, and activly incorporate the recognition of, the multiplicity of being-in-the-world: that the world is capable of supporting and reflecting back an unlimited number of interpetations, or modes of projected self-being-in-the world, means that I am neither limited by, nor necessarily sure of, myself as something unified and persisting in time. I am, in other words, free to be, if I can master the power.

The anti-traditionalist revolution, however, threatens to destroy us. It is incompatible with the commune and therefore will not afford us progress. It also has a morally relativizing characteristic, which would sooner lead to fascism than utpoia. And it could promise a radicalized individualism, what with probably nobody would know what to do.

And so, consider this:

At first she couldn’t believe it. He had just exploded, on their first date, sort of into a thousand colors, and there, at the bar, in his place, was a demon spectacular to behold. Large and dark, wings outspread, dripping seduction, fervent, and practiced, he drew her up to him, and offered himself to her. The offer was simple, she saw it plainly, as though in a vision.

“Just because you’re fantastic, doesn’t mean I want to end up old and fat in some trailer some day.” She said, obviously disappointed.

The demon held up one finger and tilted his head just so, as if to show respect for her decision; his display made it plain that she had passed an important test.

With one long claw he tore himself right down the middle, beginning at the very crown of his head. The wound radiated a golden light. His black skin fell away, spreading out like paint, turning the small room into the night sky, the stars aflame, the vacuum--like the song of the sirens--beckoning one into its void. A god had emerged from the demon, standing there atop his corpse, burning, and beautiful. Gently, but full of hypnotic, masculine strength, he drew her to himself, and spoke: "if you choose me, this is what you'll have:" and, supporting her spotaneously limp body easily with one hand, he waved his other before her rolled-back eyes.

"You fucker!" She said, jumping to her feet, "just because you put on this big show doesn't mean that I'm now, suddenly, going to decide that I want to be some fat trailer-trash bitch! What the fuck is this anyway?!"

Monday, January 14, 2008

Kissing you

HE went online to learn Spanish one day. “What a magnificent tool,” he thought. Unfortunately, he was an idiot. He exercised powers far beyond his control, wielded them with fearful sincerity, shaking under their weight. Under the influence of his excitement, he managed to successfully learn Spanish. Although he struggled with but the simplest problems, he had a knack for languages. Soon he had conquered them all, and he spoke each one with verve and confidence. His mind bent under the strain—like steel beams crippling—and he went mad.

One always loves an idiot; their docility, their humor. Then there is the average person. He is fat and stupid, just believes whatever he is told. He sits and he thinks, and he understands the reasons why he believes the way he does. And you and I ought not exclude ourselves from this group. After all, has our life story been much different. One may substitute sitting around for working one’s ass off, lots of us do that; thinking happens however pretty much as frequently in one of us as in another, and so it may stay. And we all feel wholly justified believing the way we do.

(And even if we are biologically fat and stupid.)

This is, in truth, an easily forgivable sin. None of us is biologically programmed to be a fascist or a democrat, we are brought up to be the people we are. Can you really blame another that she or he is a fuckin’ retard? Indeed, must you not either blame yourself, or God? The average man is us; we are he.

A mad man is not so easy to love. Insane, he commits crimes. They, rising up inside him, throw him about and smash his arms and legs, as though he were caught on the reef of some island in stormy waters, until the thrashing becomes too loud and he thrashes without—always careful to sink away afterward into oceans of guilt and paranoia.

IS the average man not in his own right mad? Mad that he is destined to be ultimately forgotten? Mad that he does not know? Mad that he knows this and never stops believing?

Probably, since those of us who are mad are actually the sane ones and etc. It’s perfectly true.

Thursday, January 10, 2008

No Smoking

Shake your skinny fist at the sky
Jealously rides on the back of my lust

A nihilistic reason to quit cigarettes: If one has nothing to believe in, then one is left with nothing but the immediate and perhaps an occasional back pedal into memory. One does not believe, and, so shed of this burden, one has no choice but simply to be. Cigarettes, if used habitually, define a person. What then if one chooses not to believe that one is a smoker? One quits, naturally. “I am not a smoker: I be.”

Live on the coast, and quit for sure. Jesus!

("I wish I were just slightly off. Like the toilets in the south that just flush straight down too quickly to go the wrong way.")