Saturday, 25 June 2011

a true rant.

 Today I endeavoured to offer myself as a vassal to the ambition of naivety which seems to me to be the founding protein of happiness. I tried to moult and halt halfway, shed layers of skin without coming up with a newer one, not feeling the need for it, I tried the road of immediacy, arm wrestling between the hardest cynicism and an open lily smelling still of hope… are we perhaps ascetics? Buffoons? Or normal people? Us, normal people?

But then who, what are we? Human beings? I’d rather go for unhuman becomings: a more pertinent, more honest definition. Still, becoming and being must be one and the same thing, must they not? Being is just as imperfect, if we may put it that way, as becoming, for if the Idea were more perfect than its phenotype, it would certainly be able to manifest itself incorruptible, eternal. Who would dare to believe really – and that is: to stretch this faith to its ultimate philosophical consequences – in a divine that doesn’t keep its promise of transcendence even, or especially in the immanent, simply in virtue of its ability to do so? who would want to be so nihilist as to believe in a god whose cruelty condemns his sentient creatures to the chronic, chromosomal imperfection of the universe that he himself created? Is our free will negated by the free will of the creator?
Such cruelty, if mistaken for holy nectar trickling down from whoever spills it up there, condemns the believer who believes in it to a pessimism that far outgoes the presumed frightful solitude and aimlessness of the practising atheist. We must refuse a priori to fall in the trap of the apple held out conspicuously by who knows whom at the centre of a paradise on earth which is, by name and by fact, an irrelevant oxymoron, a croak of shit a la walt Disney that nobody would have fallen for if the church hadn’t had the grandest and most diabolical mis en scene at unified networks, a spiderweb, that is, and moreover a two thousand year old apple, all dried out and putrifying, eternity my balls! No, with my shiny sword hissing and dressed in skin alone, if that, I must defend myself from the fascism of religion, from the mafia of monotheism, this industrial oligarchy that produces replicants of sinners series by series, and I must invent myself to give myself a meaning. An antihuman sentiment, an unhuman love to enrage pope and showgirls, opus dei and parties, I must posit myself only as I am: lonely, and beautiful of ambiguity. Intelligence versus force, rationalist doubt versus omnipotent dictatorial dogma, an attitude that leads to extreme consequences, one of them being turning down the whole if even one portion of it is rotten, a metonymy of civic coherence – and that lily with its guard still kept high unfolds opens obscene and incorruptible til death do it wilt…

We are not mystics, visions and conversions on the way of Damascus, of capitol hill, of a fixed post, that stuff doesn’t make our mouths water, it makes us sick. Still the most spirit lifting news is, listen people, that such visions I have by the thousands, the more than legitimate fruit of the abnegation with which I conduct myself beyond the song of such sirens. My scepticism is repaid with interests by a psyche devoid of the flatterings of 'salvation' behind chastity or charity or a party membership, a psyche that regurgitates the very thing it denies itself. If it is true that good luck comes to those who don’t expect it, then the recompense of the honourable and virtuous citizen – the prize to the man who knows and is himself – is the opportunity to supply a reason to be here rather than taking on one that’s second hand and ready-made. Our foundations are solid, invisible, yet solid. Our ridgepoles and our concrete are not the illegitimate outcome of a fraudulent tender bid, but undeniable rings of a trunk that thickens with us, beyond that ‘beyond’ that we don’t ever buy into, least of all when offered at a knockdown price.

The being alone and in bad company of church-goers betrays the lack of imagination of the human being who is one for the sake of being it. Living life doesn’t coincide with giving it a purpose, and  giving it up to a higher good is, in any case, a weakness. Life certainly doesn’t need a ‘life after’ to be justified before, and not even a premature death in order that we enjoy it in full. The meaning of life is to accept that there is none, yet to insist in embellishing it to dispense a revenge out of our own pocket. The style we endeavour to find in the page and swimming in the tide of time is an added value created out of nothingness, something that reduces the rules of physics and of matter to an abacus in short circuit, where entropy is for us to establish, where nothing means anything in particular but every lash that shuts and opens, each word, comma, square centimetre of skin is symbol and metaphore of an impalpable quid at everybody’s hands, including those who decide to do away with limbs altogether…

Today i offered myself to simplicity, and look where it's gotten me.

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