06-09-2020, 04:31 AM
Contextual Experience
Ex and through. In and within. Former, now present. Experience is going through, coming through, throughing, the present acting of throughing. Action is throughing and all time is acting, each moment is.
It's not because I'm trying my hand at art I go and say art is the greatest thing. And I don't say art is the greatest thing, I say it's the only.
I wean myself from deconstructing, working my way out of that quagmire that mires itself in mire, and build up again what is here and has never went, never left.
Down to waves and particles, and never left. Never stopped being what it is for all that.
That's what I'm working through, that's today's fascist regime, broken pot or bowl that spirals with life. I'm creeping through the cracks, oozing myself passionately in some wabi-sabi of this world. The cracks let in Mystery. The unknown is no less, though it is threatening and possibly devastating.
Spirit is the spark of the tension, the energy produced by the friction of what I am and what I'm not and what I might be, and all that I don't know and what doesn't exist, rubbing against each other. All that is ONE, one WORLD, somehow managing to rub up against each other. And we want it, that it remain that way, be it false or logically nonsensical.
What is energy? Who knows if it even exists . . . But it's all we have and what the bells of our sensations are rung with; it's a name for something, you can feel it, if you can feel something, it must be real.
You must be real. Who am I talking to? If Jesus was God, who was he talking to when he was praying, himself? Maybe. I talk to myself. Does that mean anything?
I speak of Jesus because he means something to me. I could as well speak of something or someone else. There are plenty other figures I could mention. But I don't. It's Jesus. He must have some energy.
You say I'm jumping to conclusions. Or maybe, maybe, a leap. I'm leaping—not to conclusions, but to the next part. The going of this essay keeps going. I'm writing it. Should I stop? You can stop reading.
So now I'm not talking about Jesus; but I'm talking about spirit all the same.
Let's talk about women. That's a name for something. Woman has spirit, doesn't she? An individual woman? Look at her, she looks fine. Real fine, and well-inclined. That's her, all right. Look at her. Sometimes she doesn't like to be looked at, but who can blame us? She gets angry, she calls the cop. Some superhero has the spark that it's a crime to look at a woman that way, she's not here for your delight, after all. Why not?
Look at her. What spirit in this world. What beauty. The mere idea is delight. And she's so much more than that.
The joy of everything is its spirit, is spirit. Conflict produces spirit. Mystery. And when there's no more conflict, no more mystery, that Time of the Great Boredom has its own odd spirit too.
Look. Look at all the good things. Feel all the intensity in pain, in love, in fear, in anxiety, in uncertainty, in anger, in hope, in trust, in humor. Look at that guy over there, he's retarded, that's funny. Those people over there are rioting, there's a huge pit of car and store products burning against the background of tense night sky. How Beautiful! I've never seen a flame quite that tint of red. So dark and yet so lively I can feel it against my skin and in my loins without being near it. It travels as the sun, in spirit.
Maybe I'm wrong . . . about the fire, about women, about the definition of spirit. Maybe I'm just one man among trillions on trillions living and dead saying something. Maybe a machine without even the luxury of an artificial intelligence could form these words out of some Crown of nanoatoms swerving through colorless prisms. It knows not what it does? But I feel my spirit nevertheless. Not that it's better than any other estimate or assumption, but the height of its flame within me insists it isn't and can never be any worse.
The only evil is evil itself, in its glaring abstraction. The evil of Irony, the evil of Defensiveness. Nothing is true, nothing is permitted. Self-righteous smugness. Glaring in all its gaudiness like a star that never falls and doesn't inspire. The sickly spark of irony is the devil's paw, it's sharp in its own dullness. Bitter, sanctimonious justice takes delight along with it, like a medication snuffs out the vital flame with the destructive conflagration.
Everything is true, everything is permitted. There's no irony in that. No foul odor of vegetable oil greeting an empty stomach. Situational adventures aren't ironic. There's no irony in a man doing what he does. Irony is a spot where the road's blocked and cops ask for your identification and analyse your features. Maybe the cops say interesting things that spark your interest, maybe a few things you'll remember and can use with your friends, and maybe even a couple of them are female and pretty. Irony is nonetheless a blockade against power, the good kind along with the bad.
That I can't escape irony, and that it itself is its own and only defense against itself doesn't curtail my progress any. Call me an ironist, it does a body good to be praised in that way. A great ironist is a great man. An artist with a keen sense of irony and ability to achieve it, to weave it into his work, the best without being noticed, is the greater artist for it. And there is no such thing as evil.
That dull star doesn't inspire. Through all its gaudy glare, what it's doing is not inspiring. Defensiveness isn't inspiring. It's not evil, but it's not inspiring. It's me it offends. It crosses me, rubs me the wrong way, it gives me that cringe feeling the people talk about, the people who go around thinking everything is weird. Everything is so weird and creepy, so gross. These people see life as something someone shouldn't even be doing in private. Look at that Yo-Yo, that's the way to do it. Wear your defensiveness like a badge. Beating on a bongo like a chimpanzee. That's evolution. That's pure science. Pure fact. Inevitable society, must be something wrong with it. That's the way to do it. But I won't be defensive.
I'm all for offense. Loot and riot in the streets, don't have to justify yourself with some irrelevant cause. Steal something because you want it and can't afford it. Don't hold up a sign in the streets the next day or chant banalities at cameras. Wine and dine her, but don't explain yourself. Never tell the truth to a woman who isn't interested.
The joys of spiritual warfare are all around you. For those who prefer to swim on the shallow end of the negativity pool, an agnihilistic play of nonreactive, nonrivalry conscientious nonviolent nonmorality gives you a child's pass through it all; you needn't a rival, there are plenty of enemies around to play with, the most crucial are the gremlins tinkering round your own innards.
I'm satisfied, despite my useless discontent, with the Useless Path through life. My childisorcery has all the ends it needs in its very means. Delight being the greatest region of the Quest. There're plenty enough people wearing obstacles as clothes in each person's day to day circumstances to keep your pilot light lit without fostering forth some tired agenda of the day to heat the works; a world with no humans in it has enough circumstances to face for a lifetime and more, there're plenty tricks to trigger and regulate energy all about your body.
Everything everyone says is irrelevant as is most of what they do. The joy is the immediate vitality of the everincreasing, everevolving situations. So I'd as well ignore it all when I'm sitting here under my walnut-tree, and focus on the obvious and generic existential ecology of the whole big fat world we have to play in. It needn't be true that who or what is doing what or not doing this or that to cause something or other to be happening with the planet. Facts are mere deerticks attached to a truth; the best way is to shut up and quietly improve a little local spot, giving hints at how it's being done, in a nicely Silent Awareness, before we overgrow our ideas again with the weeds it takes time to trim away. Don't worry about ends. Most'll forget and be back to questionable means before too long. Trying to change other people's minds changes yours, and a mind alone isn't a lonely thing.
Things depend on a conscience. Whether that exists as such is its own theatre of spiritual warfare.
You are your conscience, it's not something you have. A Man's Code. A worked out integrity. A personal bent.
If you are more than your conscience, you can't be certain of anything.
The Way Things Are
The way of things is more than they are and more.
Think of the earth
as a family member.
From the loins, the vagus, the brain
blooms the mind in spiralling animation.
The species in the gut,
Conscious Light,
gnomes,
passion.
Cells and bacteria above and below goetia.
The fire boiling the very fluidity of desire
eating away at space and time
to make more room to move in.
Love Matilda above mountain and sky,
see every man's Beatrice in her glasses,
in your eyes.
Her darkness is brighter in the aura
of your thighs
and she is no less goddess for
being no man's GOD.
Burn away fear, anxiety, confusion,
defense, offense; emit offense in its
silence, lust, humor, wrestling
ladies, mocking bums, laugh at the
comedy of dying children as the comedy
of art.
Death isn't funny without art.
The immorality of Picasso and the Marquis de Sade
is their power,
the flaws in Hart Crane's poetry
is its glory,
the madness of Nietzsche and van Gogh
adds to their vitality.
Earth throbs with intensity, sighs with reasons;
let the Family Romance be Romantic,
the Comedy funny.
The way things are is wild,
The world is a WORLD to play in.
Tell the TRUTH to better sustain a fun world to lie in.
That's the way things are.
