03-07/05/13
I used to think and to some extent probably
still do that the peculiar nature of my colds owed something to the fact of
my having Irish ancestry but living in England, more specifically in London.
Having had a taste of the downside of Irish weather in recent years, however, I
am sceptical that were I to contact a cold in Ireland it would be any better
or, depending on your attitude, any the less bad. In fact, to judge by the
prevalence of cough-racked chestiness you encounter with people in the damp
climate of the West of Ireland, and Galway in particular, it could well be that
colds suffered there would be even worse, with an inevitable slide into
bronchitis and even pleurisy or bronchial pneumonia. Actually, I can recall one
such experience four or five years ago whereby I brought a cold I caught at the
last moment in England to Ireland with me and spent the best part of a week in
bed in a Salthill B&B sweating profusely. At one point I woke up in the
middle of the night, touched my forehead, and felt sweat gushing from it as
though I were a fountain. That really freaked me out! I am also aware that my
father died of pneumonia and general respiratory complications in Galway City
when he was still young, since I learnt about this from my mother several years
after she had moved back to England and I was living in either Aldershot or,
probably by then, Carshalton. She attributed it to heavy drinking and smoking
on his part within an especially damp climate, but was furious at the fact that
no one in his family had notified her of his death, it being a relative of hers
who had sent her a copy of the obituary notice from a local Galway newspaper
which, tactfully, made no mention of the fact that he had ever been married or
had a son. Somehow they had contrived to hush all that up in the interests,
presumably, of Seamus's reputation as a decent Catholic and all that. Never
having known him, I would have received the news, I expect, with the utmost
indifference, as if it concerned a complete stranger. Which, in a sense, it
did.
It would seem, if experience is to be believed,
that the Beautiful turn ugly with age, the Knowledgeable become ignorant, the
Strong grow weak, and the True (if any such still exist) subject to delusions
(of heavenly grandeur) which may well appear as illusory if not downright false
to anybody else.
What, then, can there be to look forward to?
I have it! Escape from life. Dying, to be sure,
may not be easier than living, but once you are dead
you're dead, and that is
all.
You are not going to be born again; you are not
going to live again; and you are as sure as hell not going to die again. Only
the species does that, in whatever racial or ethnic permutation.
Death doth put an end to all our afflictions,
sealing the door on a life that went from good to better, and from bad to worse,
ceasing, as a matter of course, to be worthy of existence. So one decomposes
from composure in death as one had degenerated from generation in life,
reluctantly going from bad to worse.
Birth Life Life Death; from childhood to
youth, and from adulthood to old age; good better bad worse.
Generation Cadence Decadence Degeneration
(into the composure of death and decomposition of the corpse).
You reached your highpoint with the so-called
idealism of youth, fit reward for the naturalism of childhood (with its
sickroom atmosphere), and after that everything went regressively downhill, as
from adulthood to old age, realism to materialism, and the ensuing closing of
the coffin lid upon life, however it had been spent whether well spent, misspent,
ill-spent or, in relation to the life force, just plain spent!
The public may snap and peck off bits of one's
private life, inhibiting thought, but if one is truly sensible one knows how to
deal with that: simply by ignoring it and continuing, if anything, to behave in
a private manner. For the Private in public are one thing; the Public in public
quite another!
For me, the distinction between extroversion
and introversion comes down to gender, like that between skirts and trousers
or, for that matter, dresses and trouser suits. It is a distinction,
furthermore, between objectivity and subjectivity, those antithetical
consequences of a vacuum and a plenum (rather like womb and pudenda or
well,
you probably know what the four-letter equivalents are, so I needn't resort to
them here, like a wilful American of the Henry Miller persuasion hell-bent on
sounding crude).
When I was a youth in Carshalton Beeches,
Surrey, I read so much Bertrand Russell, so many of the cheaply available
paperback editions of his various essays, that I knew there and then that, one
day, I would follow in his footsteps and become a philosopher and, if possible,
outdo or surpass him in the analysis and criticism of religion, especially
Christianity, though less from a loosely scientific point-of-view than from a
more radically religious standpoint that would set me apart from Russell as an
Irish rather than British philosopher and make me, in a sense, the Plato of my
time, in contrast to the Aristotelianism, so to speak, of Bertrand Russell,
whom I still admire and consider the most important early philosophical
influence on me and my development as a writer more important even than
Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Spengler, Koestler, de Chardin, Camus, and Sartre.
Without Russell, I doubt that I would have
become a philosopher in my own right (ha, ha! I can hear the academics and
pedants retort, as if having a philosophy degree, which I don't, or a chair at
some college in consequence of a privileged background, which I did not have,
gave one the equivalent of a divine right to consider oneself or one's kind
alone genuine philosophers and everyone else, no matter how manifestly
accomplished or intellectually significant, as fakes or charlatans or talented
amateurs or whatever), with a fearless attitude towards conventional religion
and its want of Truth which, so far as I'm concerned, derives from the
fundamental Lie to which it subscribes, compliments of such antiquated
Creator-oriented books as those found in the Old Testament, not least in
Genesis itself, probably the greatest offender against Truth that ever was and
which still, along with the various grades of 'eminence front' that
conventional society hides behind at the colleges, still persists in existing
as official religion within the wait for it Judeo-Christian tradition of
anachronistic civilization.
Tall people do not usually mate with short
people, or short with tall. Those males well over six feet tall tend to favour
tall women, whereas males well under six feet are perforce obliged to settle
for women approximately their own height, or even a little shorter.
Consequently a distinction persists between
tall and short, or 'big' and 'small' people which is akin to that between big
and small fish, with the usual predator/prey, employer/employee, rich/poor,
licensor/licensee, etc., etc., implications.
There cannot be equality between those who are
so physically (and mentally) divergent as to effectively appertain to separate
social species, and therefore all talk of equality, especially from churchmen
and vote-hungry politicians, has to be evaluated in this light and, thus
exposed, regarded with the disdain it deserves.
Politicians often use the word 'fairness',
especially in England, the land of 'fair play' par excellence (at
least in theory), but one man's fairness is another man's unfairness, one man's
justice another's injustice.
A left-of-centre politician may speak of
equality of opportunity for all and of his party's endeavour to establish,
under some disguised or diluted form of socialism, a 'fair society' or, at any
rate, one that is 'fairer' than the one (evidently under a right-of-centre
government) currently in existence, but such 'fairness' only goes so far,
largely with regard to people of a working-class status and/or background. It
has nothing to do with the 'fairness' of a right-of-centre politician's
programme, which is more likely to revolve around the entitlement of the rich
and powerful, the privileged and business owners, to a bigger slice of the
proverbial cake by dint of their status and capacities (whether for greed or
simply in relation to ability).
Fairness for the 'big man' is an entirely
different proposition than fairness for the 'small man', who has a right to
existence but not a right to exclude the 'big man' or to avoid being preyed
upon, since he is to a large extent dependent on the former for his livelihood,
as on anybody who has money.
Therefore 'fairness' is a term that, as John
Cowper Powys might say, affords a wide solution, and, unfortunately, one type
of man's fair meat is another type of man's unfair poison, and so has it always
been.
I remember some lines from a poem by Oscar
Wilde which, describing the poor, went: 'Whose minds know nothing, nothing care
to know
' Which may well be the case. But if you don't have the financial or
social means to do certain things or go to various exotic or romantic places,
what is the point of knowing about them? Rather is it a case of: 'Where
ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be wise
' which, if memory serves, may well
be from a poem by the Scots poet Thomas Gray.
If religion were to disappear overnight, nobody
would be happier, or more relieved, than women. But what a tragedy that would
be for men!
The natural desire of most women for a male
child is not unconnected with the prospect of a more efficacious surrogate
plenum (than could be gleaned from a female child) to relieve them of the
tedious vacuity of mere existence as an unmarried or childless woman.
You can be free to do, free to give, or free to
take, but the one thing you cannot be in this world except to a limited
extent on days set aside for religious or other special purposes, like Easter
and Christmas is free to be (or to be free of freedom),
despite a nominal status as a human being.
To distinguish the alpha of high pediments from
the omega of high pediments, as one would distinguish the square from the
round, or the angular from the curved, with metachemical and metaphysical
implications that point up an antithesis, across the axial divide, between
autocracy and theocracy, noumenal objectivity and noumenal subjectivity,
absolute female and absolute male criteria.
The triangular pediment, which is of the
metachemical variety, may achieve a dominating superfeminine standing atop
certain faηades, but it is doubtful, as yet, that the curvilinear pediment,
which is of the metaphysical variety, has attained to a properly or fully
supermasculine standing atop buildings of an ecclesiastic nature, given the
dearth of metaphysical free psyche in the Western (catholic) tradition, by dint
of theocracy having to acknowledge and therefore be compromised by the
prevailing autocratic rule of metachemistry at the Judaic roots of the
Christian extrapolation, no matter how artfully this autocracy may have been
disguised as theocracy.
Christ on the (catholic) Cross does not amount,
despite theological pretensions to the contrary in relation, for instance, to
his upstretched arms, to a Y-chromosomal supercross, since still figuratively
beholden to superfeminine criteria in the Creator-esque guise of Devil the
Mother hyped as God the Father, with anything properly father-esque in relation
to Heaven lying beyond the Christian pale in a world (otherworldly in
character) entirely independent of metachemistry, as of the so-called
'Creator', the 'Almighty', etc., whether you interpret this in relation to
Buddhism or, from a global standpoint that is actually beyond rather than above
Western criteria, the prospect of 'Kingdom Come' and an end to 'the world' as
we know it.
I must admit that the Blues, even in the hands
of somebody as accomplished as Gary Moore, reminds me uncomfortably of angular
(triangular) pediments, and therefore of all things dominated or even
characterized as in the case of three-piece suits with bow-ties by
autocracy. A kind of fries, burger, cola parallel.
He bought a suit that didn't suit him, because
he wasn't suited to such attire and it was in no way suitable for him to dress
in a manner suggestive of an indifference if not opposition to metaphysics and
whatever was properly curvilinear. He was smarter than that.
Cogito, ergo sum - I think, therefore I exist, said Descartes,
uttering a profoundly philosophical statement. I am, therefore I exist
would also be philosophic, as would I exist, therefore I am. For it is the
individual, the philosopher, the artist, the saint, etc., who is particularly
aware of his existence as a sentient being. The masses, by contrast, flee from
self into life, which tends to allow the individual to forget about or ignore
his existence by interacting with others, whether in terms of doing (will),
giving (spirit), or taking (ego), none of which is conducive to being (soul),
which the masses, habituated to fleeing from self (under female-hegemonic
pressure) tend, falsely, to identify with death, as though death were the
gateway to Eternal Life, to a life of everlasting being (joy, bliss,
enlightenment, etc.).
Actually, death is the decomposition of
existence, and therefore the end of being. But those who have evaded existence
all or most of their lives will also be obliged to evade this fact, the better
to continue living (over or in 'the world') as long as possible.
To die, as an individual, to the flesh, as to
taking, giving, and doing, is not the same as to die to existence, but simply
amounts to dying to life, to freedom from existence and its corollary, well
known to philosophers and artists, of existential being, through the various
modes of evasion noted above. Such 'dying' paves the way for existential awareness
and the possibility of true being, even of intellectual or cultural greatness,
but has nothing in common with death, which puts an end to individual existence
and obliges those who have always lived collectively, in families and companies
and regiments and teams and congregations and so on, to abandon their life
delusion of freedom and embrace existence as though it were the corollary of
death instead of that condition of self-awareness death puts an end to, thereby
releasing one not so much from life as from existence.
I exist, therefore I am will be supplanted
by: I no longer exist, therefore I am not, and not because one has fled from
existence into one or more of life's freedoms (to do, to give, or to take)
always susceptible to triangular reference but because one has died and
continued, past degeneration, on the downhill path of decomposition (of
existence) that leads to nothing or, at any rate, to nothing recognizably human
bar one's skeleton (assuming one were buried rather than cremated) from
remaining, as skeletal testimony to former existence.
The artist and/or philosopher's works live-on
for ever because he has dared to exist, whereas the lives of the masses are
simply swallowed up by death.
Most people, whilst not afraid to live, are
demonstrably afraid to exist and therefore to be. To be or not to be? - That is a question that only a
comparatively small number of persons and then mostly male answer in the
affirmative. Most people either choose or are obliged, by circumstances, not to be, but to do, to give, or to
take, thereby opting for one or other of life's freedoms at the expense of
existence.
There is a sense in which the do-er is
autocratic, the taker plutocratic, the giver democratic, and the be-er
theocratic, to use comparable terminology. In overall axial terms, the taker is
polar to the do-er in state-hegemonic (protestant) opposition to the
church-hegemonic (catholic) polarity between the giver and the be-er.
In an age of freedom, when the possibility of
being delivered to being is
virtually non-existent and certainly redundant even on a truncated basis (the
catholic tradition), the givers, corresponding to the democratic masses, are
all the more vulnerable to predation at the hands ('claws' would be a more
appropriate term) of the do-ers and takers, of autocracy and plutocracy engaged
in a Faustian Pact, as it were, for the mutual exploitation of their
predestined prey who, deprived of messianic leadership and the concomitant
prospect of deliverance from their plight, are only too likely, in such
circumstances, to be 'ripped off' and kept in their dependent place within the
parameters of worldly society.
In such an age, characterized by the dominance
of predatory freedom, civilization has slipped back from having an existential
or, more correctly in relation to the Catholic tradition, quasi-existential
dimension to being a mere artificial reflection of Nature, and thus of Nature's
predatory instincts, rooted in female (objective) freedom, for exploiting and
killing 'the weak'.
The struggle against predation for true
civilization, or civilization open to existential being and, if possible,
centred in the possibility of such being, is the struggle for the future, in
order to rescue the future from the present and return civilization to a more
artificial and, hence, evolved form of what transpired in the Christian and
especially Medieval Catholic past.
But this will not be 'just another
civilization' (Henry Miller); it will be commensurate with 'Kingdom Come', the
open stretch of self-realization in the metaphysics of existential being, which
can only transpire if what is contrary to existential being (in life-oriented
non-existential doing, the metachemical manifestation of maximum freedom) is no
longer able to operate, following the salvation of life-oriented
non-existential giving or, rather, pseudo-taking to existential being and the
counter-damnation of life-oriented non-existential giving to pseudo-doing, a
pseudo-doing kept down to pseudo-metachemical deference to metaphysics, akin to
the biblical 'lion' and/or 'wolf' that 'lies down' (a plane down in
pseudo-space under time) with the 'lamb of God' or, more correctly, of
Godliness in Heaven, and only because, having been neutralized (or lanced, to
use a metaphor owing more to St George and the Dragon), it is simply not in a
position to do otherwise.
What did Queen Elizabeth I (the so-called
'Virgin Queen') and Adolf Hitler have in common? Answer: They put their
respective countries above their sex lives and refused (except in Hitler's case
when service to his country was at or near its end) to marry. Admirable,
wouldn't you say?
I, too, have always been reluctant to marry,
not least for being an Irishman in England who, as a self-taught philosopher,
chose existence above life, becoming increasingly scornful, as time went by, of
writing prose, poetry, and drama, or anything analogous. But also because,
well, the environments in which I live or have lived were never particularly
conducive to romance, being way too built-up and overcrowded for my liking.
Enough bodies knocking around, as it is!
What is it about north
I would have no regrets about leaving this
world, only an immense sense of relief which would probably be akin to Heaven
(as Schopenhauer would have understood it, that is, more as a release from
suffering than a new experience complete in itself).
Rather than continue to live the Lie, it is
better to die to life in order to be reborn into Truth and thus into the
fulness of existential being, even if such being is fated to be snuffed out
by mortal death and a kind of mini-eternity of non-existential being the other
side of death in the so-called Afterlife.
Freedom is fundamentally a wilful manifestation
of the Lie (metachemistry or, rather, metachemistry-hyped-as-metaphysics), but
it can also be a spiritual manifestation of the half-lie (chemistry) or an
intellectual manifestation of the half-truth (physics), depending on the kind
of freedom prevailing at any one time.
Only existential being can liberate one from
freedom through the Truth (metaphysics proper). But the type of freedom would
have to be characterized by domination of the half-lie (chemistry) of spiritual
giving before any prospect of liberation from it could be envisaged, whether in
terms of salvation of the pseudo-physical (to metaphysics) or counter-damnation
of the chemical (to pseudo-metachemistry).
In such fashion, what could be called the
pseudo-half truth (of pseudo-physics) is saved to the Truth (of metaphysics),
whilst the half-lie (of chemistry) is counter-damned to the pseudo-Lie (of
pseudo-metachemistry), the phenomenally 'first' (equivocally hegemonic) in the
latter case becoming noumenally 'last' (unequivocally subordinate) and the
phenomenally 'last' (equivocally subordinate) in the former case becoming
noumenally 'first' (unequivocally hegemonic), as in metaphysics over
pseudo-metachemistry, time over pseudo-space, as against chemistry over
pseudo-physics, volume over pseudo-mass, in what would be a reversal of gender
standings from southwest to northeast points, or poles, of the intercardinal
axial compass on a stepped-up church-hegemonic axis.
Artists are those who prefer to reflect upon
society than to participate in it, standing back, at an existentialist remove,
from life's various kinds of freedom.
Philosophy is less about reflecting upon
society though that, alas, happens than about utilizing logic to a rational
end the end, ultimately, of self-realization and, hence, the Truth
conceived, properly, as a metaphysical order of subjectivity.
I am, besides being a reluctant writer,
somewhat of a reluctant saviour, since saving from 'the world' is not what
people think, nor can it be dissociated from the concomitant process, if you
will, of counter-damnation, a fate less applicable, so I teach, to pseudo-males
than to females within the parameters of mainstream worldliness down at the
southwest point of the intercardinal axial compass at the foot of the
traditional church-hegemonic axis.
A low persistent thrumming or humming
reverberating with periodic ups-and-downs all through the night which makes one
reluctant to go to bed, especially since, when it doesn't keep one awake, it
disturbs what little sleep one gets and, in waking up early, makes it difficult
for one to settle down again or get back to sleep. What could it be, I wonder?
An electricity generator? Something to do with the nearby station? An extractor
behind the kitchen of some Indian restaurant over towards
Although appearing to champion literature,
philosophy, and other worthy literary causes, book publishers are actually
enemies of original writing who give a contractual inch only to take a
commercial mile, as it were, in due course, thereby resembling women. Frankly,
I would never offer any of my writings to conventional publishers these days,
and am only too relieved, in retrospect, that my comparatively youthful efforts
to have various of my early writings published in book form some decades ago
came to nothing, and that, due to a combination of factors, I was spared the
fate of those who somehow get original literary material published, thinking
they're on to a good thing, only to discover, some two or three publications
later, that they are having the shots called by people whose primary if not
sole interest is to make money from publishing and to do so, needless to say, at
the author's expense, meaning (when he is not actually paying to have something
published by the so-called vanity press) at the expense of whatever
intellectual or spiritual pretensions he may formerly have entertained.
The internet, I have to confess, spared me from
such a stultifying fate, allowing me to continue writing in my own way and with
regard to what mattered to me independently of editorial interference and the
constraints imposed by commercial necessity, which turns the freeman into a
slave and makes of the mediocre mind a champion of literary taste. As though
there were anything cutting-edge, these days, about novels and such like
literary works published in book form! A form that, long ago, degenerated
social democratically into the paperback of today, with the usual punctuation
contractions and avoidance of 'good taste' or sensible spacing, never mind
intelligible grammar. The paperback is indeed 'down market', but in such a way
that literature is debased by it and usually only a pretty debased type of
literature, suitable to an average mind, results, which of course publishers
are only too willing to publish, since there are far more average minds than
distinguished ones. For what matters to them, remember, is selling books, and
to as many different types of average people, from children and adults of both
sexes to old folks, as possible.
The sooner the Irish drag themselves, or are
dragged, out of the bog into which the Republic has sunk them, the better! For
there is no salvation to be had from the Republic, only from what would
ideologically transcend it in relation to 'Kingdom Come', as interpreted by me
in terms of a return to 'the Garden' of 'the Centre' by Social Theocracy
championing the cause of both salvation (of pseudo-males within pseudo-physics)
and counter-damnation (of females within chemistry), the twin approaches to
deliverance from their particular type of worldliness which axially contrasts,
it has to be said, with that of the parliamentary/puritan British masses.
To be in paradise, as in the 'Garden of Eden',
is to be subject, as a male, to existential being, perfectly at one with one's
self. However, that is the only way you can, as a male, return to it, though
not strictly on biblical terms commensurate with a literal return to Eden or
any equivalent 'natural paradise' but, rather, on a more evolved synthetically
artificial basis deriving from the subjective thrust of civilized evolution.
Either way, Eve, or Woman, is irrelevant, since the source and ongoing
guarantor of expulsion from
But, of course, recourse to biblical
interpretation of 'the Beginning' and the 'Fall from
Such a paradoxical not to say hypocritical god
cannot be trusted from a strictly divine standpoint, any more than can much of
what passes for Truth in the Bible and other such conventional or traditional
religious texts. When I draw upon biblical metaphor or interpretation I do so
to illustrate a point, not to affirm belief in the Bible as such which, so far
as I'm concerned, will need to be officially consigned to the rubbish heap of
history within the context of 'Kingdom Come', if religious progress is truly to
be made.
Someone of Christian descent, raised in both
Catholic and Protestant communities, living for over two decades in a
Moslem-owned house in which the Bangladeshi landlord and his family, or
extended family, also lived, having gradually moved in from elsewhere in the
neighbourhood as and when circumstances permitted or, more likely, dictated
what could be worse? It is a wonder he survived and lived to fight another day,
not least against all forms of religious fundamentalism worshipfully
deferential to the monotheistic delusion of God as Creator
of the Universe,
the world, animals, people, etc.
How he detests such falsehood and, by extrapolation,
the kind of people associated with it, ever susceptible to autocratic freedom
and never more sanctimoniously insufferable than when women are exploiting the
more fundamentalist aspects of such religions to ensure the continuance of
conservative approaches to life and thus the persistence of values inimical to
anything genuinely religious, as characterizable not by freedom of any
description, but by being, which is more than just being free of doing, giving, and
taking, much as that is a precondition of what I have in mind.
How he detests that freedom-worshipping
sonofabitch!
What with all the drilling and hammering during
the day still as ferocious as ever and the low persistent thrumming or,
more correctly, booming of some generator or extractor or whatever all through
the night, I almost forgot to mention the astonishing effects of the gale-force
winds upon the tarpaulin draped, in several overlapping layers, over the
scaffolding beside and, indeed, overlapping my bedroom window which, last night,
was especially violent, as the gusts tore into the loose plastic sheeting,
causing it to twist and turn this way and that with a plethora of mostly
nondescript noises to which words like flapping or tearing would hardly do
justice! Suffice it to say that the low booming outrage was considerably
upstaged by the magnitude of the buffeting being inflicted upon the workmen's
tarpaulin by an implacable wind, whose merciless gusts descended from above
like birds of prey intent upon ripping it to shreds and devouring whatever it
concealed.
I was as if frozen in my bed by this horror
and, what with the more predictable torture from the low booming noise, found
it almost impossible to get to sleep. And all the while my mind was rushing
ahead, as though in an alcohol-fuelled frenzy, in anticipation of the early
start around 8 a.m. - of the drilling and hammering noises next-door to which
I feared I would now be more vulnerable from want of sleep.
How I hate this fucking country!
There are three things the British excel at:
bullying, brutality, and bigotry, as though in reflection of a triangular
commitment to life. Oh, I forgot 'bullshit', but then that could be substituted
for pretty much any of the foregoing or regarded, for that matter, as a kind of
American extrapolation from the same.
The dead saviour on the Cross tellingly
illustrates what could be regarded as the traditional state of religious
affairs in the West by exemplifying the extent to which metaphysics is a 'dead
letter' with most so-called Christians.
Christ was killed by those who esteem life
(that consequence of expulsion from 'the Garden') above existential being, and
the result is the dearth of metaphysics characterizing a civilization beholden
to the worship of metachemistry and to the effective domination of females.
I have already written about the paradox of a
god who ostensibly made Adam in his own image also making, at a later juncture
and evidently in consequence of a request, Adam's nemesis in the form of Eve.
That two-faced entity, with a capacity to make the antithesis of a man, namely
a woman, is not the kind of god with which I would wish to be associated! Quite
apart from that, getting back to 'the Garden', not in any Joni
Mitchell-inspired hippy sense of the so-called Woodstock generation intent upon
a return to Nature but rather in terms of progressing towards its synthetically
artificial equivalence, can only happen in relation to male freedom from female
domination ('the world') and, hence, to a situation in which 'Eve' is
effectively killed off (neutralized) in order that 'Adam', or his
supermasculine equivalent, can be true to his self in the paradise of
existential being instead of, as now, deferential, through self-rejection, to
another.
This is the St George and the Dragon metaphor,
or the lamb and the (neutralized) lion metaphor that amounts to a structural
distinction, involving two planes, between metaphysics and
pseudo-metachemistry, time and pseudo-space, male and pseudo-female,
righteousness and pseudo-justice, Heaven and (not the simple
fulcrum-overlooking parallelism of pseudo-Hell but) the pseudo-Devil, the
heaven of free soul (Heaven the Holy Soul) and the pseudo-Devil of pseudo-bound
will (pseudo-Devil the pseudo-Mother), joy and pseudo-ugliness.
So paradise regained can only transpire if the
male is liberated from the female and thus from the objective clutches of Doing
(noumenal) and giving (phenomenal) that, together with the subjectivity of
male taking
(phenomenal), conduce towards life as a rejection of Being (noumenal),
as symbolized by the Crucifixion.
Only when existential being is resurrected will
the Cross cease to have any meaning and those who have died to Being,
as to Paradise, be saved from life (as from 'the world'), liberated from
freedom by that which is neither free nor unfree (bound) but simply is,
which is the condition of Heaven.
Because of my commitment to Being
through thought, I have been reluctant to write. But now I feel I have given
quite enough to make the truth intelligible to the (lapsed catholic/republican
socialist) masses, without whose acquiescence there can be no deliverance from
'the world' and therefore no possibility of 'Kingdom Come', whether in terms of
salvation or counter-damnation, the rise to metaphysics or the counter-fall to
pseudo-metachemistry, depending on gender.
Have you ever noticed, as an adult male, how
subjectivity is vitiated by proximity to a woman; how, in public places like,
say, libraries, a female's natural objectivity impinges upon it as a matter of
course and renders one less subjective? That is the threat to Self which
continuously transpires in a world torn between male and female gender
antitheses and well short, in consequence, of
Beware, you men, the seductions of 'the world';
for they only lead to reproduction, not to salvation.
Generation, or reproduction, leading to the
male flight from existential being, as from cadence (not to be confounded with
composure in death), only results in decadence, the male equivalent, in a
twisted psyche, of female degeneration (following menopause) which,
paradoxically, allows for a degree of recrudescent cadence (resignation) in the
male, pending death.
And what, exactly, is he resigned to? - To
existential being, if not also to the prospect of non-existential being, or pure
being, following death, which is not the same as composure in death,
least of all in relation to males, who, whether they realize it or not, have
this extra dimension which females simply don't.
One of the worst T-shirts I ever bought: gone
at the neck, with sleeves way too short, and now too tight to wear. A more apt
description would be: T-shi(r)t.
Commonness is a woman, incapable of deep
thought or true originality, and all tit-for-tatism fuelled by objectivity, an
outgoing disposition, an extrovert impulsiveness, stems, in anti-Christian
vein, from woman, as from those who are commonly engaged in the pursuit and
achievement, by turns, of a reproductive end, the acquirement of a surrogate
plenum to relieve the burden of fundamental vacuousness.
The French-Algerian philosopher Camus found
nothing wrong with commonness, or the fact of one's being common. I do. And so
would any right-thinking male who was in any degree capable of distinction.
Woman, not money or gold, is the root of all
evil (Eve), and anybody who thinks otherwise is either a fool or a scoundrel,
and certainly ignorant.
The typical or archetype snob is a woman trying
her undamnedest not to appear common, despite all the gender evidence to the
contrary.
The Protestant-dominated cutting edge of
Western civilization busily digging its own equalitarian grave, upon which
descends an avalanche of global barbarism to bury what remains of its
once-proud libertarianism, the fruit of liberalism, beneath a mass of strutting
feminism and female domination in general, which smothers its death agonies
under proletarian rhetoric about freedom for all, especially the freedom to
dissent or desist from thought and other forms of subjectivity traditionally
associated, in the popular imagination, with male chauvinist elitism and the
correlative bourgeois or clerical oppression of women.
So you must repress your urge to think, my fine
gentleman, and join in the frenzied dance of the Many, the dance of id-governed
impulse and instinct which, whether disguised as sport or posing as culture or
even plain nakedly, struts its mind-killing stuff over every institution that
may once have been the preserve of the Few or even of males alone.
Did they bring about their own downfall, these
wishy-washy liberals, or were they cowed into submitting and, through further
compromise, throwing away their worldly gains? Whatever the case, they let the
proverbial cat out of the bag, and now they are akin to mice who haven't even
got a decent hole to hide in.
With a degree of reluctance, born of tiredness
and eye strain, I put down my pen, my biro, return my current notebook to the
table upon which I habitually lay it, and then remove the wax earplugs from
each of my ears, to return them to their customary small plastic case. I knew
the 'cats' were prowling nearby; for the walls always have sharp, pointed ears
of thought-forbidding mischief which it is only possible to defeat or, at any
rate, ignore if one has taken the necessary precautions and, with the aid of
earplugs, sealed oneself off sufficiently to be able to think (and write)
without a sense of being continuously interfered with and effectively
threatened by external censure of one's subjective designs. This is no country
house, nor even a summer retreat, but an urban flat in a terraced house in a
particularly built-up part of north
Meanwhile, the tattered remnants of vilified
and vitiated subjectivity limp on towards
RELUCTANCE.
Reluctance to live; reluctance to die.
Reluctance to write; reluctance not to write.
Resigned to existence because consigned to
birth from the womb in which one existed, as in a watery tomb that was the
death-in-life, the pre-life antithesis to any post-life life-in-death of the
soul's immortality.
Hell is being alone from a female
point-of-view. Heaven, by contrast, is being alone from a male standpoint. In
the world, on the other hand, either women dominate men in alpha over
pseudo-omega (chemistry over pseudo-physics) or, in axially antithetical vein,
men dominate women in omega over pseudo-alpha (physics over pseudo-chemistry).
Either way, worldly people are rarely if ever alone.
Literature has generally lagged behind the
other arts in the twentieth century and even now in the early twenty-first
century, especially painting and music, because of the commercial requirements
of conventional publishers and the contractual obligations of authors. With the
internet, all that, thank goodness, is in the process of changing, and I, for
one, am only too relieved to be able to write the way I choose and still have
my writings published. In that regard, they are not a means to either me or
somebody else (agent, editor, publisher, etc.) becoming rich, but, being
philosophical, are ends in themselves, all the more gratifyingly so the closer
they draw or the more justice they do to metaphysical truth.
An age dominated by woman can only be
extrovert, outgoing, sociable, sensual, superficial, equalitarian, and
generally given over to all things public and international in short,
cosmopolitan. Such an age, whose alpha-point is akin to the vacuousness of a
cathode-ray-tube, revels in the common, not in distinctions or exceptions, but
in a kind of communal conformity to objective criteria epitomized, in our own time,
by cinema and television. But, like a woman, it snobbishly strives to cloak its
commonness behind rhetorical pretensions and social masks.
