29-30/04/13

This is without a doubt the worst environment I have ever lived in for hammering noises!

Yesterday I was mentally driven to a near pathological rage (not, incidentally, for the first time in recent months) over the sheer volume and brutality of the noise that was being generated next-door and in other nearby properties evidently also undergoing renovation (an understatement, if ever there was one!). One feels nothing but a sort of righteous indignation over the indignity of having to live with the barbarity of all this heavy-handed manual work that the British – and/or their foreign lackeys – appear to excel at. All the more galling for taking place ostensibly in the name of civilization! More specifically, their level or type of civilization. Instead of prefabricating everything or, at any rate, whatever can be reasonably prefabricated, all they do, these urban artisans, is prop-up or renovate old buildings of, for the most part, a kind of petty-bourgeois terraced nature.

Today, confined to bed with a nasty cold, I regard the continuing noise of workmen hammering and drilling and scraping and sawing and hell knows what else the other side of my bedroom wall as nothing short of a sick joke, as though the repetitive persistence of these same noises in the same places (usually as close to my bed as possible) month after month were attributable to automatons that, like those in Raymond Roussell's surrealist novel Locus Solus, have been pre-programmed to act in a limited number of specific ways, without rhyme or reason but solely as the product of some mechanical necessity. Or even, I am reluctant to admit, out of some perverse vendetta or sadistic perversity! In this state of ill-health, with my 'spitting bowl' rapidly filling up with the polluted spittle of a day's throat infection, I feel more disgusted than ever, as though life were no more than some kind of malevolent conspiracy (by the British and their overseas' lackeys or admirers) against me! After all, as an exceptional being, by their pragmatic standards, why shouldn't it be?

David Tyrnan O'Malley was the Irishman who voluntarily came to England – unlike myself – and sold-out to the British as the ex-Butlin's comedian Dave Allen, who subsequently became famous for ridiculing the faith of his ancestors and thereby making Catholics – and in particular Irish Catholics – appear ridiculous to an-all-too receptive British audience. Rot in hell, Dave Allen; you don't deserve the name you were born with or the birthright you rejected!

Aesthetics is the attempt of the deluded to denude Nature of Her predatory pragmatism and somehow render Her tame. But Nature – and the Beautiful in particular – cannot be tamed by those who worship the false art of aesthetics, only presented in a contradictory light (much like Devil the Mother hyped as God the Father or, in simple parlance, beauty hyped as truth).

Any art worthy of religious respect is always about Truth rather than some refined sense of Beauty likely to amount to no more, to put it bluntly, than 'the best of a bad job'.

I detest aesthetes, because they confound science with religion and, hence, Beauty with Truth, coaxing people to be resigned to the Alpha at the expense of the Omega. For alpha hyped as omega, like metachemistry hyped as metaphysics, necessarily excludes the latter. All one is then left with is a kind of High Anglican absorption in the worship of Nature, particularly in its supernatural manifestation, which is that of the Beautiful, as of the exemplification of Free Will and the sanction, whether to an infinite degree or more usually in some circumscribed measure, of autocracy.

Those whose sartorial appearance is triangular in one way or another are almost certainly going to be pro-aesthetic (and therefore anti-ethical).

A constitutional monarchy is an aesthete's kind of monarchy, whereby Beauty (and its utilization of free will) has been tamed, that is, placed under certain constitutional constraints susceptible to aesthetic refinement.

The apostles of 'true love' are of the sort who bend metaphysics towards metachemistry and thereby preclude any place for metaphysics proper, i.e., the Truth. So-called 'true love' is dear to those who either lack a capacity for Truth or prefer to idealize Beauty and its concomitant (in metachemical free soma) attribute of Love, largely, I suspect, in consequence of gender. 'True love' renders Truth, for such persons, unnecessary or irrelevant or, worse, a figment of the imagination when not associated with love.

But 'true love', for all its prejudicial limitations, is not 'free love' or, in a sense, the rejection of love in the interests, more freely, of sex. The apostles of 'free love' have little time or inclination for 'true love', and may well be closer, despite their promiscuity, to the possibility of Truth.

If, as a male, you get burnt by Beauty … you fall in love, and once you have fallen in love you are likely, as a man, to fall into carnality and eventually find yourself frozen-out by family, since children take precedence over husbands for most wives.

Therefore the prospect of falling in love again with somebody else could well prove attractive to the partly disillusioned male, as a means to thawing out the chill and rekindling a spark of lust. Until the next time …