Kill the bankers and burn down the churches!

From one hell to the next we traverse as though it were the simplest thing to do.

The Daily Rut Continued

Like Sisyphus, we tend to our daily toils--an exercise in futility. For years, we manage somehow to keep a stiff upper lip, never complaining about our slavish lot in life, never standing up to the task-masters who brandish the whip just above our backs, until one day...

But this one day is nothing more than a phantom, it is a dream that we keep and cherish just so that we may muster the courage to get out of bed each day. There is in all actuality no "one day" at all. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, we are beaten down, broken, and finally ground back into the dust from whence we came. All the while "knowing in our heart of hearts" that someday we would triumph. Until, at the very end, we are finally tossed aside like the lifeless meat that we have gradually become. And it is only then that we suddenly realize that our one day was never even a possibility.

The Daily Rut

The daily rut was quickly becoming his future grave...

A Life-long Friend

It it possible, given enough time and practice, not only to become accustomed to one's self-loathing, but to begin even to love it--even miss it when, by some strange chance, it abates for a time, and losing it is like losing a life-long friend.

Off With His Cast!

Well, the cast came off yesterday, and the stitches were removed. It's hard to believe how swollen my foot still is two weeks after surgery. The bottom of my foot is so swollen that when I put my foot flat on the ground, my toes still hover about a half-inch off the floor. Oh well, at least I'm out of that gigantic cast.

I guess I should say something here about injuries that's profound and insightful. Though, having broken eight bones in the last seven years, I'm not sure there really is anything profound to be said about being injured.

Acting Cruelly

"When you've never done a thing before, and that thing is not simply and clearly right or wrong, you frequently do not know if it is a cruel thing. You just go ahead and do it. Maybe later you'll be able to determine whether you've acted cruelly...too late of course, but at least you'll know."
--Russel Banks

Gray

The Autumn rains are beginning to set in. A thick solemn gray permeates the sky, the air, and the deepest thoughts and feelings of the local inhabitants. Winter will be upon us soon, along with its cold, silent stillness--so reminiscent of death. It's the weather of the recluse; grave and life-wary as the hermit's soul.

Stir Crazy

I've been a virtual shut-in for the last two and a half weeks--only getting out when somebody with a car and a few free hours to kill happens to drop by. For a man with few friends (and making less everyday), this doesn't occur very often. I think my walls may actually be growing smaller...next time I go out I should get a tape-measure, then I can be sure. The air in my apartment is quickly growing stale and inhospitable to the fragile requirements of human lungs. And then to top everything off, I think someone keeps coming in at night while I'm sleeping, and moving everything into hard to reach locations so they can sit around laughing at me...they must have installed a camera while I was under the influence of their damnable anesthetic. Well, I'll show them. Tonight I'm going to stay up all night, sitting, waiting for them in the dark. Just me, my bottle of scotch, and Mr. 357...then we'll see who's laughing.

From the Land of Cannibals

"In solitude the solitary man consumes himself, in the crowd the crowd consumes him. Now choose." --Friedrich Nietzsche

Quick Update

For anyone who cares, concerning my last post, I will be going in for surgery on my ankle on Wednesday to get two screws put in. Also, walking on crutches wouldn't be nearly so bad if it weren't for the fact that the foot I'm putting all my weight on is also broken. Oh well, God may have won this battle, but the war is far from over.

Beware of God

In a recent post I told a short story which ended with me hitting God in the face with a stick. It seems God did not find the story nearly as funny as I did, and so on Sunday morning (appropriately enough), he took his revenge. Instead of simply hitting me back in the face with a stick, however, he decided to one-up me by running over both of my legs with a Dodge Ram while I slept--breaking my right ankle and my left foot at the same time. I'll be going in for surgery on the ankle sometime early next week. Moral of the story: always remember to let sleeping Gods lie.

Insomnia

Insomnia is proof that God does exist, and that he despises you with a passion only known to fresh lovers, and the kind of psychopath who would torture a man to find out whether or not he actually believes in you (see Job; chapters 1 through 42). There's absolutely nothing worse than laying awake all night, knowing that you have to wake up before the sun does, but no matter how hard you try, you can't force yourself to sleep. Every nerve is on fire, and your thoughts linger among fields of self- doubt, self-hatred, and deep-seated childhood fears that never quite leave you alone. You lay down in your bed, close your eyes, and prepare for that momentary oblivion that you look forward to all day long when, to your utter dismay, you find that your mind is suddenly full of all the thoughts and memories that you would rather just let die.

So you turn on the t.v., pour yourself a drink, and prepare yourself for another long, lonely night of hell's most perfect torture. After all, who needs eternal damnation, when you've got insomnia?

Is God Really Dead?

It had been another excruciatingly long and boring holiday--I spent the whole day either watching t.v. or surfing the net. So around eight o clock I decided to go ahead and take a nice evening ambulation to the park. The weather was exquisite, and there was a fine sunset to accompany my rambling thoughts. I was strolling down the path as it meandered in and out of the coves of trees that spotted the park, when I came across what looked like some sleeping transient. By this time the light was beginning to fade out, and so I leaned in to get a better look. That's when I noticed something strange about this drunken rabble. To begin with, he had a long white beard reaching down to the middle of his chest (note--this in itself is not that exceptionally odd, as many of our city's homeless have this distinction, as well as the distinction of being passed out drunk in the park), but what made this fellow truly remarkable was the flowing white robes that seemed to illuminate the space around him, along with the exceptionally wrathful look of his furrowed brow. By God! It was God!

I stood utterly still for several seconds, holding my breath, and just listening. I couldn't tell whether or not he was breathing, or what exactly not breathing would imply. Does God breathe? There was an empty bottle still occupying his half-clutched fist. Was he just sleeping one off? Or could it be...is it possible...was God actually dead? I searched the ground all around me, and found an appropriately sized stick. "Only one way to find out," I thought. Backing away to what seemed a safe distance, I pointed the stick at his ribs and gave a slight poke. Nothing. I steadied myself and again gave a jab, this time a little harder than the first. Still nothing. "Alright," I thought. "If this doesn't work then I'll know for certain he's dead." With that thought running through my head, I raised the stick high above my head, and then with all the force and precision of an executioner, I brought the stick down right across the bridge of his nose.

God shot straight up, and let fly a string of obscenities that hardly seemed appropriate coming from the mouth of the creator of the universe. As his mighty wrath came showering down upon me, I comforted myself with the knowledge that Nietzsche was wrong: God wasn't dead, he was just piss drunk.

A Brief Respite from the Day-to-day Monotony

What is it that draws a persons attention to an accident? We've all seen it before, and we've all participated in it: rubber-necking. Something about car wrecks seems to grab our attention and not let us go, no matter how hard we struggle against it. Is it, as the cynic in me would suggest, simple schadenfreude (the joy one finds in watching others suffer), or is it something else?

For many of us, life is nothing more than routine and habit. We wake up, go to work, come home, make dinner, clean the dishes, watch a little t.v., and maybe have a couple of drinks before going to bed. Day in and day out, it's the same damn thing over and over, like Sisyphus and his rock. And then one day something completely unexpected happens; some unforeseen event is allowed to unfold before our eyes, and for a brief moment we seem to shed all the circuits and wires of our robotic existence, and we are allowed to live for those few seconds. Even though it didn't happen to us, still our imagination takes flight. What if it was me in that car? What if that truck had reached that car just a split-second earlier? Might someone have died? I wonder what it would feel like to be in a car as it rolls over again and again? All these questions, along with a thousand similar ones, come racing through our minds all at once--half way perceived, and half way unconscious.

And so it is that we find our own humanity during this brief respite from the day-to-day monotony of life.

Bacchian Beauty

He clutched the bottle, like some sacred talisman, tight to his chest as though he would be able to absorb its warming effects by osmosis. It had been four solid days since he had his last drink, and the mere thought of going even one more day was eating him up inside. Putting the bottle back down on his writing desk, he pulled a small silver knife from his pocket, and began cutting the tinfoil wrapper away from the cork. He could already taste the whiskey, as he had been dreaming of virtually nothing else for the last three days. The wrapper now disposed of--discarded on the living room floor--he gently pried the cork from the bottle, listening for that subtle "pop" as the air rushed in to fill the small vacuum. With the patient eagerness of a man relishing the anticipation, he poured the light brown liquid over the single ice-cube that occupied the glass. Solemnly, lovingly, he pressed the top of the glass between thumb and forefinger, and with a delicacy only a true alcoholic could appreciate, he formed a small, repeated circular motion with his hand, watching with joy as the water mingled with the whiskey, producing a magnificent work of art, unbeknownst to the inner echelons of high society and the artists that fill its ranks. Lifting the glass to his nose, he took in the sweet aroma before pressing the glass to his lips. The liquid filled his mouth, rushing over his tongue, and warming his chest and belly. The grotesque multitudinous of life merged and transformed within his soul into a singular moment of Bacchian beauty.

Playful Movements

Meandering light-footedly through paths of fallen leaves and broken twigs,
The body twists, spins, turns and flips in playful movements of joyous jubilation.
The cool autumn breeze blows lightly through the hair,
Picking it up and making it dance like a marionette controlling its own strings.
Rays of light warm the naked skin.
Everywhere there is the feeling of a connection with God.

Just a Leaf

It fluttered down before him; this leaf on its journey to nowhere. A winter dream, and nothing more.

The Wisdom of Kafka

"Like a path in autumn: no sooner is it cleared than it is once again littered with fallen leaves." --The Zurau Aphorisms; #15

We look in every direction, and see before us only the Sisyphean futility of an unrelenting universe. Regardless of how many bills we pay, our desks remain eternally entrenched with past-due notices. Despite our unending number of friends, enemies, indifferent acquaintances and neighbors, we are forever meeting new people. No matter how many days we have wasted or seized, there is always tomorrow.

The wisdom of Kafka lies in his ability to see this futility, not as something dreadful or terrible, but as something akin to autumn leaves, gently falling upon the pathway; to be cleaned away or left alone, solely at our discretion.

I'm Back

Well it's been about nine months now since I last posted anything. I've been off vacationing in my own little corner of hell, and I gotta tell you it's not quite as bad as Dante makes it out to be, in fact some parts of it are really pretty nice. But, having had my fill of the place, I decided to come back to linger a bit longer with you, my dear readers. (Ha ha, just kidding. Nobody actually reads this tripe.)

shitfest

Due to a current lack of anything at all to say, my next few posts will be some of my earlier writings copied and pasted to my blog. I hope you enjoy them...but I forewarn you, most of it (along with everything you read on this blog) is crap. So let the shitfest begin...

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN JUDAS AND THE DEVIL

Or

(The Hermit and the Pilgrim)

It was growing incredibly late, and this, mixed with his already restless thoughts, produced in Judas a rather morbid state of mind. He began pacing anxiously across his small but well kept room, occasionally stopping to stare distractedly into to the corner for long stretches of time before he would resume to pacing. It is doubtful that he was actually thinking of anything in particular, more likely he was experiencing swarms of half articulated thoughts bombarding from all sides his already fatigued mind. He had stopped pacing and was again staring hard at nothing when he was suddenly torn awake by a sharp knock at the door. He hesitated for a brief moment before crossing the room to answer the door. Opening the door he found in front of him not his three expected guests but rather one entirely unknown stranger.

The man standing before him was of a somewhat smaller stature, old but with an amiable smile stretched across his face. He asked in a voice as sweet and radiant as his smile if Judas might not take an old pilgrim in for the night. Judas thought it over for a moment, then agreed on the condition that should his expected visitors arrive the old man would at once be sent to the back room in which Judas normally slept. The old man delightedly agreed to the conditions and without further ado entered, taking a seat in a small wooden chair by the table.

“I’ve been walking for many days now,” he prattled out, seizing the opportunity to engage someone in conversation. “My feet are terribly sore,” he went on almost gaily. Judas only looked the man over, not bothering to respond, and continued once more to pace the room. The old man however made no notice of the fact that such blatant rudeness and hostility were being directed at him and went on speaking in a most friendly manner. “I’m heading to the village where I was brought up, about two days travel from here, for the annual festivities. It begins with a morning of prayer and silence which lasts until noon each day, this is followed by song and dance and food and fun lasting well into each night. This goes on for a week…do you have any bread and water? I am terribly hungry.”

Judas shot the man a sidelong glance, this time however, without the annoyance and malice that shone through before. A smile suddenly broke upon his face as he turned and disappeared behind a small doorway. He emerged a moment later with a couple of roles and a bottle of wine. “Behold you have turned my water into wine!” shouted the old man playfully. The irreverence of the old man’s statement somehow relieved him and put him at ease. Judas put the requested treats upon the table and sat down across from the old man to share in the makeshift meal.

“Ah, how good of you sir, to be so inclined as to break bread with such a humble old pilgrim as myself, speaks wonders of your noble spirit. You know, I have heard it said that two noble spirits will recognize each other no matter what garb they may be attired in. It is like recognizing a long lost brother that one happens upon in the streets. It’s a certain gleam in the eye, a nod of the head, that tells of their true identity.”

“Come now old man,” replied Judas, who had begun to take a great interest in this old man who now sat before him, “is not age supposed to bring with it wisdom? What folly is this, that you should speak of noble spirits? In all your years of wandering these barren plains, have you still not taken notice that all that surrounds you is the cold desolation of eternity? Your nobility of spirit is nothing more then a comfort for those who cannot stand up to the isolation of being that is inherent to life.”

“You speak a hard truth my boy, but you should be wary of who you speak such truths to. There are many who will not forgive you such a truth as this. It is a cry that can be uttered only by one who has spent countless years wandering in the deserts of life. It is a bitter shock for one unaccustomed to the sting of scorpions.”

“Yet, you will forgive me, won’t you? For it seems to me as though you are one who is accustomed to the scorpion’s tail. That is if I am not mistaken, though I do not think I am.”

“Listen friend,” replied the old man. “You and I, we are a rare breed, alien to whatever soil we chance to grow from and this is as it should be. For the truths we carry would be too great a burden for most. Ah, you smile because you think that I am merely boasting out of vanity. And it would be a most vain ass indeed who would boast of his burden; for to expect recognition and admiration on account of one’s isolation through suffering is sheer folly.

“Now listen closely and I will tell a truth which I have judged you to be in the most need of and for that very reason it will also be the hardest for you to accept. Do not suppose, my young friend, that standing apart from the masses means standing above the masses. It means only that you stand apart. So you have grown sick of their customs, you have left them to find yourself, and what you have found is the terrible weight of isolation. Do you think bearing such a weight to be virtuous? But how can you believe this? You, I surmise, have given up on any hope of virtue in this world, and then of course you don’t believe in other worlds. And yet you bow to this bit of self-flattery, this small self-deceit that allows you to put yourself a step above the rest of humanity.”

“Ach, truly old man, your words are the scorpion’s tail and I can see that you yourself have fought long and hard with this idea. But how is it that you presume to dissect my soul when you have not yet known me an hour?”

“Have my judgments then strayed from the facts or do you merely deny what offends your pride and sensibility?”

“Facts?! What facts? Here I thought we were speaking of truths! Truth has as little to do with fact as it has to do with beauty or conviction. Any devil can produce a fact, twist it this way and that, and make of it what ever he so desires. What then shall we speak of, fact or truth?”

“Truth, of course truth. I apologize, I was not aware you had such an impassioned distaste for facts. May I presume then, that your convictions are based around…let’s not say faith, for that has certain connotations which do not fit your character (if I may be so bold)…let’s call it intuition?”

“You’re quite observant old man. Indeed, faith has many faces, most of them repulsive to my tastes; yet something is needed to fill the vacuum left in the wake of science. However, the word you have chosen to replace it also leaves a foul taste in my mouth. It reeks of quackery and mysticism. When spoken from the mouths of fools, it is more nauseating than the blind stupidity of faith and more paralyzing than the blind necessity of fact. And yet there remains some need of it.”

“Yes! ‘Some need of it,’ what a wonderful little expression. It is not something wanted or desired but rather some inconvenient need.”

“Yes, some need of it…I must say I am rather surprised by your enthusiasm for these four words in particular. I mean, really, I would have expected you to focus your sights on ‘the vacuum left in the wake of science,’ as this pertains more to the difference between fact and truth as I see it.”

“Ah yes, but you see it is precisely in connection with this that I have taken such an interest in that. For what are these facts if not a blind necessity; an inconvenient need. But come, tell me how is it that science leaves behind a vacuum in its wake and what exactly is the difference between fact and truth as you see it? I have my own reasons for agreeing with you in some respects, but all the same I should like to hear it in your words.”

Judas sat for a few minutes looking intently at the old man as he tried to collect all his thoughts and prepare to give an impromptu speech on a subject about which he had often thought but never yet dared to speak aloud and in company. He had long felt the cold mechanism and materialism of science to be repulsive but struggled to find a way around them. This had been an especially hard point for him as he refused to use metaphysics as a back door out and would not be coaxed into any supernatural explanations. He continued to stare at the old man who in turn gazed smilingly back upon him. Finally Judas got up and began once more to pace the room.

The old man leaned back in his chair and, taking a sip of his wine, watched with a kind of merriment which Judas could not understand. For a moment Judas’ thoughts turned black. “Why does the old man smile at me? Is it not perhaps contempt that bids him smile thus? But what kind of pilgrim is it that comes into a man’s house, begins to complain of his feet, asks for food, heaps insults upon his host and finally spits upon his own humility? Surely this is no pilgrim but a devil. A cursed, cynical old devil. And what would such a devil as this want with the truth? No, he mocks me! Look there, a quiver of malice just passed his lips.” All this however remained only a half articulated flash in the back of Judas’ mind. And, in fact, no quiver of malice passed across the lips of the old man, though there had been a certain amount of mockery which had become habitual with the old man in speaking with others and which he could not deny himself the pleasure even now. Judas’ dark mood passed as quickly as it had come and a moment later he had again taken his seat opposite the old man. He began his explanation.

“All is transient. Form is transient, feeling is transient, perception is transient, mental formations are transient, consciousness is transient.’ This is the noble truth of Siddhartha Guatama. Do you know what this means? It means that we are nothing more than an accident, some incidental piece of chance which in the end can only come to nothing. It means that life is but a momentary farce, carried on the jeers and jabs of witless fools and that when the curtain falls upon the stage no one shall remain to laugh or give applause. All that shall remain is the frigid silence of eternity…”

“This is a truth that can shake a man to his very foundations,” interrupted the old man who was roaring with laughter as he spoke, “and it may drive him to incredible lengths in search of a more comforting lie. Still you will forgive my butting in, in order to point out that Siddhartha had four noble truths of which that is but a small part of one. Furthermore, I asked you to explain the difference between fact and truth and here you are expounding upon Buddhist philosophy.”

“It is his only truth; the whole of what follows is only empty, hollow-eyed religion. He could not bear this truth and knew that others would not be able to bear it either and so he gave it the sugar coating of hope. ‘Furthermore’ you asked me a question and then interrupted me before I even began to speak. Now, shall I go on or shall we stop now and spend the rest of the night engaging is meaningless chatter and small talk?”

“Please go on,” said the old man in a kind of thinly feigned somber humility.

“Damned you, you old devil! Your smiling lips mock my every word and now you so thinly veil your mockery and contempt that the only possible effect can be to worsen the offense. And this, it seems, is your very intent. Why else would you engage me in such conversation only to turn around and scoff at everything I say?”

“I apologize, really I do. But you see, an old cynic such as myself cannot help but smile at the foolishness of your youth. I can see by your face that you both doubt my sincerity and take offense to my calling you a foolish youth … but perhaps these words are better left for later. Please continue with what you were saying, I will not interrupt you again, I promise.”

“I thank you, and I myself apologize for my outburst. It was a foolish indiscretion on my part and you have my word that it will not happen again. Now, as I was saying, all is transient. This is Siddhartha’s truth and it is his only truth. But nowhere will men accept a truth such as this one. In its stead they place empty little facts, which they then try to puff up with metaphysics and moralizing. This truth, you see, remains for them an inescapable labyrinth, a sea of confusion which they dare not enter for fear of losing their way or drowning. But what they do not understand, nor want to understand, is that in reality they have already lost their way and have been drowning all their lives. They cling to whatever debris happens to float by them and imagine that they have found land and a solid footing on which they can build their quiet, happy little lives. This debris they call fact. They mock and persecute anyone who is willing to accept his surroundings and learn to swim rather than spend his days dreaming of a paradise that will never be. They despise those who gaze into the depths in search of problematic truths. Here stands the Sphinx with his eternal riddle; to be carried on the lips of Pilate in his fatal question ‘what is truth?’”

“Please accept my most sincere apologies sir. I have told you that I would not interrupt you and yet here I must, for I have a question which must be answered if we are to continue our little discussion here.”

“Then by all means ask away. Only, then you must promise to interrupt me no more or else this whole conversation shall be put to rest.”

“My question is this. What, in your view, makes a truth…well, true? To put it another way, is a stone more true or less true than the idea of God?”

“As an atheist, I must say that I hold the view that the stone is truer than the idea of God, for the stone has existence where God has none.”

“So you are a materialist then, no?”

“I am a reluctant materialist, yes.”

“A reluctant materialist, why that’s fantastic! Not sir, that you have been dragged against your will to believe in something which you do not desire to believe, but only that you have titled yourself as the reluctant materialist; that is what cheers me and compels me to shout fantastic. Never have I heard it put such a way. But really, were you dragged against your will and forced to accept a system of belief which ran counter to all your convictions?”

“Indeed I was, though you’d scarcely be obliged to believe it. You see, there’s nothing more dear to me, no hope more beautiful than the hope that one day I may shed this serpents skin and believe with all the conviction of some blessed fool. I want more than anything else in the world to fall on my knees, singing God’s praises. And yet, here I stand, consumed by this terrible thought, the weight of which I feel as though I cannot endure. You see, I look all around me, I look at the pretty girls and the laughing children running playfully through the parks, I look at the pompous businessmen as they leave their storefronts, the lovely housewife happily cooking dinner for her family, I look at all this. And do you know what I see? I see a passing moment destined to fade away into that same dark oblivion from which it came. All around me I see only a momentary farce destined to be consumed by the cold, unyielding hands of time.”

“Aha! So that is it. Let me tell you something. I have been down this path before, seen every ideal crumble before me, leaving me lost and uncertain. It is the uncertainty that eats you away. It consumes you and forces you to seek refuge – and so you come upon this truth, something that you can grab onto and claim as your own. You clutch it with all of your might; you make this your certainty, your bearing and your foothold. But this is a rotten truth and a poison to the soul. For your certainty is the certainty of death. Your truth – that existence itself is an accident not born of necessity, and though everything hence has been clockwork it shall end as meaningless as it began.”

Judas leapt up from his chair, “You understand me! By God, you have somehow peered into the innermost depths of my soul and brought to light the darkest of truths…”

“But wait. Please allow me to finish, for I have not yet said what is most important concerning the salvation of your soul. Oh please do not misunderstand me when I speak of the soul. I am not speaking of some ephemeral object lasting throughout all of eternity, to be saved or damned according to the judgment of some capricious god. These are the ridiculous tales told by idiots and housewives to pass the time and help put their minds to ease. (It is not right that men should put so much stock into these mythic fairy-tales.) But rather, it is the culmination of all your deepest thoughts, feelings, and intuitions; your highest most noble character. For no man is born with a soul. The soul is cultivated throughout one’s life and when the body dies so the soul dies too. But that is something of which you are obviously already most aware.”

“Yes, of course” Judas replied, nearly in a state of rapture.

“Good, then I shall continue. You see this life as a farce because it is so momentary or `transient’ as you so eloquently stated a moment ago. You are tormented by this transience of being. It consumes you like the flame consumes the candle’s wax. Is this not so? For what else is existence if not a candle quietly burning itself out; destined to consume itself, leaving only the cold, silent darkness of oblivion? But my question to you is this, why should the absolute transience of life thereby make life so unbearably absurd? Can you not see that it is precisely this constant destruction of the moment that makes life the miracle that it is? That it is only in the moment that the miracle is even possible? For it is only in the momentary that we come to face the mystery.

“Do you deem a purpose so necessary? Then here, now I shall give you one. The purpose of life is to point to the mystery of being, to learn to embrace it and be thankful for it. You told me a few moments ago that you were a `reluctant materialist,’ well then here is your way out. It is the mystery of being that frees man from the deterministic world, for in the mystery of the unknown man is given the chance to posit his own meaning, his own purpose. Here lies the whole of your freedom. Furthermore, I shall tell you that it is of the utmost arrogance and hubris not only to think that existence should “make sense” but to even want it to. Who are you that you should desire that life be anything other than it is?

“I told you that I have been down this very path before, do you doubt this to be so? No, wait. Do not answer yet. I have one more thing to tell you… one more observation concerning the state of your soul.

“You have always known precisely what I just told you about the mystery of life. Who knows, perhaps you even put it into exactly those words when speaking them to yourself. But this is only a small hint towards all that you know on this subject. You have already scavenged the depths of all these deeper meanings given to us by the mystery of being. And for a time these depths gave you a certain sense of peace that you mourn for the loss of. But this peace could not keep you and the tyrant truth sent forth his hounds to torment you once more. But now I must stop and take the opportunity to ask for the third and final time (for if you do not answer this time I shall henceforth remain silent on this particular subject), that is to say -- what is truth?”

“Ah yes, truth. This is the third time you asked you say? Ah well, so up until now I was not yet prepared to answer that question; such a daunting task! But you, my dear old man, have provided me with the answer yourself. It is precisely that which, as you say, I have known all along. You see, truth is the veil laid before man’s eyes. It is the mystery of existence, of birth and death. It is in the cry of every new born babe. It is the lively steps of the pretty young girl as she dances with the young boy that she likes so very much. It is the precious piece of art hanging on the gallery wall, but it is the wall too! But that’s not all. Truth is suffering. It is the thoughts of the dying soldier as he lay upon the blood-soaked battlefield, staring up into the infinite sky. It is the anguish of the young mother as she watches her infant starve to death for no other reason than the fact that she has no money for food. It is the scamp as he freezes to death on the streets for want of a roof. You ask me what truth is? Truth is existence as such. It is a mystery because we are submersed in it. It is illogical and often absurd, yet it remains the most precious thing a man can possess, though it is impossible that a man should ever possess the truth.”

Judas was visibly shaken and nearly to the point of hysterics. He tried to sit down but was unable to stay seated for more than a moment. He got back up and began pacing the room once more. His face was pale and beads of sweat ran down his temples. A moment longer and it’s possible that Judas would have erupted in tears, so long had he waited to speak openly to another human being. Too much had been stored up inside him for too long, now he was on the verge of bursting with emotion. The old man, perhaps sensing this, began to speak again, this time with a little more compassion towards our hero.

“I tell you once more I have been down this path before. And I can tell you this as well, however unbearable your path may become, however hateful the world may appear to you, you must endure. Often will the solitude become too much, making one feel lost and forgotten by man and God; and yours is the burden of eternal solitude. However, you must not let this give rise to despair. Though your suffering and loneliness ever verge upon the edge of despair you must never allow yourself to give in. Here you must stand at the very edge of your abyss, and facing the depths which at every moment threaten to swallow you, you must shout for all of the earth and heavens to hear, “I will not succumb to this!” Such defines the challenge set forth to all who would carry the burden of truth.”

When the old man had finished his brief tirade, his whole face had turned bright red, and a sudden look of confusion spread across his gaze. It lasted only a moment, but for this one brief moment the old man glanced about him as though he could not quite make out exactly where he was. His words gave way to silence, as he sat back down at the table and gazed blankly at the wall directly before him.

“Come now, old man!” cried Judas, as he ran over to his new companions side. “You have been over stimulated by a little wine, and too much talk of the truth. Let me help you to my bed so you can get some rest.”

“Of course, yes” the old man replied, showing Judas, once more, that same serene smile the old man had given him upon entering. “You truly are a kind soul.”

Aimless Wanderings

He once had goals--ambitions which gave meaning to his life. He had wanted to follow in the footsteps of his heros: the great thinkers of the world. He wanted to etch his name into the halls of history, to achieve immortality in the only manner he knew how. But all that had long ago slipped away from him. Every now and then he could still hear those dreams echoing back to him from the distant mountains, but that's all they were now--echos.

It's not as though he was sad or depressed. He had great friends whom he loved deeply and who he knew loved him in return. But for some reason he couldn't help but feel as though he had somehow lost his way. He no longer knew where he was going or why he was even heading in that direction. Lethargy was beginning to set in now, and he wanted so badly just to stop all his aimless wanderings. He didn't want to die, he just wanted life to stop for a bit to allow him the chance to catch his breath and regain his strength. But life stops for no one, and he was no exception. And so he just kept moving, stumbling along in the hope that he might eventually find something, whatever that something may be.

Crazy Wisdom and Zen Buddhism

"Crazy wisdom is the humbling knowledge of the immensity of the cosmos and the inevitable change and transformation that will ultimately wear away all our achievements. It is the grinning face of death, and the hollow sound of our question 'Why?' echoing back at us from the void." --Wes Nisker

"If you understand, things are just as they are. If you do not understand, thins are just as they are." --Zen Buddhist Saying

Subjective Truth

"Some people think that in addition to objective truth with which we deal in science we should recognize subjective truth which is allegedly legitimate in other contexts. Subjective truth means that something is 'true for me.' Subjective truth is a fond nickname for self-deception." --Walter Kaufmann

Defining Religious Organizations

Paganism: A religious sect that worships mythical characters. Foundation predates written history. One of the earliest and most primal of the various religious sects.

Judaisim: A religious sect that worships a moral code derived from centuries of servitude and desert wonderings. Founded by sun ravaged Jew after witnessing the local flora spontaniously combust.

Christianity: A religious sect that combines Judaic morality with Pagan mythology. Founded by a poor Jewish carpenter who was eventually executed for his political extremism.

Islam: A religious sect derived from Paganism, Judaism, and Christianity. Founded by an epileptic in a cave.

Buddhism: More an eastern nihilistic philosophy than a religious sect. Founded by a dissatisfied prince, it was later turned into a religion by hordes of fools.


When the urge beseeches you to look down upon someone else's religion as absurd or untrue, take a quick glance back at the all too humble origins of the religion you profess. The religious elitism dissolves.

A Continuing Dialouge

As my esteemed friend has seen fit to leave a response to my response concerning her response (this will likely go on ad nuaseum--consider this a fair warning to those with better things to do with their time), and as she has left me an open invitation to argue about this to my heart's delight, I hereby offer my newest rebuttal.

Since so much of your response centered on the semantics of this discussion--that, too, then will be my focul point in this post. To speak a truth in the wrong words is to speak a falsehood (hehe...it's fun-time with pomposity).

You define "Deserve" as to merit, be qualified for, of have claim to something because of actions, qualities, or situation. I would agree with everything but the word "situation" being in there. (And Mr. Webster and I don't really give a damn what that old bastard Mr. Oxford has to say.) To add situation as a qualification of deserving is to relegate the entire concept to a mere synonym of cause and effect. This is sort of like the panthiests calling the universe god. Well there's really no point in calling the universe god, because the universe already has a name--we call it the universe. The only thing you can hope to accomplish by neglecting the subtle nuances of a word is to further confuse the already clueless. And let's face it, that's not much of an accomplishment.

Without its implicit connection to justice, and in turn morality, the entire concept of "deserving" dissapates into nothing.

A Response

A much revered fellow blogger/close friend left a response to an earlier post to which I feel the need to counter. So, without further ado...

You argue that we desrerve to suffer and feel joy because we wake up every morning and do what needs to be done rather than simply kill ourselves. My counter argument: That suffering and feeling joy is the natural consequence of daily living does not mean that we therefore "deserve" to suffer or feel joy. If a rock is dropped into a pond, cuasing a wave which tosses a small piece of debris out of the pond and onto the shore--did that piece of debris therefore deserve to be thrown onto the shore? Does such a word as "deserve" even make sense given the context? You are sure to answer that the debris did not make a choice and therefore is incapable of "deserving." And what makes you think that people really make any choices? As often as man acts against his own best interests despite knowing what his best interests are it seems difficult for me to accept as given that man actually chooses his actions. Or take for example the act of fidgetting. Often the person biting his nails or ripping apart his cigarette butt is completely unaware that he is doing so until he looks down and notices the action already done. Or take for another example what people are willing to do for sex. The extent to which some individuals are willing to degrade themselves in order to assure a momentary gratification seems absolutely absurd so long as we believe they have a choice in the matter and are not simply being driven by instinct. (Please do not be mistaken, I do not think sex is bad, it's just that people are willing to go to absurd lengths for it.) My point here is that what we call choice very often amounts to nothing more than habit and instinct.

Taking the argument of choice in a different direction, you state that the child does "deserve" cancer because the child (or adult, it doesn't really matter) chooses to stay alive rather than simply die. This argument may carry some weight as far as the child "deserving" to sustain the cancer once he has it, but says nothing of the child "deserving" to get cancer. No choice made by the child led up to him getting cancer, that is something that is simply thrust upon him by outside sources.

One final point, and I believe it is here that we disagree (as it often happens that we disagree on the semantics more than anything else), the word "deserve" carries with it certain moral intonations--inherent in it is the concept of justice. To seperate justice from "deserving"--to minimalize it to a mere cause and effect--is to take all substance away from the word, leaving us with only an empty shell that use to house some meaning (however wrong headed that meaning may have been). To say that a man deserved to stub his toe because the movement of his foot, in conjunction with his proximity to the wall, caused him to do so is to say absolutely nothing at all. Without an inherent reference to the idea of justice the word "deserve" has no meaning at all.

Thank you for the comment, and feel free to leave as many as you like, as this actually gives me something to rant about.

Moments of Newness

There are moments in which I am overcome by a feeling of newness to the world. Not of rejuvination or exuberance necessarily, but a feeling as though I am once again experiencing life for the first time. It is during these brief moments that I find myself again believing in God. It is during these moments that I am again overcome by a childlike sense of awe and the realization that everything really is good.

Rather Perish

"Rather perish than hate and fear, and twice rather perish than make oneself hated and feared."
--Nietzsche; The Wanderer and His Shadow

Justice and Afterlife

There is no such thing as justice. People get what they get--it doesn't matter what they "deserve." Does any child deserve to get cancer? No. Does that stop some children from getting it? No. Nobody, and I mean nobody, however terrible they may be, deserves to suffer. Nobody, and once again I mean nobody, deserves greatness. Sometimes life provides one or the other, sometimes it doesn't. In either case you don't deserve it. You get what you get and that's it.

I have heard it argued that the lack of justice in this life proves that there must be an after life where justice does exist. Does this mean that the lack of unicorns and pixies in this life proves that there must be an afterlife in which unicorns and pixies exist? Could a person making such a claim as this possibly be taken seriously? The only thing that a lack of justice in this world proves is that there is a lack of justice in this world.

Inquire

Here the ways of men part: if you wish to strive for peace of soul and pleasure, then believe; if you wish to be a devotee of truth, then inquire. --Friedrich Nietzsche

A Truth In Hiding Is A Vicious Lie

The greatest lie that man has ever told himself is that Truth is somehow hidden from us. If this is the case, it only because we have closed our eyes. In fact, Truth is something that even the smallest of children grasp without the help of their parents. It is only through the continual piling up of metaphysical horse shit that Truth becomes lost to us. So what is Truth? It is the air you breathe, the ground you walk on, the sounds you hear, the flavorful beer that you're sipping on right now. Truth is existence as such--as it is, without any preconcieved notions of what it ought to be.

"The End Of False Religion Is Near!"

As I was leaving my house this morning I was approached by a sweet old lady. She handed me a couple of thin pamphlets and told me that I must read them because they are of the most vital importance. Yes, she was a Jahova's Witness. One of the pamphlets was the usual "Awake!" that you always see them with, the other was a much shorter pamphlet called "The End of False Religion is Near!" (They sure do like their exclamation marks, don't they.)

Well, being an easily entertained man, who finds reading religious propaganda fun, I decided to read the pamphlets. Now here comes the strange part--the shorter one, "The End Of False Religion Is Near!" was actually incredibly intelligent. Their criticisms were sharp and biting. It wasn't until the last page, where they began talking about their own religious beliefs, that stupidity began to set in.

Just a few things that they pointed out:

"Are you distressed about crimes commited in the name of religion? Do the warfare, terrorism, and corruption perpetrated by those who claim to serve God offend your sense of justice? Why does religion seem to be at the root of so many of the world's problems?"

"Power-hungry leaders are cynically manipulating people's religious sentiments for their own needs. As a result the world threatens to sink into madness."

"Most religions teach that the soul or spirit is some invisible part of a human that survives the death of the physical body. By means of this teaching, many of these religions exploit their members, charging money to pray for the departed souls. However...'The living are conscious that they will die; but as for the dead, they are conscious of nothing at all.' (Ecclesiastes 9:5) Jesus taught that the dead will be resurrected--an unnecessary action if humans had an immortal soul."

"The beast that the harlot rides is the world's political powers. False religion straddles the back of this political beast, attempting to influence its decisions and to control its direction."

Were it not for their constant use of biblical imagery, and of course the last page telling you to join their religion, one would certainly be led to believe that the writers of this phamplet were enlightened atheists. In the end however, they run head first into the same pitfall as Joseph Smith. They see that there is no true religion, and rather than scrap the ideal of religion all together, they simply create one more false religion.

At any rate, I can still hope that the title of their pamphlet proves to be at least some what prophetic.

Why I Call Myself A Nihilist

To begin with, what do I mean when I call my a nihilist, or rather, what is it that I do not mean by calling myself this. First, I am no idealist, and therefore I have no desire to see the current structure burn to the ground. Thus, I am not a political nihilist. I tend to be more pragmatic with my disbelief. I do not believe in any authority that cannot be deposed by a more powerful, more determined enemy. It is the right of any citizenry to stand up and revolt against their government if they see fit to do so (also if, and only if, they have the will and the brute strength for such an undertaking--as well as the will to suffer the consequences should they lose). Though I grant the government no inate authority, still I cannot concieve of any replacement government that would be better. Besides, revolutions most often end up with a lot of needless bloodshed that does nothing to make the political situation any better. Also, I refuse to ally myself with the anarchists. Anyone who believes that anarchy is a viable alternative to corrupt government obviously has little knowledge of human nature. Or as Hobbes says: in a state of anarchy, there can be "no arts; no letters; no society; and which is worst of all, continual fear, and danger of violent death; and the life of man, solitary, poor, nasty, brutish, and short." In anarchy every man is a ruthless, blood-thirsty tyrant.

Nor am I so naive as to believe that nothing actually exists (though I think this is more a notion that people have of nihilists than a belief held by any nihilists). As Descartes points out: "cogito ergo sum," I think therefore I am. Now I'm sure many first year philosophy students will try and prove Descartes wrong through all kinds of semantic circlings, but the fact of the matter is that fundamentally he is correct. That I can percieve anything at all stands as proof positive that I do exist. It does not matter how skewed my perceptions may be. It doesn't even matter if I am in fact simply someone elses dream. The fact that I can question my existence means that, however different reality may be from what I percieve, still I am a part of that reality. Supposing for one second that this is in fact nothing more than a dream, that does not change the fact that this is the only reality I know and therefore this is the reality which I must live in and work with.

I have (or I should say had) a good friend who titles herself a moral nihilist, and though I like this term a great deal, I do not think it quite fits me either. As far as morality is concerned, I would rather call myself a moral existentialist. I do believe in morality, I just don't think it is inherent in the world. I believe it is a product of man, and that outside of man it has no existence at all. Please do not mistake me for holding such a simplistic view as to believe that someone actually sat down and decided what is right and what is wrong. Morality is to a great extent instinctual--generally part of the herd instinct: i.e., preservation of the species. The morals that can not be explained away by instinct, such as taboos against sex, I attribute to social conditioning. As to what brought a particular society to hold its own particular social norms, I can only say that of this particular geneology I am in ignorance.

Now with all that out of the way, I can finally ask: what kind of nihilist am I? I am what you would call a metaphysical or philosophical nihilist. I do not believe that anything in existence is inherent or necessary, with the exeption of perhaps death. That is to say, the only thing that is not transient is transience itself. All morals and ideals are creations of man. If any of these have value, it is only the value man has attributed to them.

If this post has come off as seeming random and chaotic, I apologize. My thoughts have been rather random and chaotic lately--hopefully I will soon be able to pull myself up out of all this muck and return to some sense of normality.

A Sidelong Glance at Religion

Having looked at my previous posts on this blog, I realize that I come off as being violently against religion. This is not the case. In fact I believe that everyone should study religion--not just the religion they were born to, but all religions. If after that, they choose to follow one specific religion, then by all means do so, and God speed. What I am against, and will remain opposed to till I breathe my dying breath, is dogmatism and fundamentalism. For these are the things that ultimatly lead to terrorism.

That you read the Bible, the Qur'an, the Upanishads, the Torah or any other religious scripture is in itself a good thing. There is a great deal of wisdom to be taken from these texts. But you must read it the same way that you would read any other work of fiction--gleaming from it the lessons you are ready to learn, and not taking it too seriously. If you read religious scripture as allegory, then suddenly all the absurdities that it spouts off begin to make perfect sense. You do not need to believe that a tower was actually built in Babel to understand the lesson of avoiding hubris and overarching pride. You need not believe that you will be a cow in the next life to understand that every moment, one dies and is born anew--we are never the same person moment to moment. In fact, this lesson is more quickly learned if you don't believe in the literal interpretation of reincarnation.

As far as the belief in God goes, I can only reiterate what I have already stated in a previous post: I don't know, and you don't either. Belief in God can only be accepted on faith. To say that you know God exists is to simply prove yourself an ass.

Picture This

A friend of mine showed me how to add a picture to my blog last night, ergo the picture below. I was trying to put it in my profile but couldn't seem to figure the damned thing out. I also couldn't seem to figure out how to put text in the same post as the picture, which is why I'm putting it up here instead.

The picture is of myself, a few years ago, looking down on Utah. I'm not sure who took the picture, or how exactly it came to be in my hands--what I can only assume to be--three or four years later, but it looks pretty cool.