The life of the hero is worth less than
the force that runs through his body. We faint. We are stripped, purified. The
act of self-sacrifice arrives without reflection. There is no time to think.
It's the impulse that counts. We act, then think. Reflections feed our
inadequacies. They have the stubborn power of obsessions. Exactly as in
reality, where - if all we manage to do
is maximize our profit - we miss a dimension
and a deeper sense to our life.
There is more to beauty
than sausage. One example might be everything in Japan. Another might be cake. Lately,
a lot of people have been asking about the Caravaggio in the lobby.
What can I say? What do
you want me to tell you? That I met the Beatles?
I didn’t. The reality
principle caught me off guard. I met The Rolling Stones instead. They seemed to
like me. They let me pick up the baby goat and use him for a photobooth prop.
Those were the days my friend. We thought they’d never end. And then Brian was
found floating face down in his swimming pool and the world shimmered with the
refracted light of a setting sun.
Death is at the bottom of
everything. Cabbage, moss, carpentry, water polo.
I open my eyes and see stained
glass. I close them and see the moon. Coffee walks through my blood sprinkling
diamonds and agitation. Vagrancy blends deviation with philosophy. It must.
Otherwise, it's just savage equations of rust and fornication, barns and
manure, legs in continuous motion, colossal insecurities, molecular blizzards,
long roads and stony detachment.
You can approach this
world from different angles, but one way or another, you must find a direction,
a goal, however illusory, and let it guide you through the murk of feeling, the
hum of neurons.
The thing with
cauliflower is that there is often another smell in the kitchen, which could be
just about anything, cheese, wine, salami, bacon. It is here that the neurons
become active and create impressions of a reality that has not yet remembered
what it does, or what it’s supposed to be about, if anything, who knows what an
appetite might become if it gets what it wants. People want different things,
so that there is darkness and thunder, and then the picture gets murky.
Anything out there could be talking your language. It could be pain, an
introspection, a seed. Seeds are the matter that express that. You know? That
simple way to say lamb, to say faith in natural things, to say nothing, to say
please share my umbrella. If the illusion is pretty, use plaster, pin a little
fire in the stove.
I like to sow the air
with clocks and infrastructure. How about you? What are you up to? Me, I’m
sitting here riding up and down on the windshield wipers. It’s a mechanical
pleasure, like crawling into some music and caressing all the gentle facts
relating to the impertinence of art during a time of crisis.
Creating anything is to
go on talking. Philosophy is being a dog in different colors. Unlike
literature, which is a pleasure that should not be spoiled by studying it, I
see in philosophy a phenomenological struggle with the difficulty at hand where
one can maneuver - however clumsily -
without damaging the questions. Once the objective is attained, we find a void.
Here is where it begins. The feeling in meaning and being.
You can get it wrong and
still think it’s alright. But that’s ok. We can work it out. I found a way to
loosen the vice. And so I tell stories to make up for the fact that I hadn’t
been told about it and that I almost burst out of this illusion in the name of
an ideal, an unnamable energy, which caused me to be hunted as a rebel and made
me lose almost all my friends. At the cost of these very painful ruptures, I
got rid of the powerful mental hold that had been exercised on me. So if there
is indeed a transcendent experience of self, must it always spur us to exceed
our limits in such manner? Or does it mysteriously come to inhabit them? Invest
them without abolishing them?
I don’t know, but the
soup sure is good.
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