The Fallacy of Incremental Well-Being

The Fallacy of Incremental Well-Being

There seems to be an unequivocal conviction in the mind of man that he needs to strive to be better than what he is today. This constant yearning for the betterment of oneself is, undoubtedly, the force that drives humanity’s endless thirst to advance into an eventual technological utopia. The thirst for betterment is driven by external forces and the entire idea of becoming something, or someone, is driven by the desire to add things, whether tangible or intangible, to oneself. These things include cars, spouses, college degrees, trendy clothes, decorated vocabularies, and can range to things as extreme as spiritual supremacy and political correctness. Nobody is coded to find such things strange as the common mind in society is securely entrenched in a matrix of beliefs and convictions that are accorded to a collective human mind. The normalcy of every member in society is usually measured by its degree of accordance to this collective mind. The security that such accordance offers is so immense, so complete, and so intellectually unchallengeable that it clouds the natural intelligence of the human brain and keeps it from recognizing the fact that the collective mind, itself, is a manifestation of a very serious form of insanity. To begin with, very few people have questioned their elders about the validity of obedience to the older generation. While the wisdom of the experienced is sublime and immensely helpful in guiding the human child into a responsible style of living, it is only limited to very basic lessons such as, fire is harmful or wood is not food. The wisdom of the elder might extend to dimensions beyond such basic lessons, however, it has no place in defining the morality of the new age being.

Morality, being inherently subjective and carrying with it high levels of danger, is not a psychological form of energy that anyone must tamper with. Science has induced in us an innocent sensation of awe at our smallness in the universe, but has also simultaneously cursed us with the recognition of our mortality. It has given our mortality an aura of doom instead of an understanding of liberation. The science that is nurtured and advanced by modern man concentrates on a very limited dimension of human existence—the physical. While the play of the physical universe seems to occupy the majority of man’s awareness, by no means is it evidence that the limitation of man’s awareness is an implication of the universe’s limitations. However, the collective human mind, being so childishly infatuated by the physical dimension of existence (and its limitations) has somehow managed to develop an almost incurable fear of its inherent mortality. Such a fear, of course, is guided by the mind’s perception of its separation from the rest of the universe. It is this sensation of separation that leads every individual to believe that more needs to be added to oneself in order to complete oneself. There seems to be a great feeling of lack and negative emptiness that motivates us to strive for betterment, and often times, at the cost of the comfort and happiness of other beings.

We cannot transcend this diseased system of thought with haste. It requires a tremendous amount of clarity and inner observation to even recognize the disease. The regular mind will cease to even spare an extra glance at such an enquiry because it is convinced that there are other important activities to pursue such as finding a good job, buying a new car, finding a reasonable spouse, or visiting the next spiritual guru who can offer a fresh concept of freedom at the price of one’s individuality. Man seems to be too occupied with the games that occur in the physical dimension and will perish as a race if he seeks his survival only in the correctness of outward affairs. It is a fallacy. We have been enslaved to this endless desire to add things to ourselves. If I tell you that you are perfect as you are, you would pant like a dog searching for reasons to justify something imperfect within you.

So, what now? Do we give up our jobs and burn our cars so we can throw ourselves into a pursuit of the unknown? Do we hastily enquire into the nature of our mortality and rebel against the formidable establishment of the collective mind, so that we might discover our freedom before it’s too late? An intellectual mind that is spurned and excited by logic would find only such a conclusion valid and rational. Only an intelligent mind, as opposed to intellectual, will understand that there is no conclusion that is required. The trick is not to change the world, but to discover that it does not need to be changed.

But, of course, the collective human mind will resist the individuality that is inherent in each one of us. The individual mind is alive while the collective psyche is a residue of a million yesterdays. The transcendence from the collective psyche of humanity indicates the transcendence from human history. We make ourselves unavailable to the divine potential of our own intelligence because we are afraid of the insecurity that is kindled by the unknown. You only fear your mortality because you have never walked deep into it and faced it with an open mind. Instead, you have settled for the fancy heavens and hells that you bought from strangers and, at most, have come to realize that if not for the heavens and hells, your life is a purposeless dance into a pointless, hopeless void. Such a recognition has made most people bored of living. The human being is the only sentient creature (I hope) that has reduced the eternity of the universe into time. There are several illusions to be uncovered if only one dares to step out of the collective psyche and shed light on one’s own mind, as it is, in its natural state, uncorrupted and undivided. It takes a courageous man to decide that his freedom lies in his own hands. Do not waste your years on patriotic freedom and social correctness. Why do you so fervently endure the trash that is fed to you from the collective psyche of humanity? You are neither responsible nor accountable for the rash, ignorant activities of your kind. You are responsible to the universe for a far more important thing. You are a creator, and if you waste your years in this beautiful world seeking success, convenience, and incremental well-being, you will meet death in a very distasteful manner.

Creators are not born to be survivors. Eternity is in their very nature. Why do you add things to yourself? You are born to add things to the universe that belongs to you, as much as you belong to it. Why do you so thirstily rummage through the wastebaskets of society’s false offerings of happiness believing that you will find a sense of satiation? The answer is inside, in the very same place that the hunger for truth resides. The only voice that will help you return to the humanity that you so desperately crave for is your own voice. You do not need time to wake up. You can do it right now, wherever you are, whoever you are.

Screamjack

 

art: Real Gold – Sir Eduardo Paolozzi

Itch

Itch

 

What makes you itch?
The fact that people know you,
Or spare a moment to bear thoughts of you,
Before they lay their lips to their pillows,
On nights when they meet loneliness,
In the middle of the road to optimal living?
Do you find the things that make your insides move,
In the twinkling of your neighbor’s eyes?
In the revelry of those falsely laughing other people,
In the craftily exposed exultation of your success?
What’s success? Hey, I don’t know.
What makes you itch?

Is it that a meager life, clouded in undirected misdemeanor,
Brings nothing but an allowance for soul corruption,
To your doorstep?
Corruption that you color with green and gold,
Drink and leaf, sweetness, mellow sour,
I know you; another escapist, dancing on the bottle rim
What makes you itch?
I know the work of your fingers,
The way they move, on paper, on women, on metal,
I know the cravings of their tips,
The little sips they take at subtle touch,
Drinking from the immortal ocean,
Of sensual feeling
But you haven’t listened to them, have you?
You were an artist. Now, you smell,
Of fraudulent indulgence and self-deceit
You broken child; you don’t smell too well

When we found our meetings too easy,
We took the long way home
So that we could meet the storm,
And dance with its tunes
We took the long way home

I’m lost now, and so are you,
What are we going to do?
Eat pickle and stew

What makes you itch?
Rock music, prostitution, delirious deductions,
Of decimal numbers and polarity
The sweet satin-clothed movement of milky skin,
On black-tiled dancefloors,
Or the cruel embezzlement of empathy and eroticism,
In the jailed gyms of our workplaces
What do you choose? What makes you itch?

I don’t know.
Do you?
Good night.

Music from the Void

Music from the Void

I often think that the nature of love, or perhaps it would be better to say that the nature of the concept of love that is used in our society is based entirely on the understanding of self-desire and self-fullness. While most of us are unaware of this simple fact, the operation of love, and the perception of it are propelled by self-fullness.

When we say to someone, it would be great if you would do this, and we propose that idea justifying it by our conviction that we propose it because we feel it is best for the beloved, we forget that is only in our self-interests that we make such propositions.

We find very few instances in our society in which people set aside their selves in order to commit an action. If we remove the sentimental quality we associate with love, we see that we are free to love more genuinely and in ways that are more original and effective. The sentimental quality associated with love is what deteriorates the understanding and expression of it. Sentiment is a kind of gravity that aims to alter the external experience of life in order to make it fall in line with the inner desires for experience.

The initiation of understanding is in the acceptance of our innate selfishness. In compliance with the moral code of society in general, it is considered to be a rather distasteful thing to be selfish or self-full. If we bring ourselves down to the very bindings of nature, we see that selfishness is an encoded aspect of behavior that is necessary to the survival of the organism. We denied this very basic aspect of survival and created a delusional opposite called selflessness through which the principle of selfishness has been unconsciously propagated, fuelled, and made to thrive.

Every human being or most human beings prefer to fall in line with the norms of the social family. As a result, we see cues and cues of individuals striving permanently to destroy their individuality and arrive at a situation in which they can be a cog or a simple screw in the vast matrix of social structure. On further observation, we come to observe a very simple but paradoxical aspect of human behavior. We strive for social acceptance in order to understand our roles as individuals but in doing so we burn and destroy the energy that actually supports our individuality. You’ll come across very few ‘individuals’ in this world. Most folk walking around are collected chunks of ideas who happen to breathe and move.

Returning to love, or let’s call that thing love for now. I’ve seen that though children have no idea of what love is, they seem to be the only folks capable of it in the world. Does this mean that the idealization or the objectification of love is what distances us from it? What if we’ve always been in love? And there came along this day when we were told that it is a good thing to love and we began to strive for it and in doing so distanced ourselves from it? You see when I say love you must burn the entire sentimentality that is associated with it. People avoid love talk because they hate sentiment. They also fail to understand that sentiment has nothing to do with love. Words carry great power, and power goes both toward the light and the darkness, understanding and ignorance. Love is just a word, if you can find out what it points to you might see more for yourself. Let’s say for now that love is that thing which is the most innate desire of every individual.

When you ask a man what he desires, you get very simple answers, answers such as a new job, or a fantastic college education, or a woman, or some delusional idea of spiritual gratification which is nothing but an idea. Nobody knows what they want. Nobody understands what want is in the first place. Have you ever really asked yourself what you really desire? If you do, it would be really hard to nail it down to the one thing you really want in life. If you’re really honest with yourself, I don’t know if you’ll find anything that you really want. It’s funny how we spend most of our lives chasing pleasures and when we sit down to find what we really want, honestly, we find nothing at all. You might choose to tell yourself that what you really want is money, that that is your most honest answer. Whether we say it’s materialistic or a low desire or anything of that sort, you say that’s the most honest answer you’ve got. And then you spend your years, in honesty, chasing this desire and bringing it to fruition on a regular basis. You might probably stumble upon this day when you meet an even more honest answer, boredom. You’ve gotten all the money in the world possible and expressed that wealth in the most fantastical ways imaginable and then you meet this moment in which you feel you’re done with money. What next? I don’t know.

The human mind is an operation that thrives on excuses to escape momentary perceptions of reality. It loves to project the alchemy of energies into scales of time, and time is dream stuff. Alchemy of energy here means the transformation of raw will into material manifestations, or subtle movements in energy fields. Whatever it is, it basically is the manifestation of will into the perceptible world. Why do we have dreams? We have dreams because we block this manifestation and allow it to remain swirling about in a very low energy plane. We do not allow the will to move through to higher dimensions of manifestation. And hence, we end up living lives of repression, spitefulness, confusion, and dread. Most of our lives are lived in dream and if you deny that very simple fact, you’re either from a different species or blatantly cheating yourself. The human story is complex dream stuff.

So getting down to the crux of this very un-cosmic issue, we see that resistance to life movement is basically nothing but us. The fact that we think we exist. There is a paradoxical idea that lives in human society. It would be a paradox to say it itself. There is an idea that lives in the human mind, an idea that the mind itself exists and the understanding of this idea destroys the idea itself. Mind is dream stuff. When you ask me why I say so, I wouldn’t have an answer for you. You and I operate within a dream. And it becomes very difficult for a dream to become aware of itself, for that simply means the dream would end, and we don’t want ourselves to end.

Always in the logical universe, we say that to every problem there should be a solution. There is no solution to a problem such as this. We are thoughts that move about in a universal matrix. These thoughts are constructed with energy and they change on a regular basis. Change is perceived by each thought as its own death and each thought is unaware that death in this case is only a re-structuring of the energy system. We can get into the whole business of desire and the transcendence of it but all that jabber for the last few thousand years has only proved the idiocy of the whole operation. You cannot transcend desire. You are the desire of the universe. There’s no point in the talk of transcending yourself.

So how do we tackle this issue? We can’t. We simply see it for what it is and begin dancing to the music that erupts from the conflict gaps of creation. The things that make the universe spin are the things words cannot bring to expression. We cannot build edifices to explain the mystery that runs the show. Somehow though, we’ve been blessed with the ability to dance at our confusion. Maybe that was meant to be the climax all along, to learn to dance in the chains of our suffering and laugh at the madness of our hearts.

Words will forever fail, and we will for at least a while try to change this very inevitable fate of verbalism. There will come a day when the children of men will trade music with the heavens without sound. On that day I will meet you in the skies and share a whisky with you, and we can tell each other of our new plans for a new world.

Image – The White Void, the Cold Steel by Myrdah

Names of . . .

Names of . . .

Belligerent, as a man’s thirst for the ecstatic might reach,
Curling and swerving through the highways of rich sensual delight
As dissolved in selfish abstraction he deviates from natural cause,
Seeking women with eyes that milk the finest of his memories
The fault lies in wanting things that were never there,
Giving one’s vision dreams that never dared to live
The trouble has been harbored much in the endless search,
For an altitude at which most things under the sun, are perfect

I have wanted good things and chased worse for many moments,
Delighting in cloudy minutes of elevated self-uplifting
Scrounging at the clever discoveries of older groovier men,
Putting their sacred renderings of goodness into my own elevation
I have made myself an edifice of crafted lies and smiling masks,
A skeleton of all things that have delighted in the history of hearty things
Look at me, much too less now for you to see, lost in a menagerie,
The menagerie of existence that floats unfounded, in the halls of death

As we walk like shadows through the several nights of the long rain,
Groping for every little tickle that holds to glory our feeling selves
Hopeless, and meaningless, I can never find a sentence end
That will justify the torment of entrapment to this raging fire
The delight lasts as long as the eyes see, things they cannot understand
And once they discover, the name of the dawn, the song of dusk,
The light that brings life leaves sooner by the way in which it came

Everyone is cursed to feel the sky and be lost with no words to tell,
Even an ounce of the glory that one beheld, an ounce of that wonder
Is it our endless agony to know that some things can be named, yet not all?
Our endless agony to know of the infinite, and left with no other words to tell
For the eyes of man see things that words hardly tell,
His skin feeling things that no poetry, no sensational song no dance can tell
We see, and we know, and yet we leave without words to keep our sanity

Perhaps I’ve come to see that the name of the dawn cannot be told,
That the names of most things are ramblings that carry hopelessness through time

We come to see that the names we carry are the sounds of our memories,
Echoing through a delusional vortex of undressed time, naked in the moonlight
And the sounds of our memories hardly come to tell the tales,
That we sew and spin through the many days of this moving moment
This only moment that always is, this now

All names are but the sounds of memories,
And memories tell us of nothing but time
And time tells us nothing, but of things that are gone
Leaving us to mourn helplessly,
Remembering how most things could’ve been,
And of how we always fell short,
Of the better sweetnesses of life

Adam

Adam

I discovered that most things we say,
Are distant ramblings of the waves in us,
That are forged by unknown waters,
That burn and ache with each of our memories
I discovered that there’s no more wine remaining,
In all of the seventy-nine kingdoms of the misunderstood universe,
That can silence my curiosity to an endless darkness
I have found and danced in the light of knowing,
That all my dreams were source-less and uninspired,
Wavers and quivers of light that moved aimlessly,
In the sky, through the moon, through me, through you
And that all I believed to be the meaningful lyric in my head,
Was nothing but the wandering nothings of sunshine,
That came from some other galaxy

I have found and learnt to remember,
That nothing we can talk about,
Matters. That all things we describe,
Are more the violent repressions of our realer selves,
Are more the unfair destruction of our truer desires
I have learnt and understood the ways of remembering,
How the things we speak of throughout our days,
Are cravings for the seasons of the ancient mushroom,
The endless aching for the mystic, for magic, for love,
For dreams and color, for excess wine and lives of delight
I know the workings of your heart in the chasms of your nightmares,
Of how somewhere within, you remember the days,
When you walked Eden, by Eve, kissing her, moving her,
To endless orgasms by apple trees and gentle waterfalls
How sweet was that Eden? How sweet was Eve?
And now in this wilderness of several Eves and timber trees,
We’ve wandered away,
From our home of magic, from our eternal splendors of dancing, prancing,
Away into a wilderness of office doors and dimly lit floors
Before lit up screens and dead old dreams,
Writing the eulogy of our magic, that died within us,
Perhaps because of us, perhaps maybe not,
But dead anyway

I remember how Eve tasted,
And now when I sip through the many shades of fragrance,
That you wear, lavender, strawberry, peach,
I remember how you wore your one shade of eternity,
On your neck, with the beads of your magical being,
Dangling over your soft breasts, calling me,
To come drink in the splendor of your existence
And now I see you, my many Eves,
Wandering this world, lost, doomed to demise,
Hoping for me to come find you again
But now sweet Eve, now that you’re many,
And now that you want me to want only you
How will I ever find you again?
What was one, has splintered into galaxies of fragrances,
Millions of lips and trillions of breasts, the many minds,
Of all these many women
The many hearts that ache and creak for the embrace,
Of my one soul, that in delusion,
Mourns deeply at night,
Remembering his Eve, seeing her still, every morning,
But now as a thousand suns clouded by thick memories of disconnection,
Hatred, violence, betrayal, and the endless screaming of creation’s child

Sweet Eve, you who now walk the forests of this Earth in billions,
I remember that first morning in Eden
When I lifted your cheek to look into the gleaming eyes that peered all things,
And said, my goddess, my queen, let’s walk up to that stream,
And make love until the white orb in the sky,
Comes to dance to the vibrant tune of our mourning,
Our mourning that will create a great new world, a multitude of men

All things that were one, have now been made many,
And I’ve ceased to seek you in the throbbing of humanity’s ambition
I’ve ceased to seek you entirely,
As now I remember, that morning in Eden
Of how you sweet Eve, were no woman outside of me,
But the most cherished movement of my eternal imagination

And I, the man who moved the sand,
Was and is the most cherished movement of an ancient dream,
A dream that had no dreamer, has none now,
And a dream that answers only to eternity

Image by Thomas Cole – Garden of Eden

Nothing for You

Nothing for You

We mostly write about the things we’ve never seen,
About endless romances,
That delight in wine loaded with magic,
Kisses in moonlight that are subtle,
Yet revealing of ourselves,
In the most dramatic manner
We write about the things we’ve always wanted,
About things we hardly remember,
About the moments that never really happened
I guess I could say,
Life is an endless lie,
Tuned into a charming aspiration,
For the mystic, for the heroic, for the magical, for the eternal

We mostly write about the things that we wished,
Would make us ache
But don’t
About the people we wish we had around us,
And the things we wish they’d do
About the places we perhaps, visited once, or twice
The places that made our hearts irk restlessly,
For groove, for magic, for spontaneity in sunshine
About the women we thought we met,
About their kisses that seemed to last forever
But are now gone, disappeared into aching memories

We mostly write about things we never have to worry about,
That’s the thing about poetry
The thing about it that makes us weep for it,
The freedom it gives us
Making us fools at the cost of our own elation,
It’s a price worth paying
The thing about poetry, that makes us erect,
For words, magical words, words drenched in winely drunkenness
For words that mean nothing, and yet everything
The thing about poetry,
Is it is alive, and meaningless, yet, alive
That’s the thing about most things that we see through our days

It’s no poem if you’ve thought much about it,
Given it too much of your mind,
Bits of your heart chewed out painfully,
Too much of your memories
It is no poem if you’ve given it all of that
A real poem delights in nothing,
And takes form through the fingers of men,
Without any single entity creating it
It’s no poem if you say it’s your poem,
And if you do,
It’s just another letter of lies from the sorrows of your dreams

Bad poetry comes from great men,
And only bad poetry can resurrect you from your routined misery

We mostly write about the things that elude us,
The men that delude us
We mostly write about things we cannot understand,
Selling our confused afternoons on busy office floors,
To bearded men with messages on YouTube
To vegan memes and postcard dreams on Facebook
Selling our lives to the cheap imagery,
Of the uncast universe
Selling our dreams to the colors of the netted chasm,
That these folk call the internet

It’s all about bad poetry, that’s going to take saving you

I’m up for all sort of chatter and whisky,
For nonsensical things
Nothing in the world stands to be important
Every man wants his toys,
And when he has the words to bring his dreams to reason
He sells his greed in the market,
As a vital need of the planet
Nothing in the world stands to be important,
Not you, not me, not the people you love
Everything passes and everything dreams,
Sweet dust on the endless beaches of time
You are sweet, and you are me,
And we love to no reason, but catastrophe

Nothing in the world stands to be important
Drink to our disastrous end,
To a dreary retelling of this mad tale,
That we’ve so often called life
Drink to it my friend,
The monsoon lasts not much longer,
And my words will take a different turn
From doom probably to some false sense of ecstasy,
And then you’d be reading joy from my heart
Some sense of fake happiness,
As the stars it’s them who tell my tale
As they dance my organic being through seasons

The stars it’s them who tell all tales,
Through all seasons
And at the end of all seasons,
It is them who draws you back,
As dust, gleaming dust
Through dark space,
Drawing you back to where you came from,
Drawing you back to where you’ve never been
Re-spawning you as some other mad dream
You are fire, you are ice,
You are stardust

But when you decide that your dance has had enough wine,
You settle for the night,
And get busy,
With reality

Good night star gazer,
I’ll kiss you at morn,
On the other side

Monsoon

Monsoon

The whole edifice, is structured to be a pitfall
I see these endless towers of corporate glamour
Stinking of lofty ambition clouded with humorless,
Lifeless memories of deluded human perfection

So many rainbows, built with words,
Cover the true sky of exactitude
Nothing is real about being human,
Your words, your dreams, your lies, your love
Nothing is real
Every little precious thought of yours,
That you shelter and protect,
In your mindless defense,
Using emotion, feeling, foolish romance,
Using dead words of dead men who told us,
The world is a marvelous place
None of that is going to save you
Turn to the bottle if you’ve got a spirit,
For that sort of thing
The rum will save and show you a closer path,
To the sky,
Than church or work or school or college

I will teach lies to the children of the Earth,
I will be the heretic that you’ve missed for this long
I will be the demon that saves this universe,
From God

See you’re too foolish to see what’s beneath the letters,
You’re a man of letters, a man great, intelligent, renowned
But you’re a fool,
And everything you know,
Is the fodder of yesterday’s philosophers

We can know nothing,
Sell your dreams to the street of sorrow
Let them go beg for new minds,
To torment and bring to absolution

I take delight in the rambles of the wind,
I take delight in all things

You cannot see it yet,
That what you expect of your brother,
Is what you’ve always expected of yourself
I’ll tell you no lies, give you no dreams,
Just a cup of coffee and a cigarette
Sit with me and help me write,
The Earth’s final symphony
A symphony that never had a beginning,
That shall have no end

The years have seen so many well-clad fools,
Fucking every delight they see,
Making good men swallow the cum of their dream-shagging
So many people, coming to control,
And you, the sheep that made this world
Take it on your faces,
Blind, lost in your own dreams,
Blinded by the stench of your elders’ worry

You must delight in all things my friend,
Hatred, murder, death,
Glee, ecstasy, wanton materialism
Delight in everything,
For it is both, the blackness of the terrible demon,
And the light of wise men’s eyes,
That make all men, human, all, human

The world you know is a human world
The animal, the plant, the block of ice,
It’s all too human
You cut and you cut the sky into a million pieces,
Call this piece space, that piece star,
This bit planet, and that black hole
Your cutting leads you to abstraction

Give me your soul, I’ll show you the simple.
No love, no charity, none of that other cock
I’ll show you life,
And you’ll be left with nothing but dancing
In goodness, badness, whatever,
You’ll see things for what they are

Don’t let folks shag on your face in the light of your fears
Don’t take the world much too seriously
It’s a wonder game,
Play it well
Let the things you love be made sacred,
Not what your fathers loved
This is your world,
You don’t own it,
But you create it

Forget the stars that make the fireworks at night,
Lose your heart to the music of silence
In the intervals between social noise,
God or whatever that thing is,
Speaks
And if you listen once,
You’ll be gone, forgotten,
I do not know,
The shape things take after that,
After that real thing, the listening miracle

You want to hear a love song don’t you?
There is no such thing as love,
Or at least what you know it to be
I know what you crave for,
Love or pleasure or whatever you call it
There is no way to find it,
The only method to the madness of humanity,
Is to open your eyes,
And stop trying,
And start seeing

I’m no prophet who brings peace to your distraught heart,
Hell, I’m no real man at all
I’m just a whisper in monsoon’s endless weeping,
And I visit you, for no reason at all
Perhaps, maybe to dance,
Or give you a kiss
Come delight in me,
I’ll tell you no lies
I’ll give you no dreams