Why write? I understand why I write down how I think and feel, but why type any of it? Why store in a file? Why post it on a blog? Why put it out there for the public?
There seems to be an unspoken understanding that you really ought to monetize something you do because if you are not getting paid then clearly you are wasting your time. And yet, if I were to attempt to monetize my writing skills, I would have to consider an audience and what the audience wants to read. So, screw that.
Ambition and aspiration are society’s way of compelling you to behave, compelling you to write ideas masses of people will be drawn to. No wonder I would never consider writing for money or for copyright. Still, even if I am not trying to monetize my writing habit, why don’t I stop posting on the Internet? Not only that, why don’t I stop typing documents? Why not just stick to writing my mysterious scribblings in tiny cursive in personal notebooks?
The thought processes are what has inner value for me. How many others are experiencing similar doubts and concerns? By writing on the Internet or even by writing “books” aren’t we in some way censoring? Where am I going with this, Einstein’s Theory of Relativity? Well, do I write differently than I think? When I solidify my thoughts into words, on some level there is a self-censor. I wouldn’t just blurt out deeply unconscious sexual fantasies in the middle of a paragraph.
What if I find myself empowered when I make an aggressive attempt to value qualities and characteristics that are devalued by the corporate “go-getter” mentality? I was born into the middle class, but I dropped out of the middle class and have no desire to be subjected to its value system again … never … for the rest of my life … no ambition, no aspirations to monetize my skills. If the only way to be granted some kind of income for basic sustenance is to submit to the medicalization of my unconventional attitude, then so be it. Call me bipolar. Call me mentally ill. Call me lazy. Call me a bookworm. I don’t give a shit. The tendency to reach for the DSM-IV is standard protocol these days. Labeling those who have clearly nonconformist attitudes as mentally ill imbue conformity with a veneer of medical authority. Like I said, so be it.
If it brings me satisfaction to articulate how ell I have wrapped my head around reality, then, granted, ok, it’s therapeutic, but why express these sentiments publicly? Why not just jot them down in some secret magic spell book and burn it when complete? Why publicize one’s private interior reality?
I don’t like to be interrupted when I’m talking to myself. I about to experience a major breakthrough. I am just another character in a dystopian world where billions of dollars are spent to keep the masses distracted with meaningless sporting events, where a renegade thinker has to possess a heroic degree of integrity to stand up to the mob and tell it like it is. What I am trying to access is an intellectual forbidden zone. To be a thought criminal …
The philosophical subversion I invoke is far more significant than any social embarrassment I may suffer as a consequence of unleashing my true feelings in a world of liars and phonies who may be offended by my audacity. I obviously don’t type up my thoughts in order to impress the masses, but merely to leave a message in a bottle that might inspire some lone wolf out there to fight back against the corporate mind fuck. The battleground is the mind.
Those who would silence prefer that I keep my dreadful thoughts to myself. No one wants to hear it.
The reason I refer to myself as a super-genius is clear: I am standing up to the stigma of being labeled mentally ill, emotionally disturbed, or just a weirdo creep. In a society where they are able to fill stadiums filled with gorts cheering over men playing with balls or beating one another’s brains out or driving cars around in circles, not fitting in with the herd is a sign of merit, nothing to feel ashamed about.
In such a society, being different is equated with being inferior, when nothing could be further from the truth. Where is the truth to be found? I am neither “left” or “right” or “center.”
I am in my own orbit. The only “movement” I feel any connection to is the small (yet global) interconnected circles of lone individuals who get tagged with such labels as nihilists, pessimists, antinatalists, antihumanists, atheists, and other terms that are meant to demean. How about “Philosophers of the Void” – how’s that for a genre?
There is some kind of underground, hidden, natural movement that is happening of its own momentum, and scribbling in journals is what we do. You see, this is a riddle we are living, and some of us are in the know, some of us have figured something out, and this is reflected in how effectively we resist …
When one witnesses that there is a systematic conspiracy against intellectual honesty, this may motivate the renegade thinker to detach from the farce of society, finding more consolation in literature than in phony human society, work, marriage, family, friends, etc.
One might just embrace being a weirdo … I mean … really get into it.
What is there to do with this life but contemplate? I get a certain enjoyment from my own misery, and I have developed the confidence to stare into the abyss, and to overcome delusions, illusions, and hallucinations of security. I don’t need to ask permission to think, and I’ll take my chances with writing in a manner that comes natural to me. I don’t want to read or learn about “how to write science fiction.” I prefer the Beat style, just writing about what actually happens. That’s science-fiction horror enough. Holy shit, the process of applying for an apartment … Like Kafka trying to get into the Castle … all the gatekeepers … maybe it’s just discrimination against a single unemployed isolated twenty-first century schizoid man. Who knows? Most likely. This society has its ways of punishing those who don’t conform to its idiotic norms. I have managed to detach from the values of the hypnotized masses. I get high off thinking … it’s like I have a Dostoevskian protagonist in my head at all times.
Many people who thrive in mainstream corporate culture might read subversive literature and just not get it. Maybe one out of a thousand people get it, and , if you happen to be one of the ones who gets it, even if by society’s meritocracy you are deemed a “loser,” you are actually some kind of unofficial elite …
It’s true, there are those who do well in phony societies, and when they encounter characters such as Holden Caulfield (Catcher in the Rye), Ignatius Reilly (A Confederacy of Dunces), Martin Dean (A Fraction of the Whole), or even the classic hyper-sensitive protagonist of Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground, such conformists will gather together and declare smugly just how pathetic Holden, Ignatius, Martin, and the Underground Man are.
The dark satire, the black humor is a consequence of how ridiculous the situation becomes when people of different mindsets interact. People are in different orbits. What one person sees as “failure” or “defeat,” another sees as victory. Some fish brag about how easily they found a position in the net. They even feel superior to those useless fish who are net-shy.
I wish I could verbalize just how I feel in the morning when I open my eyes. I can’t help but wonder how many others feel the same way. Is there a vast conspiracy to make us feel that we are so peculiar? We are bombarded with stupidity that insults our intelligence. No wonder there is so much rage. It is not necessarily a bad thing to become disillusioned or to experience hopelessness to the dregs. When soldiers become disillusioned they become conscientious objectors. Kurt Vonnegut Jr didn’t even carry a weapon in Germany throughout World War II. He was captured and taken as a prisoner of war. How are we expected to lionize those who just follow orders?
Keep your startling and dreadful thoughts to yourself!
I keep a record of how one is processed through the system, how one is barred from the Castle and slandered by the villages who defer to the authority of the officials and the gatekeepers.
Jehova-One Alien Space God says, “Marry and reproduce!”
Could it be possible that I am in the process of resigning from the species and that more servile, less reflective DNA is being encouraged to farm babies for the future work-force? What percentage of the population actually reproduces? Are there zoo-keepers who keep track of such data? A few generations of too many “philosophers of the void” and the species goes extinct. The absurd comedy of reproduction ends. Go team go. Yahoo.
Some people go off the deep end and go on shooting rampages. Some people just give up but just don’t die. I must be eating well since my bowel movements are gargantuas. I spill my seed on the ground. You don’t have to read Schopenhauer and Cioran to come to the conclusions they did. Still, reading such philosophers of the void is most likely much better than getting plastered in a bar. Maybe someone ought to invest in the creation of “thinking bars” where, like in pre-war Germany, people were encouraged to discuss the deep problems … Turn the beer halls into forums for tackling the deep issues, like whether life is even worth living. Turn off the games. Add some lights … have someone on a little stage reading from a book.
Hearken well: “None of us wants to hear spoken the exact anxieties we keep locked up inside ourselves. Smother that urge to go spreading news of your pain and nightmares around town. Be sure to get on with things or we will get on without you.” (Ligotti)
Note: To discover the unconscious, write early in the morning, right after you wake up: a stream of consciousness flow of nonsense, life advice from yourself to yourself, expressions of dread. Tap into the unconscious mind. Writing with ink and paper may be better than typing directly with a keyboad since my relationship with “the demon” is delicate.
It refuses to be subjected to the indignities of judgment and competition. And so I drift and wait …