“I have begun to listen to the teachings my blood whispers to me. My story is not a pleasant one; it is neither sweet or harmonious as invented stories are; it has the taste of nonsense and chaos, of madness and dreams like the lives of all men who stop deceiving themselves.” ~ Hermann Hesse
“The details of my exploits are only a pretext for a … far more expansive consideration of general truths. What is this? It’s a philosophy. A poetics. A politics, if you will. A literature of protest. A novel of ideas. A pornographic magazine of truly comic-book proportions. It is in the end whatever the hell I want it to be. And when I’m through with it it’s gonna blow a hole this wide… straight through the world’s idea of itself.” (From the film “Henry Fool”)
“What is your inner worth when you no longer have faith in philosophy, which wears rags, and in the candor of those who have wants, when the voluntary idyllic life of poverty, without occupation or marriage, which might suit the more spiritual among you, has become a laughing stock to you?”
“And now they look at me and laugh: and as they laugh, they even hate me. There is ice in their laughter.”
“Gradually it has become clear to me what every great philosophy so far has been: namely, the personal confession of its author and a kind of involuntary and unconscious memoir.”
“One must shed the bad taste of wanting to agree with everyone.”~ Nietzsche
Intrusive thoughts … unfulfilled desires … society – a network of lies and deception. We live in a society which encourages playing a role, being phony. People seek the rewards of a good reputation. Individuals low on self-deception are at such a disadvantage in social life that this increases anxiety levels, even leading to a psychopathological personality. An extraordinary amount of energy is devoted to “impression management,” the effort to establish credibility, to acquire the finances needed to purchase the paraphernalia (designer clothes, luxury automobiles, etc) to impress with. I have long since stopped caring about such superficial status symbols.
The “old” natives of the “New” World knew how to handle the phenomenon of resentment caused by the aristocratic snobbery brought over by the lords and masters from across the pond. They recognized that such snobbery was used by a small handful of Euros shame all the other Euros (which the natives thought were actually slaves, since they all seemed to have a “boss”). They (the natives hostile to such gortdom) just got rid of anything anybody wanted. They didn’t own property and they dressed in rags. They laid low and let the aristocrats, egalitarians, sycophants, and government-paid assassins all look on them as worthless.
Check out Ezra Pound and Eustace Mullins (Mullins On the Federal Reserve).
Not only will there be a huge gap for 2007 and 2008 since I gave my nephew about 17 notebooks, but even 2005 to 2007 from my years in Matawan, not much at all will be used for this official manifesto. Is this pseudologia fantastica? [a curious need to disguise or destroy the story of your life]
I do not include emotional entanglements or infatuations and confusions involving attempts to interact with women and all the drama involved with “tee-pee creeping” … trying to become close to more than one woman, like when one just gives up being dragged along like a dog-friend by one woman, so one feels free to creep spontaneously. I found a woman could develop an emotionally intimate relation with you and pretty much deny to herself that there was anything there since there was no coitus or romance involved, but then has the nerve to seem concerned when I am getting to know a different woman. Anyway, I don’t see excluding this kind of comical drama as a matter of destroying the story of my life as it is about respecting my privacy and the privacy of those whose lives have intersected with my own. The same goes for those I have hung out with, held deep conversations with, become close to, been assaulted by, et cetera. TOO PRIVATE!
The Matawan Diaries go from Spring 2005 to Autumn 2007. The writings are mostly me processing the pain of unrequited love and a relation that involved emotional intimacy but where I was repeatedly wounded emotionally and psychologically. There is also much about The Cress Theory as well. From October 2007 to July 2008, I only have one notebook – from January 2008 – as I left about 17 volumes with my nephew when I was out in the Seattle area in 2010.
Regardless of how I feel about my life experiences, I do not regret having met the people I have met along my journey. In fact, I feel compassion and empathy for them. And yet all my experiences must have had some kind of influence on me, on my worldview, on my philosophy. I still want to be as authentic as possible. I still want to experience my genuine emotional responses.
All of Dostoevsky’s heroes question themselves as to the meaning of life. They do not fear ridicule. When I feel like a character in some existentialist novel, I have to remind myself of the truth: that these existential novels contain characters that are like me, not the other way around. I am not like the fictional character, Henry Fool. The fictional character Henry Fool is like ME. I want to contemplate the contents of my own mind for my own mind is far more fascinating and interesting to me than anything Hollywood has to offer. I am defiant, stubborn, and courageous, a shy wild wolf or coyote in a society of dogs impressing their masters.
“There is no fate that cannot be surmounted by scorn.”
Being alienated allows me to say things that the more well-connected would never say or even allow themselves to think. Sometimes I viewed myself like the fictional character from A Scarlet Letter who was harassed by the mediocre townspeople who believed she was at their mercy or had to pay deference to their casual opinions. Often I find myself cursing the cock-suckers and ass-lickers who presume to look down upon me because I find it difficult to bow down in submission.
As for the tyranny of public opinion, I am at odds with their judgments … disdainful, contemptuous, scornful. How dare I be captivated by my own thoughts! The nerve I have! How dare I prefer to hear my own voice rather than sit passively before the propaganda box called television. How dare I not be impressed with celebrities on TV who, along with the advertisers, have also helped to turn the Internet to SHIT, as we are relentlessly bombarded by the Corporate Mind Fuck even on the Internet, a once sacred haven for finding some coherency in the midst of so much shallow, wealth-warped bullshit.
I have finally realized that I write for myself. I am my own audience. Why do I type my insights? Why do I write them down in the first place? Well, I like to be able to search through things I’ve written about and thought about if you don’t mind. It’s the greatest revenge to write a book to yourself and for yourself. Who gives a shit what the multitudes want? I keep track of ideas I am drawn to …
Psychologists go about trying to explain phenomena. Phenomenologists try to describe experience.
Phenomenon —–> “that which reveals itself”
There are no guidelines for being-in-the-world.
Clearly I am insulted by the manner in which our dumbed-down media-saturated celebrity-worshiping society receives me. Fortunately I have a great deal of insight into the effects this has on me – as a male primate, that is. I defuse the knee-jerk reaction. While I perceive myself as a great thinker and a deep contemplative, this wealth-warped society may see me as a clown to be poked with a stick, harassed, or beat down into silence or submission. If I had not developed such a rich inner life, society just might have succeeded in humiliating me to death. As Nietzsche warns us, there is ice in their laughter.
How’s this for honesty? To Hell with false modesty! False modesty is a lie. The genius is treated as though he were mentally deficient or emotionally imbalanced so that the mediocre drones don’t feel so stupid or dull-witted. The herd gets to laugh at the isolated genius so as to compensate for their mediocrity. We shall all be equal or else face the consequences of being a lone wolf among a pack of obedient, well-trained dogs! How the obedient dogs hate the lone wolf who does not lick their masters’ boots!
My philosophy is an existence philosophy, my mode of being-in-the-world. This has been my motivation for introspection since childhood and early adolescence . How do I really feel? What do I really think? Why must I always pay everlasting regard to the casual opinions of others? If my manner of being disturbs others, and they slander me as “disturbed” or “dangerous” (to myself or others), am I to sit back and be oppressed or subject to some kind of denigrating psychiatric evaluation?
If I do end up securing this little domicile in Ocean Grove, I will be bringing all my salvaged notebooks and enough texts to create my own private sanctuary.
I have all my notebooks from 1987 to the present all on the shelves in plain view, no longer hidden in chests, and I pick volumes at random to spark some contemplation.
The text, Anti-Oedipus, is a real brain bender. Deleuze and Guattari reference Wilhelm Reich’s The Mass Psychology of Fascism:
“I observed that the men who were most in life, who were moulding life, who were life itself, ate little, slept little, owned little or nothing. They had no illusions about duty, or the perpetuation of their kilth and kin, or the preservation of the State.”
Deleuze and Guattari write, “After centuries of exploitation, why do people still tolerate still being humiliated and enslaved, to such a point, indeed, that they actually want humiliation and slavery, not only for others but for themselves? Reich is at his profoundest as a thinker when he refuses to accept ignorance or illusion on the part of the masses as an explanation of fascism, and demands an explanation that will take their desires into account, an explanation formulated in terms of desire: no, the masses were not innocent dupes; at a certain point, under a certain set of conditions, they wanted fascism, and it is this perversion of the desire of the masses that needs to be accounted for.”
I will not be bringing a television set, not even for a woman. I will eventually get Internet access, but in the meantime I will forge ahead, typing at my leisure then uploading at the library. Gathering texts to haul to Ocean Grove is chaotic. Unlike the large apartment in Matawan which absorbed my entire personal library as well as two desks, computer network, and entertainment system, the domicile in Ocean Grove is severely compact, so I am forced to focus … no more reference books. My Bibliotheca is in my mother’s basement in Freehold, so when I go there, I can still access it.
Now I will revive Schizoanalysis and expose the current industry of Psychoanalysis, along with its State religion, The Twelve Steps of Alcoholics Anonymous, as enforcing an age-old tendency to humble us, demean us, and to make us feel guilty. Instead of participating in an undertaking that will bring about genuine liberation, psychoanalysis is taking part in the work of bourgeoise repression at its most far reaching level; that is to say, keeping European humanity harnessed to the yoke of daddy-mommy and making no effort to do away with this problem once and for all. (Deleuze/Guattari 1972)
Again, from Anti-Oedipus:
“As to those who refuse to be oedipalized in one form or another, the psychoanalyst is there to call the asylum or the police for help. The police on our side! – never did psychoanalysis better display its taste for supporting the movement for social repression, and for participating in it with enthusiasm. Oedipus is one of those things that become all the more dangerous the less people believe in it; then the cops are there to replace the priests. Oedipus is like God; the father is like God; the problem is not resolved until we do away with both the problem and the solution.”
Do I really need to present these or other ideas to the world? Do I really need to type anything? No, and again, no. I don’t need the Internet. I isolate. Writing just for the sake of writing without any motivation to publish what is being scribbled is like demonic possession. The author is simply leaving a trail of where his mind has traversed. Could it be that all my writings are conversations with myself? I want to scramble the codes in my own mind and hack into my own brain. It is my brain, right? Reading obscure texts makes me a Presence of Mind in the social fabric regardless of my low status. Intellectual evolution is a higher level of evolution than society and biology!
The Farmer’s World, of which mass industrial society is an extension, requires dull-witted compliant citizens. With the fear of being punished or of not being rewarded, we start pretending to be what we are not, just to please others, just to be “good enough” for someone else. Eventually we become someone we are not. We domesticate ourselves. We become socialized adults who do what we are told without supervision. We police ourselves into behaving as trained and tamed automatons.
Many of us resort to alcohol or hard street drugs to “set the demons free” or lower our society-induced inhibitions so that we can experience our raw animality.
We seek to expand the boundaries of poetry and prose by stating our own desires in our own terms.
Most of the conscious thinking of a philosopher is secretly guided and forced into certain channels by his INSTINCTS.
I have been observing the treatment centers and day programs the State employs and refers “clients” to. Institutions such as the asylum, the hospital, or the prison function as laboratories for observation of individuals, experimentation with correctional techniques, and acquisition of knowledge for social control. My own subjectivity is produced as a political operation. Conversely, changing one’s everyday existence becomes a political act with potentially radical consequences. I want to think coherently!
Just reading Arthur Schopenhauer at age 23 had a powerful effect on me: I was free to think forbidden thoughts such as “life is not worth living” and “it would have been better never to have been born.” These realizations helped me to experience the absurd and ridiculous nature of our lives.
When I was 15 years old I read both Kurt Vonnegut’s Player Piano and Ira Levin’s This Perfect Day. I just can’t shake the impression these novels had on me … I am still haunted by the question, “What the hell were they thinking having us read these novels?”
Surely whoever was in charge of assigning the reading list was trying to tell us something very subversive that he could not just come out and tell us point blank. I secretly imagined myself the protagonist refusing to take his medications, resisting “treatment.” I imagined myself growing us to be some anti-hero fighting the forces that were “in control.” By the time I was 19, I was scribbling in what I have come to refer to as The Destroyed Diaries (1980 to 1986), the ones I set on fire down at the pit near Lake Topanemus.
When I became homeless after choosing not to go directly from high school to college, I started researching some things they didn’t cover in high school, like what Adolf Hitler’s life was like when he was younger … before he became the megalomaniac we all know him as. I learned that Hitler lived a solitary life. Much of the time he spent dreaming or brooding. He was an angry, lonely man. He wandered for hours through the streets and parks, suddenly disappearing into the public library in pursuit of some new enthusiasm. Hitler’s moods alternated between abstracted preoccupation and outbursts of excited talk. He was a poor wretch, often half starved, without a job, family, or home. He clung obstinately to any belief that would bolster up the claim of his own superiority. By the age of 21, he had become what more disciplined folks like to call “a jobless bum.”
Germany had suffered a collective inferiority complex on a national scale. This led to an overcompensation for it in the form of extreme nationalism. The Nazis were a middle class movement rather than proletarian. The lower classes were also drawn to Nazism which began as revolutionary but later became anti-revolutionary. Could it really be that fascism grows out of economic stress? The middle class goes after the proletarian, destroying their organizations. This silent majority may be the same types who would volunteer information to “Homeland Security.” It is the silent majority that creates fascism. The collective frustration of the disappearing middle class gets subverted into fascistic regimes.
Now, Friedrich Nietzsche helps me understand the way the masses operate.
“High and independent spirituality, the will to stand alone, are experienced as dangers; everything that elevates an individual above the herd and intimidates the neighbor is henceforth called evil; and the fair, modest, submissive, conforming mentality, the mediocrity of desires attains moral designations and honors.”
Dionysus was the god of drunken ecstasy and frenzy. The symbol of Dionysus took possession of Nietzsche’s life. He consecrated himself to the service of the god Dionysus, but Dionysus is a dangerous and ambiguous god. Nietzsche was torn apart by the dark forces of the underworld, succumbing, at age 45, to psychosis. Nietzsche was one of the loneliness men. Is there any way to know if there exists or ever has existed a sane individual? The earth has become a madhouse, and those running the asylums are usually even more insane than the inmates confined within the walls.
Now I am venturing into realms of discourse where few traverse, building connections in my neural nerve net which I intend to implement immediately as my insights have concrete manifestations in my life-world and in my interactions with the social fabric. Do I, as a deoedipalized individual transforming, have the capacity to demolish entire sectors of the social machinery simply by calling into question the established order?
After the meal on Prospect Avenue, I walked down to the boardwalk near the Ocean Grove section to sit in peace under some kind of pavilion. I think I will return here often to get out of “the monkey cage apartment.” And yet, while sitting here reading, a Christian out with his wife politely annoyed me, trying to convince me that “Jesus is the only way to be saved.”
Before I got up and left, I had stood my ground (politely), telling him that I was no Christian … baptized Christian, yes, but all the same, not Christian, and that I did not find the Bible relevant. I told him that the Abrahamic world religions of Judaism, Christianity, and Islam did not make any sense to me, and that I was not going to do back-flips in the air to force them to make sense to me. I wonder if the well-connected locals go out of their way to blacklist me. Why did this proselytizing Christian tell me that I am confusing people? How does he even know me? Could it be that I am not as invisible as I feel I am?
Am I confusing people? If so, this would be inspirational to me. Here I thought I wasn’t even making a dent in these rigid belief structures. Confusion … at least that’s a start.
Daniel Quinn wrote a chapter in My Ishmeal about a man who kills himself because he can’t seem to find anything that interests him in the world of work. He can’t find an occupation that he really enjoys. He’s good at a lot of stuff: writing, songwriting, acting, but none of it does it for him. His failure to find something to do with himself is so complete that despite having the economic resources to continue wandering indefinitely, he drowns himself. The chapter was based on Paul Eppinger, whose father published this book taken from journal entries discovered by his father after Paul’s suicide. Restless Mind, Quiet Thoughts gives us a close-up look at how truly difficult it is to live with honesty and integrity in today’s world.
Paul was different. He knew he was different and he experienced the anguish brilliant people feel when wondering why their gifts seem to matter so little. Extreme sensitivity comes at a high price. We know there is something systemically wrong with our culture and the way we are taught and expected to live.
To paraphrase Daniel Quinn from Story of B:
What makes me dangerous is the fact that no one can place me. I’m not selling meditation or Satanism or goddess worship or faith healing or spiritualism or Umbanda or speaking in tongues or any kind of New Age drivel. I’m apparently not making money at all, and that’s disquieting. You always know what someone’s about when he’s raking in millions. I am not another example of some familiar model, like David Koresh or the Reverend Moon or Madame Blavatsky or Uri Geller. In fact, my presentation and lifestyle are more reminiscent of Jesus of Nazareth than anyone else, and that too is disquieting. Perhaps some of the questions I have been asking and continue to ask are “dangerous” after all. Dangerous is a good way, in a very good way, in a way that is so good that it is downright evil.
From Story of B, page 148:
“To you, Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism look very different, but to me they look the same. Many of you would say that something like Buddhism doesn’t even belong in this list, since it doesn’t link salvation to divine worship, but to me this is just a quibble. Christianity, Judaism, Islam, Buddhism, and Hinduism all perceive human beings as flawed, wounded creatures in need of salvation, and all rely fundamentally on revelations that spell out how salvation is to be attained, either by departing from this life or by rising above it…The adherents of these religions are mightily struck and obsessed by their differences – to the point of mayhem, murder, jihad, and genocide – but to me, as I say, you all look alike.”
Does H = B ?
From Story of B, page 235:
“What does it mean for me to say that I’m B?…It means I’ve been changed, fundamentally and permanently. It means I cannot be put back to what I was. That’s why I’m B: I cannot be put back to what I was…The words have found their way to you, so it’s already too late…because of what you’ve read here. The contagion has been spread. You are B.”
“I am Nature, the universal mother, mistress of all elements, primordial child of time, sovereign of all things spiritual, queen of the dead, the single manifestation of all gods and goddesses that are. She is Mother of the Corn, and I am a Child of the Corn.”
My name for this ancient queen of inner space will be Isis, what the Egyptians called Her.
I am letting my imagination run wild with creating a kind of science-fiction story that is focused on reality with a primitive-future in mind. The story will be narrated by a 9 year-old girl in an Africa of the future explaining to us how a woman who grew up in her village is to become the president of The United Nations of North America, where so many are living in Third World conditions that only an African woman would be willing or able to begin to understand how to go about bringing some relief to the suffering masses. The young girl dreams at night about her grandmother’s grandmother’s magic stones. When she finds the stones, she takes them somewhere sacred and private. While holding them, she falls into a trance-state.
She sees when there was one Great Turtle Island, Pangae of 280,000,000 years ago. She sees the continental shifts forming Laurasia (North America, Greenland, Europe, Asia) in the northern hemisphere and Gondwanaland (South America, Africa, Australia, Indai) in the southern hemisphere – 125,000,000 years ago. She sees when Laurasia and Gondwanaland split into what they were 65,000,000 years ago and into what they are today (2008).
The political situation in North America is similar in the short story I am working on – “Black Planet: Visions of Herstory” – to the situation in Colin Wilson’s The Mind Parasites, where there is an African woman directly from modern Africa as president; I have just included Mexico and Canada in the collective area she is “in charge of helping.”
When the girl is not in a trance, becoming various creatures who have lived, always in the female body, she is explaining to us, through learning about it first hand, how the president of the UNNA was delegating local authority to indigenous leaders in the Americas. By this time there are areas in Africa set up for descendants of chattel slaves the world over could return and live in rehabilitating communities. The prison industry and the industries that rely on prison labor collapsed as so many of their encaged chose to leave the UNNA to live in pre-existing communities specifically designed to rehabilitate souls damaged by diaspora and the insanity of being born black when the United States (and England and France and Spain and the Dutch) was invading the Western Hemisphere.
During one of her trances, the girl becomes a flying reptile.
At this point I would like to create a myth that describes how monkeys, apes, and humans lost their wings: arms developed, which had hands, which grew fingers. As the fingers grew, the wings were used less, since the fingers always seemed to be tinkering with something on the ground. At one point she is flying with smaller wings, arms, and a few fingers on each hand. She is hunting with her sisters.
As the continental shifts continued, those creatures who used their fingers most lost their wings and were left stranded where they were. Old World monkeys, apes, humans in Africa; New World monkeys in South America; and Orangutans in Asia.
In another trance she sees life on earth 3,000,000 years ago, where all human beings were Africoidal. I would like to show how Asiatic human beings (Mongoloid) and European and Semitic/Arabic human beings (Caucasoid), mutated out of Africa with a combination of shifts and migrations up to about 10,000 years ago, where I used A Basic Call to Consciousness to trace the “history” of totalitarian agriculture and how “tilling the soil” may have been very wrong.
All these imagined scenarios can take place in the narrator’s trance-states (while holding a magic stone) or in her dreams and everyday life. I was thinking this story could be told from the perspective of the planet itself conscious that “She” is dying from the activity of industrialized mankind. This perspective, even as the story would be told by a young girl, would force the “audience” to see some kind of ancient presence as it is manifested eternally young. The difficult part would be de-anthropomorphizing this narrator when she becomes other creatures … even imaginary pre-historic mammals and reptiles. In other words, how do we – as human creatures – imagine nonhuman intelligence?
The saga would begin with an explanation that life simply is, and that it will always be beyond the bounds of time and space … And yet, the death of a planet caused by lifeforms spawned upon her surface, occurs in time and space; but time and space are mental functions, part of our equipment. Alphabetized language depends on linear time … In fact, our entire industrialized world is based on a linear mode of perceiving time. Squares, corners, triangles …
I guess I would have to research other modes of perception. Something tells me the circle in general, or the spiral specifically, gives insight into the true nature of life.
What went “wrong” on this planet? Have any lessons been learned? Can we tap into the unconscious and intuit what is so, what has been, and what will be? If we can intuit the true nature of our lives and how everything is connected in a web, how do we apply these intuitions to our daily lives and how we interact with our “life-worlds” ?
The human animal is aware of death. Are insects aware of death? Is the planet aware of death? Is death just a part of life for “sexual creatures” ? Do rocks and stones and mountains know death?
The purpose of this story would be to show how all of us are related to each other and to all lifeforms on this earth, and maybe, along the way, get some insight into the nature of sleeping, dreaming, dying, reincarnating …
Getting it together in my own head is primary – the opus proprium of my own thought processes.
I have seen certain authoritarians glower at me with the ferocity of an ill-tempered dog. Beware of therapy, a technique used by the authorities and their gort agents to break down the personal identity or “personality” of a subject. This type of “treatment” breaks an individual animal-being’s “spirit” making it completely “outer-directed” and dependent upon the group-mind for approval.
Meanwhile, in an interview with Derrick Jensen, David Ehrenfeld says that the institutions that have power drive away people who are most creative, most concerned, and most qualified to help us out of the many crises we are in at the moment. The Patriot Act was all about the fear those in power have of the wild men of Montana and a growing segment of lone wolves who want to liberate themselves from the system. The money system is totally abstract and is the source of much pain and devastation. Our culture is obsessed with “doing,” with “action,” with “productivity”.
Linda Hogen wrote, “English seems to be a language that has more to do with economics than emotion. We do not have words in the English language for our strongest feelings. It’s not a language that can touch the depths of our passion, of our pain.”
I realize that when I begin drinking alcohol, even just beer, I lose interest in scholarly work and become more inclined to dancing around listening to loud music and singing. I actually went down to the ocean yesterday, singing all the way down the street, making songs up like a child. Yes, I was drunk.
When I was a teenager, my maternal grandfather called me a pinko communist because of my infatuation with A Basic Call To Consciousness.
See ratical.org/many_worlds/6Nations/6nations1.html (The Hau de no sau nee Address to the Western World, Geneva, Autumn 1977 )
He thought that respecting those indigenous to the Americas was “anti-American.” How Orwellian! Decades later, in today’s political climate, those who seek justice are no longer called pinkos, communists, or hippies (a term Black America coined in the 1950′s for “white youth who behaved and functioned more black than white”). Now everyone is a suspected terrorist. The spooks and secret agents and even the mainstream gorts most likely view people who dare to keep bringing up the plight of the indigenous Natural World peoples of this land as a hostile nutcases and potential terrorists.
I wonder if my radical ideas frighten some “professional” women. I mean, I may be much better off a lone wolf. This way I am free to become more and more authentic without anyone continuously coercing me into normalcy and conformity. Intimacy with the wrong woman would be a liability to me.
At the message board I put together, Number Six from across the pond, in a thread called SLEEPING WITH THE ENEMY, suggests that, women who are wired to seek security are part of the problem.
Kesheyanakwan (Art Solomon) wrote, “Women have had the biggest share in enslaving not only themselves but their men and children; the majority of them don’t do any serious thinking. Yes, the women have let us down and they have no right to believe that it was men alone who got them into the slavery that they are now in because it never could have happened without the passive and the active participation of the women themselves.”
Another strange note: The informer against Kit Marlowe, Richard Baines, was to write in 1593 of “Christofer Marley who perswades men to Atheism willing them not to be afeard of bugbeares and hobgoblins and utterly scorning both god and ministers …”
Even though Marlowe died at the young age of 31, at least he was able to communicate his very bold truths. In one scene of one of his plays, Tamburlaine challenges Mahommed by burning the Koran. What Marlowe would like to have shown on the stage was out of the question, but the inference is that Mahommed and the Koran, Christ and the Bible were interchangeable. All these religions are equally invalid. It has been observed that in Marlowe’s plays each of the great religions of his world, Christianity, Islam, and Judaism came under attack. Marlowe … a spirit in revolt. Look him up, children.
Friste, the fool in Shakespeare’s Twelfth Night, is funny precisely because he speaks the truth. Will I become a hilarious philosophical comedian if I just allow myself to be authentic, to be honest in a society glued together by deception? Hasn’t this been my modus operandi all along? Here I am in Freehold gulping coffee, gulping water, gulping, gulping. I’m always gulping when in Downtown Freehold. I have reached a serious dead end here. I don’t want to end up in some group home shuffled to “the program.”
So, The Ghost Shirt Society seems to be attracting a small handful of subversive thinkers, some disgruntled workers, underground journalists, propaganda artists, anti-novelists, and even a few very novelesque characters telling it like it is and how they see things in general. While I created the site and have suggested what I want to focus on as far as the subject matter goes, I remain open to suggestions. Still, because of the obscurity of my interests, I expect interactions to be limited to a few like-minded supporters who don’t want to witness me talking only to the crickets (and the spooks). Philosophers have never been too popular … since he/she is the one making the society question their assumptions.
While deciding which notebooks or texts I will be bringing out West with me, I am forced to appreciate just how liberated my life has become from material possessions. Leaving behind a library of books, a computer network, much recorded music, a drum kit, and wintry clothes, the main “possessions” I regret leaving behind are my scribblings, that which can’t be replaced. One day I will have to burn the diaries just to be liberated from them too … and yet … the contents are evidence of my chaotic life and the challenges this living creature endures each day … almost archeological or psychological data rather than literature.
I see clearly that the main motivation for abandoning a life-time of sentimental possessions, hardware/software and a library I was so proud of is to escape the trap of forced unwanted conditioning, in the form of “day programs” and the coercive and draconian policies imposed on those diagnosed with some kind of mental or emotional “disorder.” If you don’t mind, the Devil doen’t want to be exorcised. I want my “sickness” to heal me of the cure.
Run, Rabbit, Run!
I’m glad I’m not emotionally entangled in a romantic relationship. It makes my escape that much easier. My mother has been a presence in my life throughout my struggles. Now I am about to move so far away that I may not spend any time with her or see her ever again. This is a possibility, but I am not comfortable contemplating these things. Do all sons with divorced single mothers feel that added inner pressure to be more present in the mothers life than if his father were right there by her like a protective junk-yard dog? When I hug family good-bye, I will do so in such a manner that they will understand I am leaving due to my dissatisfaction and displeasure with my current life in Monmouth County, New Jersey. I’m runnin’ with the Devil, it’s touch and go …
I shop at the thrift stores and have no desire to impress the gorts of our world with fancy clothes or bling-bling. More than vices, it is madness and its innocence that disturb the conventional who perpetuate the status-quo. Those who refuse to be oedipalized in one form or another are handled by the “asylum” and the police. Psychoanalysis and psychiatry have the police on their side. “Crisis Control” is a euphemism for the violent repression of those who disturb the smooth function of the systematic repression itself.
If the seeds of fascism take root with the inner desire to be led, to be told what to do, to be managed, coached, bossed, trained, inspected, evaluated, then today’s mental healthcare industry is a state-sponsored campaign to humiliate free-thinkers and free spirits. My escape to Seattle is an attempt to break the chains that bind me to being managed, coached, bossed, trained, inspected, coerced, evaluated …
Someone who posts at isis.phpbb3now.com jokingly pronounced that massive intelligence oozes from our message board, and that he was there to gather it. In Daniel Quinn’s Story of B, the priest who is sent to determine if the assassination of B is necessary actually becomes a disciple of B and eventually becomes B itself. This is “counter-transference” or “psychic infection.” It is the phenomenon where the exorcist gets “possessed” by the very demons he is attempting to exorcize. This also happens in psycho-therapy when a therapist or “mental health technician” begins to be influenced by the charisma or animal magnetism of the “deviant” she/he is trying to “coerce into normalcy and conformity.” It may also happen when a disgruntled flunky-worker inspires a “manager” or “engineer” to join the general insurrection against the corporate elites, her/his masters. Counter-transference. Spooks and spies, take heed.
Consider this your final warning.
To proceed further is to risk psychic infection.
This phenomenon may also occur right in the streets. The shepherd ought to be cautious when sending “his dogs” out to subdue “the wolf” since the dog and the wolf may share roots that the shepherd is unaware of.
A few definitely lost notebooks and one just discovered to be missing, all from January through the tail end of March, 2009, leaves a huge gap from an adventurous season in the abyss.
With Frantz Fanon, I can say, “Why write this book? No one has asked me for it. Especially those to whom it is directed. Well? Well, I reply quite calmly that there are too many idiots in this world. And having said it, I have the burden of proving it.”
I get a kick out of reading Nietzsche, but so many ignore Schopenhauer that I feel compelled to pay him homage. Nietzsche gets too much attention, as far as I’m concerned. Even Nietzsche admits that Schopenhauer was a great educator of mankind, even though Nietzsche does kind of diametrically oppose Schopenhauer’s extreme life-negating principles. I can only suppose that Friedrich Nietzsche’s readings of Schopenhauer terrified him. I would like to exorcize the ghost of Hegel and take literature to vast philosophical horizons. I don’t have to ask permission to attempt to become the most fearsome, the most ultimate, the most fearless “WHY?” and “WHAT NEXT?”
H.L. Mencken (1880-1956), the American Nietzsche, wrote, “The most dangerous man to any government is the man who is able to think things out for himself, without regard to the prevailing superstitions and taboos.”
“Civilization, in fact, grows more and more maudlin and hysterical; especially under democracy it tends to degenerate into a mere combat of crazes; the whole aim of practical politics is to keep the populace alarmed (and hence clamorous to be led to safety) by menacing it with an endless series of hobgoblins, most of them imaginary.”
Hence, the war on drugs and the draconian rules enforced by concerned neighbors who spy on us in the interests of “safety” and “security.” Please do report any suspicious behavior. meanwhile, I am becoming more paranoid as I witness how quickly, how easily, I can be made out to be a menace.
I don’t want to follow the advice given at Prinicipia Discordia as it is filled with sheepish fear: “Right now, just by knowing what you know you have become a thought criminal.”
“Keep your books under the bed. If you really want to accomplish something then your best bet is to work undercover. Jumping on a soapbox and spreading the gospel is not how you get the message across, it’s how you end up in jail. Make no mistake, now that you’ve slipped your chain they’re looking for you. Don’t make it easy for them.”
Or here: “Newsflash – none of them like you! You’re just another weirdo, screaming ‘burn your MTV’ at them from the gutter someplace. Another fuckhead with a sandwich board with ‘End of the world is nigh’ written on it. They are conditioned to ignore subversion. Their continued slavery depends on it. So blend in.”
Even the black sheep are still sheep?
A few years ago, when my nephew was still back in Dirty Jersey, he actually had the insight to interview David Ehrenfeld. I don’t want to leave a trail of quotes of others, but, that is a big part of keeping “records,” diaries, journals, memoirs, after all. I usually do take extensive notes from books I am going through, especially books on loan from a library. Part of the pleasure of reading through my notebooks is going over such notes. It helps me remember the original sources of ideas I may have begun to think I came up with myself!
I defer now to David Ehrenfeld:
“This power system, with its transnational corporations, its giant military machines, its globalized financial system and world trade, its agribusiness used to build up industrial infrastructures at the expense of the world’s farmers — with its growing numbers of jobless people and people in bad jobs, with its endless refugees, with its trail of damaged cultures and damaged ecosystems, and with its fatal internal flaws, is now coming apart. As the great British philosopher Mary Midgley has said, “The house is on fire; we must wake up from this dream and do something about it.”
“There is a larger lesson to learn. Both George Orwell and Wendell Berry have said that we are going to have to learn how to live a little poorer. Not poorer in spirit, not poorer in happiness, just poorer in the material things we don’t need. If we can learn this lesson, maybe the best parts of civilization and nature will survive after all. We shouldn’t ask for more than that.”
“Moving forward requires that we provide satisfying alternatives to those who have been most seriously injured by the present technology and economics. They include farmers, blue-collar workers suddenly jobless because of unfair competition from foreign slave labor or American “workfare,” and countless souls whose lives and work have been made redundant by the megastores in the shopping malls. If good alternatives are not found soon, the coming collapse will inevitably provoke a terrible wave of violence born of desperation.”
From Yevgeny Zamyatin’s essay on Maxim Gorky:
“And all this on foot, in the company of homeless picturesque tramps, with nights around fires on the steppe, in abandoned houses, under rowboats turned upside down. How many adventures, encounters, friendships, fights, nocturnal confessions! What material for the future writer, and what a school for the future revolutionary!”
The reason that I write is because I have been told my entire life to “keep my voice down,” or “shut up,” or “don’t talk about that,” or simply “stop talking!” I write for all those who once told me to shut up, to be quiet, or to not talk about that. May I not be so weak as to hate. Hatred is a sign of weakness. Love is strong. When we are feeling strong, we tend towards compassion. And yet!
Why did I leave New Jersey? Well, I remember Ocean Grove. The whole town seemed to hate me. Remember the Asbury Park Police? They were ruthless and cruel, talking to me as if I were a dog who pissed in the temple. Remember Matawan? Remember Red Bank? I know why I left New Jersey. Those poor people in CPC Behavioral Healthcare, and those folks stuck in group homes shuffled back and forth to the “programs” – a hall of mirrors. And yet, out here, out West, there is isolation in a dimension called loneliness where people pay professionals to listen to their troubles. Nobody seems to care about anyone else. This world is so full of shit. Even though my mother had been emotionally supportive back in Jersey, she encouraged me to leave the area because she was afraid the police were out to get me once again. I had begun “acting up in public” again.
Out here in Federal Way, Washington, on my way to the grocery store, I was approached by a “Christian” on the corner who had a huge sign: FEAR GOD, TRUST JESUS. He annoyed me – irritated me – drove me to drink. I am just carrying my notebooks around outdoors, going over old notes until I become inebriated, at which point I switch over to the outdoor Makita Radio. I carry a flute, a harmonica, and a tape recorder so as to feel a little freedom. Too bad there is no freedom from the huge airplanes that fly over every 3 minutes!
I have so much anger pent up in me, and it gets unleashed when under the influence of alcohol. Is there a way to see clearly without becoming a monster? How do I manage to prevent myself from going off the deep end? I wonder if I will ever return to New Jersey. What is there? What is anywhere, for that matter? I do not want to pretend anymore. Is there a way to wrap my head around it all?
Maybe I have reached a tipping point. Maybe I am ready to leave this world and give up the ghost.
After I go into a rage while drunk, where I lash out with furious words, I then experience shame. I am disgusted with myself, disgusted with life itself. Is it possible that the mind wants to alienate others so as to isolate me in a dimension where it will be that much easier to detach from caring? I may not even care about my journals anymore. Maybe I should have destroyed them before leaving New Jersey.
I find myself considering that the “ghosts” of my great grandfathers – my ancestors – are influencing my writing and research and thinking. I reach out to the invisible intelligences for guidance, the intelligence of the air itself. So these ghosts point me to Italian occultist, Giordano Bruno. Bruno was a kind of evangelist of occultism. The sun-centered universe was a hieroglyph of Bruno’s “magical religion.” This volatile, heretical Italian is the man Greene describes as “the mad priest of the sun.”
The talk about “men before Adam” is often connected with Hariot’s knowledge of American Indian mythology.
I did get a chance to check out The Reckoning. This Cholmeley’s whole pose as an atheistic revolutionary seems to have been designed to implicate Christopher Marlowe, whom he specifically names as his atheistic guru. The Dutch Church libel can be seen as the opening move in the smear campaign against Marlowe.
The message: Followers of Marlowe, those “persuaded by his reasons” are men bent on political violence. There are lynch mobs in the street, and there are gangs of malcontents planning to set up communes and “live according to their own laws,” the way Native (indigenous) Americans lived, never kissing the ring of pope nor king, bowing down to no officials. They are all sprouting rhetoric imbibed from Marlowe. The message comes out, through devious means – that Marlowe is a dangerous man. It seems that the real target was Walter Reliegh.
“As it is, I already know way more than I’m comfortable with.”
Did I pick this phrase up from Chuck Palaniuk? Hilarious.
Antisthenes was a Cynic who did not want any “followers” – One of his only disciples was named Diogenes. To the question why he had but few disciples he replied, “Because I use a silver rod to eject them.”
Being told that Plato was abusing him, he remarked, “It is a royal privilege to do good and be ill-spoken of.”
When Antisthenes was asked what advantage had accrued him from philosophy, his answer was, “The ability to hold converse with myself.”
I have been keeping my head together by utilizing the library system in King County (WA). I find it inspiring that Hipparchia fell in love with the life and the discourses of Crates. She would not pay attention to any of her suitors, their wealth, their high birth, or their beauty. To her, Crates was everything. She chose him as her husband! She went on to live a life of Cynic poverty on the streets of Athens with him. Impressive.
Schopenhauer was so right. Fate is cruel. There is little to be had anywhere. People are mostly miserable. I will not add to my misery by blaming myself for my current sorrow. Life is a nightmare. It is not my fault, and I don’t even know who to blame. I wonder if I will end up just not caring. Whatever I am experiencing, I want to process it without psychiatric medication. When I left Freehold and New Jersey, was I leaving to die? The animal still lives.
Now I find myself daydreaming about returning to Jersey … Freehold … I have no idea where I will stay or where I will end up. All I know is that I have no reason to stay way out here. I would be wise to remember my long lonely walks along the railroad tracks. I would be wise to remember the way many townspeople seemed to treat me like a freak when I went out in public. I would be wise to remember that “Home Sweet Home” was never very sweet at all. Yes, it is all coming back to me now … the threat of “group homes” … the county jail … the Delmonte … Ocean Grove puritanism. I have to remember that when I got on the train to head for Seattle, I was escaping from participation at CPC Behavioral Healthcare … the denigrating bus rides in “the program” … It is terrifying what people will do in the name of kindness and love!
How could anyone be surprised were I to end up a suicide? This escape from the rut I was in has been about freedom, and yet, suppose I end up in jail out here? It looks as though there are many opportunities for trouble out here, especially since neighbors are encouraged to spy, snoop and tattle. Is freedom merely the absence of a cage? The fact that I refuse to get a telephone is significant. I am inaccessible. People can’t “reach out and touch me.” I am MISSING. Is this making my heart stronger? Pain is the price worth paying for disentangling myself from those who would exploit me.
Lucifer – the angel whose freedom is freedom from God.
Hell is the price. So be it. Like Lucifer, my crime is the crime of wondering.
The road to Hell is not paved with good intentions.
The road to Hell is paved with intriguing questions.
I got some insight into Kesey’s One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest from going over John Taylor Gatto’s notes. That book still inspires me to this day, especially in the light of how annoying and irritating I find the current mental healthcare industry. Randell P. MacMurphy influences the other inmates of the psychiatric ward by bestowing the gift of laughter, power, and self-repsect. Cuckoo’s Nest is a paradigm of the predicament of modern man. Our world is a macrocosm reflected in the asylum – as a vast funny farm prison. Perhaps it is the guards who are the most dangerous ones!
Am I anomic? What is anomie? Anomie is the disregard of divine law, an absence of accepted social standards. (a = without, nomos = law)
The original definition of anomie defined anything or anyone against or outside the law. Anomie is a reaction against or a retreat from the regulatory social controls of society.
I found an essay written by Hermann Hesse from 1919, Thoughts on The Idiot.
“In conversation someone says to the ‘idiot’ that he only speaks the truth, nothing more, and that this is deplorable.”
“The fact that this foe of order, this frightful destroyer, appears not as a criminal but as a shy, endearing person full of childlikeness and charm, a goodhearted, selfless, benevolent man, this is the secret of this terrifying book.”
I have quite simply ceased being afraid of becoming mad. The so-called psychotic, the insane, the madman is the real subversive force in capitalistic societies.
At this point in the compilation of these excepts, I recall some words from Dostoevsky’s Notes From Underground:
“I wish to declare once and for all that if I write as though I were addressing readers, that is simply because it is easier for me to write in that form. It is a form, an empty form — I shall never have readers. I have made this plain already …
“I don’t wish to be hampered by any restrictions in the compilation of my notes. I shall not attempt any system or method. I will jot things down as I remember them.
“Again, what is my object precisely in writing? If it is not for the benefit of the public why should I not simply recall these incidents in my own mind without putting them on paper?
“Quite so; but yet it is more imposing on paper. There is something more impressive in it; I shall be better able to criticise myself and improve my style. Besides, I shall perhaps obtain actual relief from writing.”
Back home in Dirty Jersey, my mother has moved out of the house on Stokes Street which she had been in since my parent’s divorce three decades ago. Everything I had ever owned: record albums, compact disks, old cassettes, computer equipment and software, tools, library of books, bed and furniture, all kitchen supplies and wintery clothes – all gone. My journals will be the only thing to be salvaged as they represent something irreplacable. Maybe those will also be lost or destroyed. How insane how all this unfolds. Why did I come out to Seattle? How does it end?
Water from the fountain at the library was especially refreshing today, and I am not at all ashamed of my lustful attraction to women I see. This sensual, sensitive, tender creature I am, the one who “steals glances,” that which fantasizes, this private and hidden core presence of mind writes in order to discover what it thinks, how it really feels.
I find myself wondering if Dostoevsky’s fictional character, Prince Myshkin from The Idiot was based on Dostoevsky himself. Was the character, Harry Hallar, in Hermann Hesse’s Steppenwolf, not based on Hesse himself? I begin scribbling in this notebook at the exact moment when my mother has sold her condo in my hometown 3000 miles to the east. All my personal possessions are gone forever as if destroyed by fire, flood, or hurricane; and yet, here I am, still with my Presence of Mind somewhat in tact.
The trip from Federal Way into Seattle and back triggered some kind of deep depression in me to the point where I was crying tears when finally alone on the floor in the apartment with the lights off. No drug can relieve me of this emptiness. My heart is in great pain. Why did I sense that every stranger could read my feelings of despair? Why did I also sense some people deriving some kind of sick pleasure in witnessing my inner pain, doubt, and confusion?
In Robert Pirsig’s Lila, he suggests that those who are overwhelmed in cities, those who get manic and depressive are the ones who really understand the “city,” the ones with the Zen shoshin, the “beginner’s mind.”
“These conservatives who keep trumpeting about the virtues of free enterprise are normally just supporting their own self-interest. They are doing the usual cover-up for the rich in their age-old exploitation of the poor.” (Pirsig)
What is this Giant? What is this nameless, faceless system that devours us and digests us? It uses our energy to grow stronger while we grow older and weaker. When we are no longer of much use, it excretes us and finds a younger person to take our place, and it sucks that life-energy up next.
I had intended to write some kind of autobiographical cyberpunk science-fiction anti-novel, but this diary is turning out to be more of the same pig-shit. All I can try to do is imagine myself very much like Zamyatin’s protagonist in We who kept a diary – or Winston, in Orwell’s 1984 who also scribbled his thought-crime into a private notebook. Now I am losing the desire to write on the Internet. It is clear to me that this “trying to reach the masses” has been an exercise in futility.
The first chance I get I will be attempting to return to New Jersey. I hate living next to a goddamn airport! I don’t like Seattle. I don’t like Federal Way. The only thing I like out here is the King County Library System. Cioran tells us to write books only if you are going to say in them the things you would never dare confide to anyone. The “intellectual” is destroyed by capitalism. I want to become one like Hannibal Lector who does not observe the pecking order, one who is dangerous to those larger than himself, one who is able to hurt bullies quickly and sometimes severely. I don’t want to be intimidated when outnumbered. I want to live a heroic life where I am disliked by anyone attempting to govern me, control, manage or constrain me.
Forgive me for so many quotes from my intellectual heroes, but I will eventually be gathering excerpts from my diaries typing them up into one document, one file that can be easily scanned for my own use as a reference should I not have access to any of my most beloved texts. These words are for my own benefit. I don’t care about any “readers.”
So there. I came out with it.
Arthur Schopenhauer wrote:
I may mention here another fundamental error of Christianity, an error which cannot be explained away, and the mischievous consequences of which are obvious every day: I mean the unnatural distinction Christianity makes between man and the animal world to which he really belongs.
It sets up man as all-important, and looks upon animals as merely things. Brahmanism and Buddhism, on the other hand, true to the facts, recognise in a positive way that man is related generally to the whole of nature, and specially and principally to animal nature; and in their systems man is always represented, by the theory of metempsychosis and otherwise, as closely connected with the animal world. The important part played by animals all through Buddhism and Brahmanism, compared with the total disregard of them in Judaism and Christianity, puts an end to any question as to which system is nearer perfection, however much we in Europe may have become accustomed to the absurdity of the claim.
Christianity contains, in fact, a great and essential imperfection in limiting its precepts to man, and in refusing rights to the entire animal world. As religion fails to protect animals against the rough, unfeeling and often more than bestial multitude, the duty falls to the police; and as the police are unequal to the task, societies for the protection of animals are now formed all over Europe and America. In the whole of uncircumcised Asia, such a procedure would be the most superfluous thing in the world, because animals are there sufficiently protected by religion, which even makes them objects of charity. How such charitable feelings bear fruit may be seen, to take an example, in the great hospital for animals at Surat, whither Christians, Mohammedans and Jews can send their sick beasts, which, if cured, are very rightly not restored to their owners. In the same way, when a Brahman or Buddhist has, a slice of good luck, a happy issue in any affair, instead of mumbling a Te Deum, he goes to the market-place and buys birds and opens their cages at the city gate; a thing which may be frequently seen in Astrachan, where the adherents of every religion meet together: and so on in a hundred similar ways. On the other hand, look at the revolting ruffianism with which our Christian public treats its animals; killing them for no object at all, and laughing over it, or mutilating or torturing them: even its horses, who form its most direct means of livelihood, are strained to the utmost in their old age, and the last strength worked out of their poor bones until they succumb at last under the whip.
One might say with truth, Mankind are the devils of the earth, and the animals the souls they torment. But what can you expect from the masses, when there are men of education, zoologists even, who, instead of admitting what is so familiar to them, the essential identity of man and animal, are bigoted and stupid enough to offer a zealous opposition to their honest and rational colleagues, when they class man under the proper head as an animal, or demonstrate the resemblance between him and the chimpanzee or ourang-outang.
It is a revolting thing that a writer who is so pious and Christian in his sentiments as Jung Stilling should use a simile like this, in his Scenen aus dem Geisterreich (Bk. II. sc. i., p. 15.) “Suddenly the skeleton shrivelled up into an indescribably hideous and dwarf-like form, just as when you bring a large spider into the focus of a burning glass, and watch the purulent blood hiss and bubble in the heat.” This man of God then was guilty of such infamy! or looked on quietly when another was committing it! in either case it comes to the same thing here. So little harm did be think of it that he tells us of it in passing, and without a trace of emotion. Such are the effects of the first chapter of Genesis, and, in fact, of the whole of the Jewish conception of nature. The standard recognised by the Hindus and Buddhists is the Mahavakya (the great word),– “tat-twam-asi,” (this is thyself), which may always be spoken of every animal, to keep us in mind of the identity of his inmost being with ours. Perfection of morality, indeed! Nonsense.
Here are some more quotes from Marlowe:
The word damnation terrifies not me
For I confound Hell in Elysium:
My ghost will be with the old philosophers!
The consequence of intellectual pride is a hardening of the heart.
My heart is hardened, I cannot repent
Scarce can I name salvation, faith, or Heaven.
Swords, poison, halters, and envenomed steel
Are laid before me to dispatch myself.
And long ere this should have done the deed
Had not sweet pleasure conquered deep despair.
Hardening of the heart leads to despair, despair to self-destruction. All that remains to stave off that fate is intellectual curiosity, the purient desire to know what is forbidden (sensual pleasure). We hear much about scepticism, unbelief, atheism; but almost always from the orthodox, from the people in control of society and “opinion.” We hear very little from the free-thinking minority, for the most obvious of all reasons: the free-thinkers were gagged and suppressed, their mouths were stopped.
Gabriel Harvey, a jealous hater of Marlowe, gave an unintentional tribute to the strength of Marlowe’s personality with the following (intended) indictment: “He that nor feared God, nor dread Devil, nor ought admired but his wondrous self.”