Where one suppresses oneself, there is tyranny present, a tyranny stronger than the collected sum of tyranny that all genocidal totalitarianisms ever could ecumenically muster.

Art is the accumulation of the finest human efforts, there are three of them: to create beauty, to identify it when one sees it, and to remain from resentfully - or carelessly - destroying it upon the realization that it can not be understood with reason: reason and art are at each-others throat, and the human being is a riddance between these pliers as if navel-dust.

Conformity is but a pathetic mimicry of genius, normativity a failed imitation of heroism.

the best thing ive done in a while - well, at least the gist of it, formatting will be required

Religion - insofar as it is a source of kinship; consolation; solace - is no religion at all, and it becomes a hindrance to true faiths, to all true faiths! The degeneration the role of religion from personal spiritual fervency into some materialistic community of tradition and ecumenical morality is one degeneration to pick from a bundle of many such, whileas modern atheism is an even further degeneration of this process of distillation, yet another degeneration of faith sincerely, which has undergone centuries, if not millenia, of tranformations and re-packagings - and they find within themselves the audacity and the hubris to call this abomination a purification - yes! I agree... a purification of filth into less filth... this atheism and the incredulity towards the unsensible, sometimes motivated by nothing grander than sheer, childish principle... the atheist sounds the trumpet of victory, blows futile the flute of contentment, and lets the shrill wines of those old, old things echo in the parts of themselves which was neither made by, or for, God in the first place - and they call that triumph! Indeed, for the soul unspirited with the divine, the religious person is but emptied of rationality, and for the soul ignited with the spark of something mysterious, of course, the atheistic person is quite ridiculous and even laughable for conluding such a thing about the one with eyes plied wide open to the void and the world... atheists: for these people whom the mystical part of themselves is rarely contended with, and for these clueless demagogues whose spiritual faculties have remained padlocked since inception, with the keys to them having never been bequeathed nor even stolen - who can blame them for their atheistic sensibilities, their rationalistic infatuations? It is not their fault, precisely, only their culpability, but it is fucking god damn surely not their victory either.

unedited draft, ponderings on 'Weilian' theology

First and foremost, this is written in memory of Simone Weil.
God created through a means of seld-delimitation, yes: due to the presupposition that God is originally all, God had indeed to create through withdrawal. God created man by ripping up a void in the cosmos, a void which we call the holy spirit, a restless presence bundled in flesh and sinew as to roam and vibrate with experience. Since we are these products of the withdrawal of divine influence, we are as well beyond the reach of divine providence: we are born into a sort of damned existence, a position of hopeless responsibility, for as we are nothing and as we possess no experience prior birth, we do not owe to original sin our sinfulness but to the actions we carve, as if chiseling solid rock, out of the void of inaccessible stars, parasitic posture and celebrity, divine and omnibenevolent perfection and into a most precious figurine - that of authenticity and rugged self-overcoming! Since we are a product of divine withdrawal, we are not holy, we are everything but holy by default, for if creation is indeed conceived this way, as necessarily containing the potential for evil - since we can not be holy, given the very absence of it, and therefore excused from evil - then there is no paradox of theodicy, because the human being is the entering-gate of evil into the world which was perfect before she found it lying around; this does not as well constitute a breach of God's omnipotence, since God is not within the human being, and therefore having essentially detached its own energy from it. A potent question arises: might a perfect God create an imperfect thing? I say, only from withdrawing out of the thing which it creates. 

God does not afflict suffering upon the human soul, God merely appropriates the proclivities of the human soul to detect it. God does not afflict; God merely reveals. A poem wroth with love may reveal to you the wisdoms of romance, but it is never the poem which breaks your heart and leaves your soul in weeping; likewise, a God wroth with love may reveal to you the fullest trepidations of passion, but this God does not create these delightful angsts of the soul, rather God breaks the mirror between worlds and forces your eyes open to sorrows of man - but God never creates them. This is not the regulatory nature of the metaphysics of God as I conceptualize it. It seems only some human beings are capable of endurance of angst; the angst is there for everybody, but only the toughest soul chooses to see it, unveil it from the cerecloth it shudders beneath! There are very often these human beings who are precisely the least deserving of this angst, for their hearts are often strong and authentic, and their souls are gapes of kenosis, an emptiness which magnetizes the dread and horror of existence, both ephemeral and corporeal, since they are quintessentially prone to these phenomena of spiritual realization; such physical and mental anguish scourges the very soul - but it is said that not even this torturous affliction of the lone soul may give an echo vibrant enough to reach even the ear of some far, far away God - which, even if possessing the utility and the power of the divine providence, would not come to use it for the reason of putting to peace the screechings of a simple, tortured human. 

humanity is so anchored in the past that it can not see the shorelines of future even from atop its highest mast! Thus it is up to the mutineer to overthrow the ship, as to let loose the anchor of history, or to find some rubble as to built a raft to leave alone for the new and promised land!

fuck all of you bill maher type atheists and all the rest of you

can we make the case

that it is not easy to philosophically disprove or discredit or refute

the idea that the quantum of the human experience

is the religiosity with which we map reality, and that

religiosity at its fundaments ― the founding stones of it ― is

the belief that there is something somewhat somewhere out there in the unknown,

partly or wholly attainable ― introducable ― to us?

we (at least some of us) seem to be equipped with

intense spiritual instincts... instincts which, in their true meaning,

somehow, in a weird and very intuitive way,

draws us nearer to it ―

and ― just we dug past the first layer of soil

in pursuit of the gold-nerves,

plentiful beneath the crust as they are,

maybe we could ascend, transform, transcend

into the mysterious which we call the divine?

Smash the idols but be careful as to not get mired in the ideology of blind opposition in principal, the unconditional antagonism, the stupidity which breaks men in half: become a demon of the word, weaponize fierce critique. Affirm life, do not deny it.

people who instinctually seek out the hardships and trials the insight of this entails, shall be the people that will understand and enact the philosophy of transcending them.

What some see as rare, I see as inevitable. We are inevitable, as inevitable as we are rare - we had enough space, we had enough time - we happened.

Is life astronomically rare, and should we therefore, as a matter of the principal of rarity in occurence, care more for it? We can decide for ourselves, but in my heart, life by default seems overrated. Well, the proposed sacrality of it seems atleast, and I this proposed sacrality makes me want to belch: as a measure of bitterly assured hostility, I rip the virginal cloth from its face, the cloth which veils it with the shroud of embroided and beautified dread... and beneath it reveals to me a dead body, for life if a corpse dolled-up for funeral... beautify that ugliness and see how long the surface holds before it will crack like the tendons of an old ballerina!

Wherefrom originated the first atom, if not from its own desire to extinct, die off in strife, fall beyond the edge of entropy into the blank, white space of uncertainty?

...but what will differ me from Gilgamesh is that I will fuck Inanna like a beast...

do worthless people feel predominate shame or do they rather feel indifference as the prime emotion, when subjected undeniably to the cold aura of their own shadowry, when forced to reflect as if under gun-threat in the face, the mirror, of their own decadence?

Tanke från Hispan 

Vilka demoner kan dessa anspråkslösa vita väggar inte vittna om?
De har ändå spenderat sina liv som avgränsare mellan otaliga desperationer
Men dessa väggar säga ingenting
Jag får väl anta att även de omfattas av sekretessbestämmelser
Tystnad kring roppar och stess
Tystnad kring rep och stress

"Spinalonga" (work in progress)

I

the lighthouse outside of Spinalonga!
  how it collapsed a moon ago, 
   or maybe many moons ago,
   not one person can remember!
      (not even the harbors remember). 

as it had fallen, lepers, those with arms left, 
 and those whose legs still worked,
  founded and tended an eden-garden 
   as weed and thistle grew out of the towerfall rubble,
and in the very middle of that garden
    the lepers erected a dolmen 
    as in honour as an epitaph, 
    in sacred remembrance
    of the mythic pharos which once stood there,
    and they spellbound it with some hokus pokus magic
    during forty days and nights of ritual, 
    as to render it a watchtower anew -
     and sometimes magic fucking works, so nowadays
     it emanates a light so strong
      that even leviathan becomes grumpy from it
       as its rays penetrate the shallower waters 
       and rouses her from the bellows, 
       a hundred-thousand fathoms beneath
        the jasmin veil of night eternities above.

II


   there was once a duchess on Spinalonga, 
   a burdened widow of remorse,  yes,
      the duke had died from dysentery
     and it is said that 
          his vomit painted beautiful paintings!
    some of them still hang in the tower stairway
  and once in this very tower had i a vision imbued by them, 
  a vision of the duchess herself:

      she was naked
      and had an ancient woman's body
      as if she had laid in a bog for centuries... 
         and also she had very long black hair
             which was kind of beautiful-
         had not her face been that of a bloated corpse,
      with eyes pushing out of their sockets,
        and her skin black as coal and leathery...
      her face was that of a sorceress
       and her heart was black as the soot of life
        and when she so opened her bewitching mouth
         a serpent came from thereout
         and was to bear speech to the lepers of the colony,
            but as one of them did not smile for her entrance,
            she changed her mind, 
               the serpent retracted throatward, 
                  and the duchess, she remained silent.
            
             she has not spoken since.

III


 the arch of lazarus hangs welcoming
  over the entrance to the brothel of the lynched children,
     and as the rotting ones pass these gates of sighs, 
     all the oubliettes beneath
     which are hidden in the bedrock all around the island
     smile in the sullen undergrowth,
    for we find in them, in the soil thereunder,
    failed but courageous heroines,
    the skeletal and obsequial remains of them,
     their tombs and their old ossuaries,
    and scratches from their nails adorn the walls of them, 
   for not a rage can outcompare that of a leprous harlot, 
   yes indeed, there is no corpse which exudes 
   a sulphur-gas of odium more so
    than the corpse of a desecrated, leprous woman. 

        may these spirits reach the angstloch 
              as to release themselves? 

  we need getting into the catacombs of Spinalonga
    as to save them! or rather, what is left of these mazeways, 
the one which is buried under an age of rubble and ruin,
 sleeping under ash and the golden pumice
  from that time when the heavens opened
      like children's mouths
       and volcanic rock poured out therefrom
and cracked and broke thunderously...

     IV

     i am it!
     this tower!  
    and i have fallen - but still
    i guard the coast with hawk's eye,
    and strike do i with beak and with claw 
    and terror shall not stop me in my tracks - if demanded! 
    and i piss also in the ocean like gods do
      with nonchalance and with bravado...
    i am i!     
     in opia
    with the devil's eye of storms
    i am locked with it
      as if punishment,
      inside it, immured into it,
      and the light i emit
 is a light that leers like a sore
   around which
the beetles crawl and the botflies swarm... 

   Spingalonga - island of death and rot:
   enthronements of human faeces,
   rotten faces of black, vile dogs,
    maschalized infant botchings,
    young girls perished in morbid marasmus,
     syringes, small plastic bags, lighters...
     the pazuzu-fever, plague of death,
        leprosy colony Spingalonga
                  welcomes all!

   like a brave new world
                  reduced
         to pieces of excrement - 
         a world where coprolith
           outvalues amber 
           and is regarded with higher aesthetic esteem,
             a scolding earth
             crisp from fire,
               scorched and burnt,
                but confused still, scared, and lonely, 
                              like a human.

It is not that they are unattractive to me, because they are indeed couriers of eroticism, and I want to mount their young bodies with the heat of the werewolf, but I can not separate my acts of love from those of blind, bestial lust. When I walk about the streetways at night, in the aura of blue winston smoke with the intensity of my pregabalin eyes, and with the hunger for flesh and life rekindled by the matches of transcendental inspiration, with their fluttering green flames, and their scentful balsam tree, I can not decide whether my lust for these prostitutes are the produce of love or rather, of loneliness.

I will not speak your filthy language, foul my mouth with your disgusting words... I shall become a person, if not fluent, then atleast capable, in the language of manipulation and violence, of deceit and of bloodthirsty revenge... do you think I am some whore of tongues, a harlot of filthy dogma, open to fuck for the payment of a price? No, I am the master of language, you are my little bitch, I know what to write, and how to write it, and I do not need you telling me which book to write, and neither do I need a God and his proposed providence, a God padding me on the shoulder when I do or do not masturbate, but looks away in discontent when my heart bleeds the tears of dejection...

Beware the Holy Prophet,
   for the Holy Prophet is hungry. 

I once had a dream, I found myself in a boat. I was an inuit fisherman on the coast of Greenland, and my boat, it was a canoe. Suddenly, a massive Greenland shark emerged, it appeared from the black chasm, it arose to the surface with obtuse sloughiness, and it knocked the canoe over: I now laid in water, the freezing water, helplessly... and I would seemingly die from exposure to the elements: my blood froze, my vision became the crystal of ice, my iris - a flake of snow on the empty horizon...

the pursuit of pleasure disappoints sempiternally as we all prey on what we think of as "love" and on the rigidity of mutually assured misfortun between one another, and we live our lives as if the endless possibilites were just something we read about in some book, some time, long ago...

we can all feel the rotting sun vomiting warmth into our faces as we shiver down there after another bloodless victory, and it feels awkward, just wrong. nothing matters in the direct heat of the sun; the sun burns all. the dutiful warrior, the serf alike: status; credibility; nothing stands out in the abhorrent pools of death...

Goaded with the irons of punishment we are bondaged to the totem of modern culture
and as a consequence we lose the ability to identify with that which stands in opposition to civilisation by definition.

all people are given disgusting and offensive hands in a game of cards that will absolutely rape the world, just we give it time – but I, I swim splendidly in the beauties and riches of life, like a happy, happy, happy, stupidly happy clown-fish..

When you smile at me in the pettiest of compassions, I cower like a dog, but when you spit afront me, I resume a mighty posture...

pseudo-philosophical drivel about radicalization and subjectivity

Radicalization is but a dysphemism for uncompromising individuation, and society can not tolerate uncompromising individuation because by the point it has become manifest and begins to work for its own completion, accumulating with every second larger and larger other authorities, destructivity and hostility has outgrown all possible negotiation, and has engaged the proprietors of it with ardour, spine and strong-willed discipline... the need for purging becomes stronger than even the want for social communion, and even yet, it threatens to overwash it, as if flood-waves over crops and pastures along the river-bank... yes, that is why radicalization is treated as if a pest, even though it is merely by definition an explosion of subjective potential, of hyper-individuality... for many a folk it sounds great, and it feels good on the tongue, this individuality and this uniqueness, but many a folk indeed do not understand what real individuality and real uniqueness would unleash - neither do I, and that is the point! To treat it as if benevolent in nature, just we love and just we are free and jolly enough, is to poke a hideous beast which sleeps in the secrecy of night! But you, you become instead jubilant and optimistic about this, rather than to feel the fear and trembling you perhaps ought to feel, maybe atleast in part, about this great inward and personal revolution, this fission between man and woman, between state and individual, between class and class, between race and race, the segregation of societies, cultures, ethnicites into fractal nuclei of a billion exponentially fragmentizing and separating entitites...listen - I am not an opponent of this development, I am not against it per se, not at all, but I need scolding you for your idealism, for this is your monumental delusion and this is the Polaris by which you compass your travels and journeys.. and, worse yet, you have even managed to find somewhere within you the audacity and the self-confidence to even suggest, and promote, and outlive this unbound individuality yourself, as if a pioneer of filth and debauchery, and you sell it as if a product on some shelf somewhere, as if an essence of aether trapped, captured like a ship in a flask of glass... you say, as if on the corner of some dirty street: come now with me, come now and consume me, fuck me,  feed me; laugh and shiver with me until I die... food, sex, sleep, death - is this the dream of yours? Then package it as if an ideology, good luck... surely this cowardly way out of the underworld must stink up these grottos and caverns with the fogginess of human weakness... but yes, you go on and get out there like the whore you are, sell it, your faux individuality which you have sugared with a coating of hedonism and gluttony as to lure the youth and the children to it... I have never before heard of such an abuse of the coming generations! Let me tell you: when society claims for its citizens the freedom of expression, and even urges its population to make the best use of it, it comes with a tremendous caveat, yes, for we are free to express our individuality but only until it becomes dangerous for the other, which is a suffocating limitation for the courageous one: you may only push so far... and that is why this piece of judicial nomenclature itself, this freedom of expression, the abomination of demagoguery, is an intellectually dishonest phraseology at best, and an outright fucking deceit at worst! Do you value honesty? Then, by all means, anabaptize it, rename it, rebrand it... yes, perhpas it ought to be called what it really is, instead of what it failingly aspires to become... but what is it then, in honesty, in reality? I would say, a tolerance for certain mild expressions of shallower, greyer, more colourless and more timid variables of personality. Something like that. That is the true face of this freedom of expression you talk and talk about... but your freedom of expression is an artificial fabrication created outside of the actual human experience of it, for it tolerates not expressive freedom in extremis, rather it promotes a hoax of individuality, as if a mind-trick - it is just a fancy concept, a judicial term, a socio-cultural empty value of the herd, mostly unnoticed, unused, under-appreciated, discarded as taken for granted...  but yeah, I suppose you may throw your freedoms under the bus as you wish, that is your decision to make, but what I want to say is that freedom of expression in its most honest and honorific emobodiment would mean the same as radicalization to the point of even becoming interchangeable in terms of phrase - and this is something which every sophisticated society ought not to tolerate... and we might ask ourselves then,why no tolerance for it? Indeed, for the sake of its own prosperous growth into the future! But heed though, every one of these societies, aspiring to this idealistic falsarium of utopia, wherein flowering individuality hugs with love the unhinged and unrestrained gluttony of sex and pleasure... for this reason alone, heed, yes, that the beasts of radicality hunt at night, and yes, these wolves whom hunt the lamb and the cattle in the outlands do so not for the sake of food but for the sake of uncompromising individuation at the behest of others innocence, which is uproar against all, the only logical conclusion of individuation in extremis, and which becomes in essence radicalization: yes, radicalization is but a dysphemism for uncompromising individuation.