ROUGH DRAFT FOR THE BOOK
on the ridiculousness of paradise
and how art may overcome the impulse
of idealizing it
That which is described as being paradisaical in nature carries within itself the genome of slow but sure perdition, for it is by mythic law a precise vehicle of this perdition from which it tries to self-purge; within every spark of beauty lurks ugliness in the colour and contour, within every walled garden slithers something serpentine, and nothing is beyond the bounds of entropic dissolution, not on this earth nor in the aether around it; not in this soil nor in the aureole which makes it come to life! And it is a very basic constituent of the paradisaical, which recurs everywhere as if bacteria in every abstraction and in every concept, this agent of purgation and tempestuous transformation, we call it entropy: as if a strain of venom in every stream of blood, carrying within its flowing the plasma of damnation, which corrupts the glucose and the blood-cells into decrepitude and sows therein the seed of its own demise: yes, perfection fails, life dies; gardens rot, but art is eternal as a centre within the evanescent impermanence of the nothingness around it, which changes endlessly. Everything changes meaninglessly unless you put meaning, art, in there, and yes, my meaning is the light I kindle right afront of me: yes, as if a viperfish, I have kindled my own light, it dingles right in front of me, and it is fucking holy even though bystanders scoff it somehow as unreal, because they do not understand it, and they struggle with grasping the violent subjectivity of it: some by sheer spiritual insufficiency, some with a nescient and frightful ignorance, and on these very grounds they discard it, repudiate it as a shallow self-importance... what was the garden for Adam but not a world of self-importance? What is paradise but a projection of Freudian fantasies? In paradise there are as many lights as one can count, and all the fair botany shines in its splendour, all the cornucopias of heaven abounds in illumination - nothing drowns in darkness, yet there is a darkness, but it has adapted to to the light of clueless humans as if a microbe having grown to resist antibiotics due to careless and lenient abuse... the parasites, the filthy worms and the unpure pathogens of the apocalypse have adapted through the centuries to bite and infest the lowest hanging fruits in paradisaical utopia, for they have indeed overcome the barrier of antibiotics, now the fruits of Eden are not longer fruits of knowledge; fruits of life and death, but of cowardice, of opportunism, of anti-heroism, of hedonistic ignorance and of victimage credentialism! Corruptions of the soul...
Yes, 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, for the only thing these totalitarianisms can offer, which I can example by islam, by fascism, by communism, by egalitarianism or any other absolute schemata of morality and purpose, is conformity: to remain oneself within a world that is constantly trying to make one something else than what one is, is the highest virtue of mankind, the ethos of the warrior hero, the one imbued with art and poetry - and every hero knows that conformity is but a pathetic mimicry of genius; politics a failure of self-governance, ideology a depravation of philosophy, normativity a failed imitation of heroism - and paradise, a dying, receding utopia of fools... Here they say: you do not need your light, we can share ours! But I shall need my own; what is subjective light if not the only light by which I may outline the hideous one, and by which I may discern the contours of the beast rearing in the shadows? For me, there is yet a darkness, it has not coalesced with light as has happened within paradise. What is this one light amidst a billion others, they say. I say, it is everything, precisely because it is subjective, and it is with this subjectivity I stake my path of heroes through all the mateiral and ecumenical truths swallowing like quagmires whole battalions on the existential frontline! Your shared light grow like weeds or thistles around my feet, slithering like vines of anonymity around my ankles, paralysing my bodily system with the nervous toxic agent, rendering my mobility useless, lest I move and move about with every second, lest I jump up and down as to stretch my tendons and loins as to not get blinded by the radiance of common light, as to not grow stuck in the maroon swamp of the indifference, the one coloured by the ochre of all life and living and with the blackness of all death and dying... I ask myself, what is the most suffersome of all perditions, if not paradise itself... how it shimmers and glistens like a mirage in the distance and on the horizon with its sacrosanct plenty, with its faux abundance, with its hallowed promises! Promises who gleam golden when uttered, ideated, dreamt of and envisaged, but has slowily but steadily turned to muck and dirt by the hour of morose and final expiation, when the day of reckoning stands by the door, knocking heavily as if it is Janus himself wishing to enter! Whom is the blessed - the crown prince of paradise or the pilgrim everward seeking it? Yes, blessed be the wanderer finding paradise at the the very end of roads and cursed in malignance be the prince who calls nothing but the comfort and eternity of it a home.
And art. What is art if not a mockery of this paradise, the artwork of a single human life carved in situ from the rock and dirt of existence! Art - 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; however, in paradise, there is only reason, and there is only one perfection - the ne plus ultra of human utopianism! And what does indeed this utopianism mean for the individual, if not as if a dirty helminth in the brilliant body of a God! Your utopia is corrupt by definition, and it is inimical and hostile to the essential spirit of art; it is leprous to the marrow of art... the great transformative artwork! Is it not the final and absolute peril of man? For art is abridging birth with death, and it is not to become a bridge of trepidating and hopeless sighs indeed if the planning and the drafting falls not into the hands of fools, and if the hammers and the spackling knifes fall not into the hands of cripples... art is the bridge above the gorge, its mouth of silent, echoing cacophony; art is the soteriology of existential absurdity, which means to say: art distills meaningless defaulted life into a fine and old wine of value. I make my life a piece of art, I grapple with life, I meditate on entropy; I kiss the white cranium of death; I lick the lung-wound of Christ and I suck my oxygen out therefrom, and all the while, the white-robed ones sit on fluffy clouds in the heavens, eating perfect grapes, fingering perfect harps, esteeming the aesthetics of tedium, taking meaninglessness for granted as salvation... what does grappling with absurdity mean to the people down on earth, what does it mean to me? And the ones sucking wine from the nipples of naked cherubim - what does it mean to them? And what did it mean to Christ? What is the acceptance of personal mortality? The very moment of its realization is the phenomenological eureka moment of existence, a moment of wakeness and of absolute clarity - and it is for this reason that I have cut myself open with tired knifes and that is why I spat Saint Peter in his face; it is for this reason I have pondered the act of suicide, romanticized it. It is what Saint Peter scoffed me with as I left paradise with Lucifer for the world: "Now you may die; now you may suffer!" - yes indeed, you fucking cunt, it is the very point and meaning of my departure!
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