aforisme

The hero risks and the hero fails - he travels the path of the jaguar!- but the hero never risking is not a hero at all; for he has failed from the very start.

from the "anti-modernity" diaries:

The indian surgeon Sushruta related obesity to diabetes and cardiac afflictions - as a remedy, he recommended physical labour... and he did so in the 7th century before Christ! And you still close your eyes to the insight, you still choose to welter in your saturated fats, your orgies in sugar and soulless depravity! Your corpulence is disgusting to me and your lifestyle is a sickening joke to me.

"I WILL SPEAK OF FREEDOM", PART III

Not even the slave can be morally pristine, pure of heart, even though the slave is a total victim. The slave overcomes himself with the thirst for freedom and justice, because he is imprisoned, but when freedom and justice has been acquired properly, the slave may overcome himself thence with the thirst to rule over men ― and that is precisely when the slave becomes again a slave, as if a vicious circle reborn, or as if a viper fanging its own tail: the slave has redefined himself, observably and clearly futile to the power of corruption - a subordination like any other... whom amongst us could ever have believed that the slave, of all people, would transmit his own sufferings onto the other, and in the same cruel and malevolent style as the perpertrators of his own diabolical torments had done? There is inherent a seed of wilful submission in the constituency of man, and it is there as to manage, as to get a handle on, as to face the catastrophe of our existential conditions... but do not weep the story until the ending has revealed itself, for therein is also a seed of heroism in incubation! Man has the prerequisite in of heroism in him, but if a man can not confront its authority - be it an authority wilfully submitted to, or  be it one tyrannically and reprehensibly imposed - he will not amount to much; it has been said that it is easier to reign a city than it is to reign yourself, and that seems to be as truthful as anything can possibly be. It is not the hero which yearns for authority but paradoxically, it is the slave whom does so, and that is the nature of man - man, most of them, slaves, imprison the petty criminals, and they deprive them of their basic freedoms; they might even hang them or make them subject to public campaigns of humiliation... but they, in the midst of their darker episodes, appoint the heinous criminals to public office, to roles of tremendous leadership, and to heights of profound influence! Why is this? The slave cries out for freedom and for democracy, but not because the slave wants true freedom nor true democracy, but because it is within the slave to be as content as a slave could ever be, and slaves find their solace in authority: democracy, fundamentally, is a cesspool of slave morality, and almost only the awry kinds of people would aspire to utilize its concept and to paint his or her life pictures with the brushes of it! Only servants of slave morality, with some rare but spectacular exceptions, would be willing to exercise might over their fellow men, because no free man seeks or purports to seek the complete dominance over others, this is existential thralldom in itself, and not domination - the irony! The only righteous domination is the domination of yourself and your enemies; there is no solace for a hero in controlling and subjugating his kin; the neighbour, the acquaintance, the average commoner, be it anyone, lest they have made a move towards you. Tread these sentences carefully, though: I do not speak of violence, of terrorism, of mockery, for these things may see justifiable utility - I have seen it, I shall continue to see it across the span of my life... I speak not of these things but of domination and mastery, and over prolonged periods of time: the asp of corruption smite with fangs every despot and every tyrant of this world... and that is but a matter of time, for these exhibitions of dominance are merely projections: the man who wishes to rule over men lusts after it in order to compensate for his own failure to rule over himself. Whether the man seeking to dominate is aware of this or not, is a completely separate question. Yes, as slaves we all but the very few are, we may indeed imprison the petty criminal whose mind is great, and we may put on a pedestal the tyrannical criminals whose minds are feeble and cruel if not worse, and we do so because of the freedoms of stability and illusory self-reliance they offer; some sell domination with democracy, others with totalitarianism; for the clear-headed individual, these are just different degrees to tyranny; different styles to collectivism; mere different stages of the Machiavellian disaster. Both despotism and democracy corrupts the individual over time: in the case of despotism, it takes a fortnight; nothing corrupts like tyranny... in the case of democracy however, it may take a whole life, and it will generally be a much slower process, as if a poison growing in toxicity, in strength with every false claim to autonomy the slave has the conceit to utter, and for both cases it is a very truth that many people are captured by the lures of their propagandistic machineries of indoctrination - and then they believe they are truly free! But perhaps they are right... who am I to justfully define the tenets of freedom? None am I to do so! But I have learned empirically that, if taking freedom for granted, granted becomes only the curse of its most hurtful and paradoxical aspects - and nothing else.

"I WILL SPEAK OF FREEDOM", PART II

I believe the human being is only free insofar as we nurture the freedom by which define ourselves. Leave it to the machinery of democracy and even thereout it will be snatched, as if a beautiful pearl from a muscle! It makes me think of the Scorpion and the Frog, the powerful fable: A scorpion asks a frog to carry it across a river, whereupon the frog is hesitating, fearing for his alive, afraid of being stung. The scorpion cleverly argues with the frog that if it did so, if it stung the frog they would both drown; considering the solidity of the scorpion's argument, the frog agrees. Midway across the river, to the very dismay of the frog, the scorpion indeed smites the frog with its poisonous barb, dooming them both to the death of drowning. Despairingly, the frog asks the scorpion why it would do such a thing, wherupon the scorpion replies cynically that it is indeed in its nature to do so, and that nothing else but the statement of this profound fact could be said about this behaviour. It just is what it is. What do I want to say with this? Yes, man is no more than the nature heavy enough to cram him down, as if a huge boulder, to the ground, to the sediment of his primordial origin. Democracy is a frog, human nature is a scorpion. But lo, for man may tamper with his natures, whileas, as to the extent we can know of such a thing, the scorpion may not; man can assume the posture of a scorpion, we too can weaponize its venoms as for utility in combat, and we too can deceive and stab backs and sink our ship of kindness - out of foulness. With the stength of heroism, man may become the Girtablilu of the ancient Akkadian mythos... and by that time, why do we even need the frog? The heroic Girtablilu traverses every river as he pleases! But there is one thing he does not, however, do, and that is taking his powers for granted, for he is surely a powerful synergy of man and beast, but not even a scorpian-man is without enemies; if they are not leering behind their backs as he sleeps, then surely they are nesting within the inmost dens of his own heart!

"I WILL SPEAK OF FREEDOM", PART I

I will speak of freedom: we are so spoiled by the freedoms we have acquired that the pursuit beyond what we already have does not feel worth anymore, because what kind of freedom is left to be acquired when we have already conquered the shallower but more obvious ones we came out to look for in the first place?  Freedom of speech; freedom of organization and of publicization; general suffrage, equality afore the judicial courts, general freedom of identity and of subcultural and aesthetic expression... what is left beyond these? The slave is content with his crescent smile, for the answer is nothing! Nothing is left to fend for... but the world does not care for democracy in the long run, not on an individual level, not on a collectivist or societal one, not on a global one, and when the slave blots his neck to this world believe to be dealt the kiss of grace and mercy, the hero strikes him, slashing throat of the slave, ripping the head off its torso, and drinks the bloodpour out therefrom! The head falls to the ground with a noise. The hero puts his foot on it, and proclaims that this fool, yes, he was only the mockerer of freedom, an impostor, a believer of false truth. Man may do whatever he wants with his life, but the world does not accept the tampering with the conceptual and philosophical definition of freedom; the world will strike those who do. Promulgation of false freedom dilapidates onto itself like a New York tower at the hands of those who seek the freedom themselves to terrorize it. Yes, the slave is dead, and the hero remarks proudly that there is freedom left to find, but it is of a kind that is not at all merciful in its every turn, not ever-joyous like some precious fucking MDMA from heaven, and it is not liberating from darkness, ever-encouraging, ever-benevolent... No, rather what is left for us to acquire is the freedom which harrows every mind believing to truly possess it, and that is the freedom of personal authenticity; not a legislative freedom as to control the collective but as a subjective freedom and a call to personal heroism. Our freedoms have gotten so luxurious that we recurringly drown in them, and we recurringly fail to appreciate the murkiness out of which they grow; we can not recognize the origin of our own luxury, we can not trace back to its genesis our strong and thesean thread, for we have been so spoiled as to have become neutralized by the result of the very fight for freedom we say we fight for; the morale of the fight is waning! We have come to have it good as it already is! Not too much freedom; not too little, just comfortable, safe, stable little freedoms. We want all the cute freedoms, don't we? And when we have so acquired them, we fucking love them. It is for this reason we, as individuals and as a culture, will turn elsewhere - for the fight for freedom has already been "won"! But casual, soft freedom, as with everything holy in nature, dilapidates over itself with time. It has used ignorance itself as its scaffolding, it has not been properly comprised, and for this reason, it can not be properly maintained either; a lumberjack may not cut a tree with his bare hands, being anxious to use the axe in fear of striking himself! An individual, or a culture by the same token, may not grow into freedom only with the festivals of rejoice and the dance of celebration as its only criteria of inauguration, but indeed must take in account too the forces of destruction wishing to strike terror to all the laughters of this glorious investiture - with bombs, with guns, with mockeries, and with public and striking agitation! The wolves in the hinterland are always ravenous for meat they have killed themselves; the darkness swirling in the farthest expanses of freedom likewise leer with predation - always, and when the time is right, the time is right.

another one of those

BABYLONIAN TOWERS
   
i know neither well these fresh waters
         nor this dew of clouds,
         beautiful as it all is
the umbelliferous flower shakes and twists in front of me
   dancing almost humanlike
           which is alluring
i can feel the mushroom take hostage
         my senses
 the medusae sing the sorrow
    of ancient wraths and pylons,
   which, by the way, all reach heaven
someone or something has built
   that which has been forgotten since the babylonians,
      and now
        this someone or something
          is able to converse
              with the all-powerful otherness.

spontaneously arranged shitbit

THE GHASTLY SHIP OF TRAUMA

a spooky ship set sail in exile
and left for the rangeless oceans
 but the ship
   is flagged
     with the colors of discontent.

   a beast howls
      and it echoes
            across the sea
              w h i c h   s l e e p s  .

   across thresholds
   of weird and undefinable dimensions
        and trapped by the spell,
         the lure of dissolving objectivities! apparition bizarre.
        
   memorial remnants of paedophilac molestation
  and festivals of horrendous abuse
    float over unknown spiritual magisteria.
          discarded, piled memories...
           ocean of perverse remembrance.

 the dreadful face of all the unknown unknowns
     weep mental imagery from its eyes as voids.
             f l o a t i n g      
                  s p e c t r a l l y

   a banshee shrieks
      and it echoes
            across the sea
              w h i c h   a w a k e n s .

tears of holy salt
  and the muck of damaged bodies 
    coalesce as one in the glorious chalice
  which is
  the brazen chalice of dirty transcendence
  and this chalice is not crafted to receive
   some kind of paradisaical nectar
    or some bloodwine sacrament of sinly expiaton -
   but it has been made
    to receive
    the mudwater
    of the divine and the numinous ugly.

     it is this holy goblet we carry
     across new worlds
     as to bury it in the humus of unknown coasts
 as to hide the flame boiling inside it
    from that which pursues it in emity
    and persists across the epochs
                   to extinguish it.

   a mare cries
      and it echoes
            across the sea
              w h i c h   i s   d e a d .

a spooky ship returns ashore
   to the bay of bad poetry
    with a great poem
      lodged down its throat;
      it is the poem of the ghastly ship
                     of     t r a u m a .

sunday ponderings, dreaming of heroism

Carved in the prison cell of Terpsichori Chryssoulaki-Vlachou, a young anti-fascist activist girl from Crete, just before her execution under the Nazi occupation of Greece:

"Είμαι 18 χρονών. Με καταδίκασαν σε θάνατο. Περιμένω από στιγμή σε στιγμή το εκτελεστικό απόσπασμα. Ζήτω η Ελλάδα. Ζήτω η Κρήτη!"

English translation:

"I am 18 years old and sentenced to death. I am waiting for the firing squad any minute now. Long live Greece. Long live Crete!"

Another example is the one of Lepa Svetozara Radić, the Bosnian Serb partisan whom at the age of 15 joined the anti-fascist movement in Yugoslavia. She was executed in February 1943 at the age of 17 for engaging in fire fights with German troops. As her captors tied the noose around her neck, they offered her a way out of the gallows by revealing her comrades' and leaders' identities. She responded that she was not a traitor and that they would reveal themselves when they avenged her death:

"Long live the Communist Party, and partisans! Fight, people, for your freedom! Do not surrender to the evildoers! I will be killed, but there are those who will avenge me! I am not a traitor of my people. Those whom you are asking about will reveal themselves when they have succeeded in wiping out all you evildoers, to the last man."
 Now, I am not a fan of communism, in fact, I quite strongly dislike and discredit it, but that is beside the point. If the paragon of human courage and discipline is not found embodied within the 17 year old girl, Lepa Radić, then I do not know at all where it can be found. This, whomever reads this fucking shit, is a testimony to the spirit of human heroism, nothing more, nothing less. Fuck all of you rats who do not work in aspiration of this heroism, or do not even idealize it. Just dwell on this for a minute, will you. These two examples of courage. Just dwell on what kind of strength human beings are capable of. I am not longer calling myself a misanthrope, it is a too one-dimensional designation to put on oneself. It is silly and shallowly informed; it is a self-identity of weakness, it is an unimpressive and empty contemplation, it is a route of least resistance to say to all humans: I hate you all, all of you I hate, and everything of you, and everything in you, I hate. It is the utterances of a child. I say, I hate people as much as I love what is in them. 

work in pr0greZ

GOD MUST 
SURELY BE 
MERCIFUL

(dedicated to Anna Świrszczyńska, 1909-1984)

as a newborn baby

i cheered and laughed and hurt and rejoiced

and cried and cringed and lashed out in fiery rage

as to become a human being -

now i reckon

that i myself had no choice in this becoming,

and that life was forced as if a burden;
  it is with this experience i must confess to conclude 
 that God is surely terrible.

as a naïve child

i put my finger on the fire

as to become a saint -

but it burnt to nothing but a black crisp,

and from that day on,

everything i have pointed towards

has turned to black rot, deadwood and muck; 
and i saw  

that God is surely terrible.

as a teenage child

i put a knife to my own flesh

as to become an ascetic - 
i know  

but my wounds only leered mockingly,

not with self-contempt nor with fear,
  no, they leered of ecstasy and of exhiliration, 

  and with the existential dread and the confusion alongside it;

and for this we must say: 
  yes, God is surely terrible,
            but he can be bargained with. 

as a young man

i steered my ship into a mist

and i found myself lost in the rugged coasts 

   in the senseless adventure
    as to become an explorer -

but my sails caught instead the gale of longing,

and now i haunt wide the ocean with loneliness,

with anxiety, and with alienation... indeed,

God is surely terrible.
   but God is a lighthouse as well. 

yes, as a grown man

i considered suicide,

and i made myself aware
through ardent and passionate introspection

of this limitless and self-deifying possibility.

and indeed, i could for the first time understand,
           as if inspired by gnostic thoughts,
         that, allowing such a thing,
          God must surely be merciful.

Christianity was the simplest house of a mightiest Lord! And socialism... the golden castle of the proletariat... both devoured by their own paradoxes - not even these monoliths could be found durably in the marshes of falsehood without many piles of truth to underpin them! So they sank...

some fucking bullshit i hate myself

...and this river, with its open, stinking sewer-lines of contemporary social justice absurdity, it seems to want to reach its end, it seems to want to flow out into the sea of madness and coalesce with the salty currents and with the unhinged truth of it as to be devoured - but this absurdity can not have bounds, lest it would not be an absurdity; an ocean can not fit in a tank! Yes, it must exist absurdly or it must not exist at all. It must expand as to burst, but how many years or decades will this take? Has this ridiculousness reached the peak of absurdity? Soon enough, I believe. The process has been commenced; the machinery of decline has started up - and that's why one day its structure will collapse.

on the Nobility of Revenge (very intuitive and unedited draft)

I am willing to unleash my anger against the wrongness of the world, and I am willing to bestow violence upon the tyrannies and despotisms of it; like Durga, I am willing to punish the perpetrators of rape with the heinous offense of rape in a diabolical act of gruelling sarcasm, and by raping them until they bleed perhaps they shall commence to ponder newfound perspectives in between their sobbings! And indeed, I am willing to draw a veil of destructive dusk over the ugly day of this world so that a dawn of creative rebirth may emerge afresh therefrom; yes, I want to plunge over the world  as if it is a most bitter enemy: in anger I shall sustain myself; in anger I shall self-become. Terrorism is my crown and spire, and I worship the triumphal savagery of revenge, for revenge breeds a cycle of violence and there is a goddess of vengeance that has forevermore clots of blood stuck between her fanged teeth, and I love her, and her cycle spins eternally and out of control yet with stalwart balance through the centuries... but who am I to care for its absolvement! I have abdicated my throne of philanthropy, for I have become one in thirst of revenge, as if a vampire in dehydrating foreboding; who am I to care for the principles of utilitarianism, of righteousness, of moral purity, when someone whom I can smite the flesh of for grievous wrong-doing, is still alive and well? When the craving of revenge overcomes a person, nothing more is to be done but to enjoy the gruesome spectacle as if a great comedic play, or even as if some grotesque flash of divine but cruelly incomprehensible justice.

An Endcommunean Philosophical Razor (I do not claim novelty)

Doing the same, right thing because everyone else does the same right thing can never be or become the same right thing because it has, by then, per existential definition, become the same, wrong thing.

The End Commune's Razor:
Never attribute to individual moral prowess that which may adequately be explained by the very slave morality in which the individual is entrenched.

The new world must always let the old one go with part wilful forget, part conscious denial, part inescapable rage: the new world lets the old one die off as if an adolescent fiery with the gale of rebellion storming out of a childhood house of abuse, or as if a hardened, rationalist and self-important atheist screaming to God: "I hate you and you do not exist!".

INFERNAL POETRY OF

K A R N I M A T A

rat-king with tiaras of tampons and syringes!

old and filthy heroin, veins like tunnels of blood

i see in dreams.

in the kingdom of filth below the concrete

they reign with the regalia of sewage,

preying on the foeti of flesh and trash,

constantly pushing

pushing

pushing

all mankind to the edge

with disease and filth

always swaying as if in the wind a mobile

adorned with the bones and teeth of our children,

in an eternal oscillation

between extinction and world dominance,

but indeed

when all comes about,

shall not health be stolen from the pure,

shall not the ruby crown and spire be confiscated

from every prince and princess,

shall not all emperial jewellery flush down the toilet

and shall not the satin bed of Shekhinah spoil with menarche

before the last one dies the death of abdication?

this is a world of rats

with humans on top of it

as a sardonic embellishment,

or as a facade to the hostile, black void around it.