The Passivity of the Great Mountain

[In a rather obscure piece of Sumerian sacred literature, especially in a poem called "Inanna and Ebih", Ebih is a great and vast mountain, or rather a mountain-range... which is conceptualized as a mythologem of sempiternity and primordiality, but as well of indifference and of the aloof nature of our existential conditions. Ebih becomes that which is unbothered by all human happenings, and the mountain which stood at the very first day, and stands today, and will stand tomorrow, and even beyond the end of the world as we know it; I use the Ebih mythological concept in a similar allegorical manner in my book, which is called "War & Love", an ambitious piece of attack-literature essentially dealing with life in the shadow of Ebih, the harsh and unaffected monolith of the primordial; symbol of the impermanence of human life as paralleled by the imperishability and of the cold and almost mechanical perpetuity of everything around it.]

"Ebih is eternal; she has seen all and she has gotten tired of it; by the time the Batak massacre happened, she started to question her own interest in our human violence; when Nanjing happened, she got even more self-aware. When Kristallnacht, and Katyn, and Babi Yar and then even Auschwitz  came around, she began to become cynical, pessimistic, sad, trepidated by the nature of the humans, and she started to distract and preoccupy hersef rather with people who showcased different talents than in the mephistophelean and grisly art of malevolence... and by the time My Lai, Halabja and Srebrenica rolled over the threshold she had become so distraught by the human sadistic grotesqueries as to alienate from them in bitter spite and foresworn those who carried them out... and by the act of doing so, she did not longer weep for the humans, nor much  care at all..."

I have always asked: what gurgles, as if sulphur and childbone in the cauldron of the witch, what broth has she used in the larynx of deepest and profundest life, there right on the bottom, the depth that outdeeps all other depths? There is something which displaces the tectonic plates on the bottom – is it Tiamat in disturbed hibernation, trembling the core of our earth by her very reptilian and primordial movements?

This casual and soft freedom 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 can not fall a tree with his bare hands, because he is 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 uproarious agitations!

"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... "

very depressive and naked and personal meditation on the Shoah and all whatver that implicates

Yes, it has become my life's main goal to never fall victim to the destructive wave of the many, for my legs shall be steadfast in the morass it leaves when the waters retract with the tide! Yes, it has become the purpose of my life to show myself - and the world - that it is possible to do so. If I ever have to confess to some court of my tribunal, with the black sludge of shame and self-hatred having replaced my intestines, that - "I was just following orders", then my worth as a human being has been irrevocably expended. 
The thought of this possibility, of becoming possessed by the many, is real to me and to everyone else, for it is a human possibility, and whatever is human in us, is hard to scrape off with the blunt side of a knife: humanity is not just dog-shit on the sole of our shoe, however much we wish for it, and to admit defeat to the ugliest demons of this humanity, is to admit defeat as a human being, and it is to become oneself mere dog-shit on the sole of something great; sardonic; godlike... 

To lose oneself is to become the many, and this has become, over the lapse of years, the most trepidating and angstsome nightmare of my life. It is the only existential prospect from which I feel horror; that, and to die in a clumsy, accidental and humiliating way. Thence I shall do everything in my power to make sure that, if the day of sombre reckoning really comes my path, and if the judges and attorneys then smite me with the questions and inquiries whose responses I can not formulate with a straight spine, then I shall recognize that I have failed catastrophically in my life. I shall surely have the power to kill myself out of pure and simple self-revulsion from uttering those words with a conscientious heart, "I was just following orders"!  

For this reason,  I absolutely hate parts of what I am and what I am capable of. I am disgusted - sometimes in a very total way - by myself and my own capabilities. I would want to commit suicide out of shame - but maybe things have amounted, by then, to such a pathetic summit that I require fucking orders for that at well?
Who am I, even, to have the luxury of killing myself in my own debasement and self-hatred? Cattle are herded to the abbatoir - pigs can not choose the glamour of suicide as its final statement to the world! And maybe that option is depleted for me as well! For by this day, and afore the tribunal of my damnation, I have erased the lines I have focused a whole life to draw, the lines between the one and the many - and cowards do not deserve suicide. 

Yes, it has become the goal of my whole project of self-improvement, yes indeed the focal purpose of my very life, to be able to think, when the hearse comes my path, the phantom carriage of death, that in all my life, I never followed an order I knew I ought not to follow. 

...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 your sole 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!

Ebih the Careless Mountain

Ebih has been around forever, and Ebih sees all; she has seen all and she has gotten tired of it; by the time the Batak massacre happened, she started to question her own interest; when Nanjing happened, she got even more self-aware; when Katyn came around, she began to become distracted and preoccupied by people who showcased different talents than in the grisly art of malevolence... by the time My Lai, Halabja and Srebrenica rolled over the threshold she had become so distraught by the human sadistic grotesqueries as to alienate from them in bitter spite and foresworn those who carried them out, and by the act of doing so, she did not longer weep for the humans, nor much care at all... and so the ghosts of all the men who had fallen from the mountain-sides lamented even harder, because now they had gotten their recepit for hopelesness, a slap across the face from mother herself, what an abrupt end to a purgatorium eternal but in ever failure! And at the realization of her cold aloofness, they wailed spectrally like funereal children! And the crime of their downfall? Love. Yes, simple, pure love.

they piss themselves on the mud-stomped floors of their huts, crawled up in foetal positions like humble, tearing babies, and words run out in lumps of mucus over the bibs of existence hanging around their necks

excerpt #4859

I know that it is a mistake to entrust a dragon of the absolute bottom with but a smile! I know this, but I have felt the naïvety of seduction, the she-dragon shifting shape into a most beautiful woman...

laugh in silence in heinous accord with the teethless mouths of viperfish, for they sing psalms of tremendous beauty as a compensation for being so god-damned ugly, and they vibrate with the profound baritone of the she-dragon herself, which lubricates their disgusting fish-vaginas so as to become dripping with the secrete of slimy, spineless desires... mmm...

fucking nonsense

If the summit of human courage and of iron will and discipline is not found embodied within the 17 year old girl, Lepa Radic, then I do not know at all where it can be found. This, whoever 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.

from the warlovediary

"No, I must conclude: 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. Everything you have done, I hate, everything that is charachteristic and natural to you, I hate. These are the utterances of a child. Rather, I would say, I hate with passion alot of human beings and alot of what human beings do and bla bla, but by the same token, my passion for the loveable amongst us is great, it is great and blue and fiery."

aforyzm miłości

 Love in itself will not save a relationship of romance lest it has not swimming deep within the oceans of itself the mysterious stream of genuine effort and plain luck, for true love exists, yes, that is sure to me, but what is indeed true as well about it is that it is not existentially self-evident over time. Life-long romance comes with a dire and insolvent price not many men nor women can muster to pay.

aefoeriesmee

We are defined by what we love, and we are defined by how and when we direct our care. Ask yourself the question, who am I. Who am I? Am I all or am I none at all, even nothing at all? No, I am the very things I love - and I think Heidegger was right. Knowledge, reason, rationality, morality, law - all such concepts - will only take you so far, and when they leave you off, passion, faith and intuition will pick you up - if you ask them. 

aforisme !!!

Your ship is safe at harbour, but that is not what ships are built for, are they? Test the waters, make forceful love to the deepest watery abyss: only then you may come to terms with the true resilience and worthiness of your ship.