People often wonder about happiness and how they can get them some. Sure I could, and do, throw some Aristotle and Nietzsche, in the mix, but ultimately it tends to come in epiphanic jolts which come to alter and make one’s mode of being brighter and more purposively, and intently lived. Of course not a permanent state, but without these moments, these jolts, often despairingly won, a simple state of inertia cuddling with hedonism, is all there is. Happy to be in an epiphanic ascent.
My Mystery Angel, I have found! ❤
Kismet forces now make sense. Impudence tolerated from empty voice and voided promises take root in minds and hearts that believe. For this was not faith, it was not love. The wretched, self-involved know not the indulgences of an expanding heart, and self-transcending spirit. Surface modalities of desperation reveal a barrenness that must irk those beyond the grave. MyAngel, δώρο θεού, is faith incarnate. His vulnerability of spirit comes with such generosity of being. Thankful am I!
I will be there for you
If it all crumbles down
And I will be there for you
When your feet touch the ground
And I’ll clear the earth for you
If you need the stars to dream
And I’ll make a flame for you
To keep your spirit clean
My angel, mystery angel
My angel, my mystery angel
You were there for me
When I couldn’t find myself
Open the door for me
When I see no way out
And you were there with me
When I was too young to see
Bringing music through
With your wisdom and peace
Lookin’ back now I don’t think I’ll ever understand
Universe of this bell and so many different ends
Take some time just to sit with each one just to see
Patiently the right one will hold on to your
Hold on to your free
An interesting interview that captures the inner toils that speak to the fervent authenticating experience of writing – eunoia. He writes: “A writer who is not in some way ill is for me almost automatically a writer of the second rank.” He shrank from philosophy in early life finding there was nothing of use to him to be found in their works. Eliade, had written scathingly of his first publication. Ceaselessly adept to crises of spirit, faith, or a crisis of faith, never found him as such. But it would not be arguments that would ever change his comportment, alter his ways, move him, but exhaustion.
He says: “I am actually less a passionate than a possessed type. In all things I must go to the end of possibility and it is not, finally, arguments that convince me to change my mind, but only exhaustion, that which is exhausted by passion. (This has connections with faith.) Because of this, personal encounters, seemingly small things in my life were full of decided significance. I was always very receptive to them; I have always, for example, spoken to strangers and many an encounter has given me a great deal. I have above all a weakness for people who are slightly disturbed. In Rumania, in Sibiu, a city with at least 60,000 inhabitants, I knew in one way or the other all the knocked-about people. The poets, too, who of course belong with them! The morbid attracts me, but morbid, what does that mean, anyway? ”
Failure, hopelessness, the disturbed, all seemed to come to his mortal wake not to console but to disrupt until all would fall to the hillside; negation then. And he speaks of that man, who had a tremendous impact on him: “He was not at all an evil man, no scoundrel, absolutely not, but someone to whom it was plainly impossible to have even the smallest illusion about anything whatsoever. This is also a form of knowing, for what is knowing finally but putting something in question? That kind of knowing, that understanding that pushes too far, is dangerous. Basically – I speak of life as it is and not of abstract philosophical constructs – life is only bearable because one does not go to the end; doing something is only possible when one has particular illusions and that holds also for friendships, for everything. The most perfect consciousness, absolute lucidity, is nothingness. And this fellow was driven to that point.”
It is then in that subterranean voice, negligent to the philosopher of abstract ideas, as well as formulae, and articulations of grand speaking truths. For he says: “As a rule, we know only the surface from our actions, only that which is formulated. But what is far more important is just that which cannot be formulated, the implicit, the secret behind an utterance, what is hidden therein. On that account, all judgments of others as well as those about the self are partially wrong. For the deepest part is hidden, but it is the more actual, the essential in humans and at the same time the most difficult of access. Novels often give one the best possibility to transpose oneself, to express without explaining oneself. The truly great writers are, in my view, those who have a feel for the subterranean; I am thinking above all of Dostoïevski. He is interested in everything that is deep and apparently lowly, though it is not lowly, but tragic. The great novelists are the true psychologists. I know many people who have written novels and have failed at it. Even Eliade wrote several novels and he failed. Why? Because he could only reproduce superficial phenomena, without translating them from the depths, from the source. The source of an emotion is very difficult to grasp, but it comes to just that. That holds for all phenomena, for faith, etc. Why did it begin, how did it develop? and so forth – only he who has the gift of divination can perceive where it really comes from. But it is not accessible to reflection. Dostoïevski is the only one who has pushed forward to the source of human dealings.” And further: “the psychoanalyst wants to heal, but I seek for something quite different. I want to grasp the daemonic in mankind. What the secret of one’s life is, one does not know oneself. This very secrecy, on the other hand, creates meaning in life, out of the communication between people. And if this were not the case, it would merely be a perpetual dialogue between marionettes. I would say that it revolves around the right tone; each person has a certain tone in everything that he does.”
He is not a puppet to positivity and whatever trending, consoling, modalities sought to explain away human suffering. He marvelled at the exasperating destitute of lived life, perhaps a marvel is more fitting, for he feared not to look without complacencies into that ontic mirror that might restore him from inevitable self-destruction. He is not for or of the feeble simple-minded, nor still the seekers of Truth in composure, quietude, and self-containment. It is the whirly winds of Aeolus that twist, garble, and undercut the Word from which we, as with Sisyphus, shall crawl out from beneath bearing a weight of perpetual struggle.
“A person who tells me that music means nothing to him is straight-away liquidated for me. It is something very serious for me, for music stirs that most intimate region in human beings.Bach is a god to me. Someone who does not understand Bach is lost; it is actually unimaginable, though it does happen. I believe that music is the only branch of art that has the capacity to construct a deep complicity between two human beings. Not poetry, only music. Someone who is insensitive to music suffers from an enormous handicap. That is simply the case and it is completely normal for music to construct a bond between people. It is unthinkable that they hear anything by Schumann or Bach, anything that they love, without being stirred. But I can understand how someone might dislike this or that poet.”
My mother, as a music therapist, would have appreciated this. That inter-dialogical affair mobilized musically amidst kindred spirits verbosely denied is omnipresent when heard.
Wakefulness and Obsession: An Interview with E.M. Cioran Author(s): MICHEL JAKOB, E.M. Cioran and Kate Greenspan Source: Salmagundi, No. 103 (SUMMER 1994), pp. 122-145 Published by: Skidmore College
Death comes to us all.
As news feeds fill with the demise of Robin Williams the realization that even the most humorous suffer the toils of life overwhelms. I cannot know the preponderance of misery that befell this man, but I know of human suffering.
Have I had a bad life?
Has Robin Williams?
Money? Fame? Success? Family?
All of this wasn’t enough?
Maybe he suffered great trauma as a child?
But perhaps not. I believe it was Charlie Chaplin who said, “to truly laugh, you must be able to take your pain, and play with it,” but I could be wrong. I think his point is that life is tragically comical. We invest time trying to answer the whys and hows, as if we could arrest the twists and turns of life events.
If somehow they could be contained by human – oh, so human – understanding, I could rest…peacefully.
What a great equalizer human understanding can be. To generate a playing field so ripe in reason must be the most laughable invention known to man! Accepting that things happen, happen to me, with no rhyme, or reason; that’s simply unacceptable!
He didn’t just leave me.
I didn’t just quit my job.
She was not just tragically taken (from me).
War zones don’t just occur.
Droughts don’t just happen.
Earthquakes don’t just take millions.
There are reasons for all of this!
There is the scientific variety.
There is the religious variety.
There is the psychological variety.
Whichever paradigm one gravitates to reasons are by default the method by which human understanding explains, justifies (category mistake!) the freak of circumstance that is otherwise unfathomable.
Why is this unfathomable?
Kierkegaard, Sartre, Nietzsche et al. They knew why.
If not for reason, then for what?
The answer? For NOTHING!
Where does this leave us?
The paradox? With human understanding!
What is the meaning of this?!
Finally a good question.
Immersed in self-doubt over this narrative, self-awareness is raw with potential.
God is dead, exclaimed Nietzsche’s Zarathustra. But you suspected this all along.
If God is dead who, what, will keep everything from falling a part? Will causal events no longer be ordered by His will? Is there no agenda albeit hidden from humanity upon which we can hang our moral hat?
Don’t despair. Well actually do. For in despair there is abundance!
No longer looking outwardly for cause and reason, the journey is inwardly enveloped.
No longer enslaved by reason – for some personified as God’s will, for others as the modern God, Science and yet others it appears as Justice – the freedom felt is both frightening and exhilarating.
For now there is an infinite stream of waters to traverse. Do not worry that the wind shall be your master. Cast your sails and chart you course. And on this voyage do not endeavor to look beyond what the eyes can see.
A passage from Blindness –by Jose Saramago – (fitting, you say?) comes to mind: “If you can see, look. If can look, observe.” (Yes, yes, this is out of context!)
And what then of human suffering?
Were it not for the flood of feeds regarding the passing of the beloved Robin Williams, death, rather her contemplation, would not have reached my consciousness.
Contemplating death, the finality of life suddenly appears like a spoiled child demanding attention.
Why must she cry so?, banging her little fists against the ground. Why does the ground disappear with each sounding blow? Why does she look out onto the world demanding that her suffering be taken away?
Here lies the tragedy of human existence!
The ultimate life affirming force is in despairing over the understanding of ourselves as castaways who must conjure meaning by planting invisible roots.
Those who suffer greatly, live extra-ordinarily. They laugh laudably.
I’m not the perfect mother. I don’t even know what that is. But I do know I fall short. There are so many choices I have made throughout the years that I wish to God I could take back. They were life-changing and never worth the loss. I will have to live with that and my personal vulnerabilities that were decisive, albeit intermingled with some bad luck, in framing these. One thing I can say to all mothers is that those years from birth to double-digit ages, set the stage, and tend to even the score when you fuck up later in life (within reason, girlfriends! 😉 ) Mine? I’ve never been anything but totally authentic with my kids (this is a hard won choice with many adversaries lining up against me including their father), and they have cultivated a healthy, though feisty, acceptance, even appreciation, dare I say admiration (at times), for it. My negotiated vulnerability in their presence has not always been easily won, or without despair, but it is made of flesh and blood. Clay is for partisans and my kids have zero tolerance for those – they are MY kids after all. But I am also no nonsense. I don’t have lots of lines…this leaves them often incredulous, but the few I have are not to be crossed. Once crossed, I am unrelenting in making it known, and reeling them in to a process of negotiation. This is not always smooth. But it runs deep. We are all also all about fun…playing together, being ridiculous, and totally, embarrassingly, not becoming of our age. My possessive and protective nature is not to be messed with ….ever…my love for these kids will permit, tolerate no one who is the cause of their grief. I have their back…ALWAYS! Loyalty runs deep in the Pirocacos family and it’s betrayal is never forgiven. 🙂 This they know well and they carry-on the Pirocacos flame.
We’ve all changed. All of us transitioning still…yes, even me. I might be 53, but I ain’t dead. Inertia, active or not, is not my friend. Indeed, there are no years in my life that have seen more rapid growth than the last two. And as with all exhilarating change, it is not always easily digestible! 🙂 Motherhood, in the eyes and hearts of my children, through my visceral realization, has turned on putting my existential plight out there. I’ll admit that it is distinctively received by my son and daughter. My son, generally prefers to glide through life, making the fewest possibly pit stops for anything at any existential cost. My daughter? Well we girl talk and negotiate without pause, usually when we’re driving around the city – our favourite pastime! Neither is EGO! Neither pretentious. Neither finds hedonism and fear sitting at the steering wheel. They too struggle with finding a purposively comportment that will carry them. It is this that brings both joy and grief as I witness their transition into adulthood.
Thomas remains that gentle soul with a heart of gold seeking excitement as he travels from island to island, venue to venue, and my daughter, still that steamingly feisty, elegant woman of toiled composure, looks to her future and divines a life extraordinary.
Happy Mother’s Day!
Happy birthday does not relay the sentiment. For there is nothing inherently celebratory about life per se; it is rather the act of living and becoming enraptured in the wondrous beauty of which …and it is this I wish I could implore you to see…we are constitutive. Disappointment sought empowerment in aggressively, and overtly subversive, anti-civic activities. Plebeians of trite and simple comportment were condescendingly, and with resentment, marginalized, and you took to the task of self-aggrandizing. Now, years into your predicament, you lay unconscious and we all sit waiting for your revival. We are all now disempowered. A totalizing experience. Happy birthday, KP…
May the Lord bless you…and keep you….
I am arrogant in my incertitude and intolerant of those in servitude to Truth. Obnoxious in my contorted linguistic eruptions, consoled in the vicissitude of voluntary praxes embedded in trolls of intra-personal diatribes. Affirmative, yet not as one who simply, “arrogantly” and forever presumes this state of superiority, but rather as one for whom ressentiment is not lost in the haze of forgetfulness. For what is it that could once and for all, permanently and unequivocally, decide? Nothing beyond the urgency to decide from that calling of indecision. For it is only in the experience of indecision in oneself, in the mute…or maybe mutant…audibly ridiculous, call to thwart the tried-and-tested, the banal-and-real, that the truest calling for decisiveness is experienced. This, my arrogance, is resolutely, and unapologetically, conferred, maintained in her nascent innocence amidst the self-proclaimed advocates of “goodness.” I rest assured in my existential unrest.
*disclaimer: For those possessed of their own presumptive arrogance, no one and no inter-experiential relation is the voice beneath the word.