How do I lift the veil on the terrifying, magical, dreadful, incredible face of truth? How does one convey even the barest glimpse in words? In fucking words. Words are weak, pathetic tools.
How do I convey the infinite unfolding visions of nightime ganga dreams? I canít. Canít be done. How do I convey the feelings, images, memories, and significance of a human life? Of Jessicaís life? Of her childrenís. Of mine? Words are entirely inadequate.... which is one of those cliches that writers always use... a cliche because its true but not in the sense that most understand. True because once youíve glimpsed something significant....
seen a sunset, or dropped into despair and terror, or been moved by a vision of the Infinite... what the fuck do you say or write? These experiences are far beyond the ability of finite words to express..... or any other symbols (numbers, equations,..) for that matter.
We are lost in these symbols and take them for reality. How many live and breath their entire waking lives within these word prisons? I think of the pathetic dregs who make their living as political commentators. Gossip hounds. They talk and write and debate the doings of events they have never experienced. Just how many fucking experts do we have to listen to, say, about Iraq,... who have never once been there.
Or for that matter, how many ìdrug expertsî have never experienced the drugs they so zealously want to ban. Modern culture is one in which the virtual reality of media is valued more than the immediate experiences of oneís life. Instead of bemoaning the evils of faraway people wouldnít we be better served by rooting out the evils in our own minds? Instead of seeking freedom and liberation for people halfway across the globe, wouldnít we be better served by seeking our own freedom and liberation? There is no odor so foul as that of goodness tainted (Thoreau). I imagine the people of Iraq would be much happier if we would stop forcing so much ìgoodî upon them.
I want to do drugs. I want to have sex and enjoy it. I want to cry like a helpless baby in the face of loss and death. I want to live my life--- not suck vicariously at the tit of TV. I want to love a real human being and struggle with every one of my imperfections reflected in her. I want to taste my food. I want to freeze and burn. I want a life thatís juicy with experience.... from which pain and wonder drip, ooze, and pustulate.
I want dirt and I want dance. Because that is life. There is no ecstacy without terror. No sex without sweat. No love without loss. The earth is a stewing organic cauldron of life... but what do we do? Hide away in cardboard boxes, eat food from sterilized plastic wrappers, and waste our ìfree timeî plugged to video monitors-- searching for a vicarious rush through imaginary lives.
Our lives are stale and monotonous. Most of us get paid for putting up with that monotony-- its called ìworkingî. And after 8,9, 10 or more hours of that, we come home and plug in to gossip and childrenís stories and stimulation that turns us into emotional and intellectual retards.
The world is filled with people more concerned with faraway events than with the details of their own life... more worried about the situation in Iraq or the state of the abortion debate than with the status of their own spirit and soul.
I sense a nation terrified of looking inward--- doing everything possible to distract itself from ugly truths lying just below the surface. And so these people shuffle off to dreadful jobs every day and call themselves ìresponsibleî. They feed their kids and pay their bills and congratulate themselves for being ìcaringî. They go to church, clutch the bible, and proclaim themselves ìblessedî.
But saying the words does not make it so.