So what I neglected to tell you is that this is a religious mission, for me. I’ve lived through this situation before, in this lifetime and in previous lifetimes. The same faces, the same characters, the same fears, failures, the same loves, desires. And each time it has been about culture, about communication, about intent, about power, about love, about love my dear, about love.
What is neglected to tell you is that when I stand before the world, I don’t see the world, I see a battleground. And when I stand before the people, it don’t see a people, I see a text. Even now, after all those failures, I still see a text. But a cultural artefact, let’s be clear on that. An artefact to be rewritten, reworded, rewired, reconfigured. Beloved of Mine, I see Babalon’s Cards, one upon another: “fortune”, an embodied, breathing Creature, innovation, physicalised. I see the politics of piety.
Think about it this way. People think religion is a change made over people, for the greater good, to achieve some higher moral outcome. But that’s not religion: there is no good, there is no bad. There’s flux and control over flux: these are the divine principles of the holy struggle. Religion disguises itself within a morality, when in fact it’s about exhibiting form over object, and categories over form, and the ineffable over categories. Religion is about a demonstration of truth. And that demonstration is fundamentally love, love within the machine of the metamodel.
Think about it this way. Love is a dervish’s dance, a demonstration, not good, not bad, but form over the dynamic, and dynamic form into insight, insight the Truth, the cold hard Judgement arrayed.
He thought about this. No, it’s still not right. It’s reverting to form, to late Tailorite dogma, with a Crowley twist. It’s not interesting, not heartfelt. There is something more honest that could be said. Something worth writing down, for the record, but that is closer what he feels, what he actually feels.
He tries this:
I spend my life drowned by work, it’s really taking it out of me, I’m exhausted, numbed, deadened and rendered superficial and petty. I have entered Sartre’s Age of Reason: that life in which we accept, we yield to duty, responsibility, the workplace, the banality of our 24/7 cares, the darkness perforated by rationed reminders of light (family we care for, the wives we love), though still bound and complicated by the bars of our destiny’ prison. For people like me, no longer the spiritually free men, and in particular people like me who entered that age belatedly, who’ve tasted freedom and for whom the contrast is immense, the Age of Reason aches like the pain in my lower middle aged back.
Philosophers of life – the great ones – have not written their Being and Times, their Thus Spake Zarathustras, from this perspective. They’ve been free men, each one, by definition. So it is left to HBR life coaches, psychologists, derivative and weaker philosophers, religious leaders to assemble some kind of narrative sense for this Age. It is always weak in a Bloomean sense, not strong.
If there is a strong philosophy I’d like to pen, one that I could be capable of penning, it would be a philosophy that streams from my personal place within, where I stand within the Age of Reason.
And if there is a strong art I’d like to pen, one that I could be capable of penning, it would be an art that streams from my personal place within, where I stand within the Age of Reason.
There’s something deep and profound that could be said, because love lingers, love does linger, and emotions are heightened and the stakes are higher even though the perspective is not free.
Better. Yes, that’s definitely better.
He’s back. Got the green light. The fort is going to be dismantled and he’s returning from exile. Back, better.