Nearely succumbed to a full-blown mania yesterday. Woke angrier than ever, twisted, aching, very nearly insane. I've often sought as a wholly creative act - i.e. indistinct from my daily endeavours - to foist myself at the edge of that precipice, and the view from the edge of the crags is for sure, intoxicating, fluid and freeing. So long as you remain on the edge. Yesterday, the hyper-lucidity almost blurred into a mangled, spun chaos. When these pockets of micro-lunacy occur, they usually elicit a palmful of insight-souvenirs. On this occasion, whilst embroiled in a pitch dark internal rage as to why we enslave ourselves to the mind-hoovering, strength-sapping virus of WORK, my mind took to leapfrogging conceptual hurdles more athletically than usual. So we enslave ourselves, and if we through whatever means managed to abolish work and live a more communistic, equilateral life, we would then have to eradicate GOD. And then the cynical weight of my heart ass-kicked through the tautly-drawn veneer of idealism, announcing that, once these had been abolished, we would doubtless, as a species, erect another deleterious ringmaster at whose feet we'd miserably genuflect. And so we'd perpetuate this pattern, as one balloon bursts another is being inflated, each painted with the face of a different bullwhip-wielding demagogue. Perhaps it's borne of consciousness-guilt - the collective need to suppress our potential happiness for fear of appearing 'smug' to the 'inferior' species, all the while blind to the suspicion that these species seem at least to enjoy some form of equilibrium between their needs and desires. Probably not. It's obviously the residual greed innate to each of us having glimpsed Eden the first time we saw a flower, a billowing cumulus, the first and blue-est sky - we want more of it, and dependent upon the nature of privilege bestowed upon the family into which we're born, we'll either be equipped to chase this ephemera, this vapour cloud, and this reflection to its fruition, alchemised into paper and copper currency, or we'll settle for the role of ensuring those that are equipped, attain exactly thos phantoms, through engaging in acts of work or worship. Both roles are pitiable and tragic - as I know it would merely take a minor perceptual readjustment to reframe what we see into being the most vital, revelatory, exciting, every time - but when this intangible self-empowerment can be so readily shortchanged by the collective manifestation of false idols, this isn't gonna happen. Still, why would I want to smother myself in fine silks when I can stare and see infinite tapestries of a rarer kind in the ocean, indefinitely? Through our forsaken diligence and rigour, I guess we've earned these totems of failure. And yet it does seem unduly masochistic to suggest that we desire these addictions. I then realized, or rather posited, that as is true of crowd psychology - several organism governed towards a single goal congeal into a single organism - I realized, posited, that just as we inflate these balloons, once they're of sufficient size, they sever the string that connects them to our eager, childish hands, and they drift into the etheric dimension, to wield autonomy - we may induce them, but with enough enthusiasm, these fetishes actually become entities, complete and extant from our reins. We create Golems. They terrorize our citadels. We lament their destructive wake. Daemon of the week. So the two overriding ones, being so inextricably entangled with our greed - GOD and WORK - will prove and are proving to be the hardest Golems to annihilate. Meanwhile, we have the fragmentary obstacles to infinite wealth and the sainthood - the kaleidoscopic prejudices - sexuality, gender, age, race, intelligence, physicality, all judged via subtle or bombastic shades of fascism (he might be Aryan but he has no limbs and is likely gay - whatever now Your Highness?) that occupy our concerns the way we'd stare at the blemish on the teacher's chin instead of at the eyes from which her reprimand so fiercely emanated. Again, slavery is abolished, women get the vote, homosexuality is decriminalized, the age of consent is lowered (but not abolished?!) euqla-rights for potential employees are drafted in, a whole new lexicon is developed with which to discuss and address the deformed and disfigured, and then... out rolls the new Jew. This time he's from the middle east and has a nuclear arsenal tucked in his intestine with which to wreak Jihadism and the whiplash screed of The Prophet on our lily white derrieres. Soon he'll be assimilated into this sick nexus of empathic hand-wringing and superficially indiscrimatory platitudes, and The Hate Factory will shit out a new micro-Golem, with a whole new mask, and a whole new bag of reasons as to why we should blast it with radiation and eliminate its presence from the histories we teach our white-middle-class-middlingly-intelligent children. All hail the renegades.
Anyway, above is loosely contained the guts of how I nearly went insane yesterday. It's not as though it's a diatribe I'd not considered previously, but in this incarnation, it birthed with such weight and ferocity, tumbling over itself like folds of cement, that I was forced to flee the cafe briefly and seclude myself amongst the recycling enclosure, hidden, hyperventilating, feeling as though I'd just torn off another layer of skin, that i was in some way an inch more intimate with the white-hot, biliois source of all of this incendiary suffering and miserable graft to which we're all so cyncially self-consigned.
It's my birthday in precisely a month's time. I.e. the 27th annual celebration of my mother having conveyed my physical self unto the world outlined above. Thank fuck I was and am graced with the capacity to birth any number of alternative and better worlds. I guess we all are. I feel like every day yields the birth of a new incarnation, angle, refraction of myself and by extension 'the world' (which I'd evidently rather term 'The Infinite Multiverse' but won't, for now.) so i should be celebrating every day. And once I've nailbombed a few stray Golems, then perhaps I might. Happy Birthday Everyone.
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