Birds, and other dangers

I haven't posted anything for a while because i've been spending most of my time making bent-frame vinyl windows and reconsidering my basic ideas about things.

I think the alternate histories I've been writing say all sorts of pretty damning things about my views of other people. There is also the problem of history being an ongoing thing, as a writer you want things to reach equilibrium so you can stop writing, but the more you elaborate on that equilibrium the more contrived it begins to seem. I'm slowing starting to suspect that long-term-oriented relationships are a bad idea, which sort of makes me glad I'm not in one, but then in a lot of ways it seems like you are screwed in either case; I vaguely remember reading some Greek guy who said that you can't really judge whether your life is ok until you are dead, which seems applicable, if a bit useless.

Today the cooling water evaporating out of the glycerine vinyl bender filled the production floor with water vapor. It was also sunny outside, which meant there were absurdly distinct beams of light running through the place at about thirty degree angles. It was like nothing I had ever seen.

This is something I wrote on summer solstice last week, one year previously I had been in the Enchantments, doing the, until then, boldest climbing trip of my life.

Birds

In our dreams we are birds

Birds and not men

And as we flutter into the sky and soar against the blue 

All our weariness falls away like scales from our eyes

As if a pall has been pulled back from the world

A cataract loosened

All the sepia tones washed clear and blue

The fire in the pit of the cave put out

But then we wake up

And we are men

Men and not birds

And the aroma of our toil is the more acrid for having been forgotten

On Endings

I quote now from the great epic of our time, Tolkien’s Silmarillion–

But Morgoth himself the Valar thrust through the doors of night beyond the walls of the world, into the timeless void; and a guard is set forever on those walls, and Earendil keeps watch on the ramparts of the sky. Yet the lies that Melkor, the mighty and accursed, Morgoth Bauglir, the Power of Terror and of Hate, sowed in the hearts of Elves and Men are a seed that does not die and cannot be destroyed; and ever and anon it sprouts anew, and will bear dark fruit even unto the latest days.

Here ends the Silmarillion; and if it has passed from the high and the beautiful to darkness and ruin, that was of old the fate of Arda Marred; and if any change shall come and the Marring be amended, Manwë and Varda may know; but they have not revealed it, and it is not declared in the dooms of Mandos.

Or, put differently,

Are you watching closely?

Who's doing this? Who's killing us? Robbing us of light and life. Mocking us with the sight of what we might have known.

At once I hate and love as well… how? God knows! And yet I feel it now here in my heart: the whole of hell.

What we may well believe has power to cut and shape and hollow out the dark form of the world surely if wind can, if rain can. But which cannot be held never be held and is no flower but is swift and a huntress and the wind itself is in terror of it and the world cannot lose it.

We will become a chunk of history.

Aurë Entuluva?

Special thanks to all men happy and shrewd, the nine layers of hell and her majesty, their architect, and, of course, my own little falkland islands who, god willing, I will see again under more favorable auspices.

Wikipedia is a Wonderful Thing

I started with Paul Valery (quoted in Blood Meridian) and ended up reading the most insightful analysis of the human condition I have encountered since Everything Is Illuminated.

http://www.palgrave-journals.com/ajp/journal/v67/n1/full/3350007a.html

The Demonic and its Answer

What follows is a consideration of the demonic in a post-religious sense. My application of the term demonic is obviously indebted to my Christian upbringing, but regardless of the problems with the idea of demons, I believe it is a term worth redeeming.

Because my thinking on the subject refers so heavily to a personal sense of possession I experience periodically, which it is both impossible and unproductive for me to describe in a clear manner, it will be helpful to give a concrete description of the demonic before proceeding to its essential character. 

The demonic is seen in certain large-scale human events: the procession of Nazism during the second world war and the waves of medieval anti-semitism it drew from; Mao’s great cultural revolution and other anti-historical movements like, in some incarnations, Calvinist Protestant iconoclasm and the Puritan witch-hunts. The demonic is also seen in more localized incidents and movements: the Westboro Baptist Church and its ilk; most adolescent suicides and murder-suicides like the Columbine and Virginia-Tech shootings (not all suicides should be considered demonic, adolescent suicides tend to be demonic because they involve a submission rather than, like stoic suicide, a decisive positive action); certain pathological murderers and rapists who admit no sense of conflict about their actions. Anyone who can be seen as fighting a loosing battle against their urges or desires should not be considered demonic, as the demonic does not operate from an exaggeration of essential needs.

Like the divine, the demonic is a concept which should be allowed to survive in atheism. The demonic is related to the divine in that it is a facet of the subjective lived experience, but its connection is deeper: the demonic is the inverse of the divine. While the divine is universal, found in all things, and especially in the greater things (astronomic structures, long-form historical narrative, etc.), the demonic is insular. While the divine is calm, the demonic is frantic, even crazed. While the divine unfolds though all time so that it is beyond lived-time, the demonic derives its greatest horror from the minutia of time – the ever-shrinking, ever-reducing time that is found is undistracted waiting. The demonic is the specific rejection of the divine; put most succinctly, the demonic is the essence of the human experience without the divine.

Like the divine, the demonic has been heavily personified, and because of this it has been almost completely emasculated as a legitimate image. The man who sees Satan in his every misfortune is either insane (akin to the man who believes himself to be Jesus), or deludedly caught up in his own self-importance. Post-Enlightenment humanism demands that we take responsibility for the abstract evil in our lives and accusations of demonic presence only enable self-pitying passivity. 

Yet the demonic, although over-applied, is in the world. It is present most clearly in the blindly fanatical – the desire, born of consuming hatred, to destroy all one would love so that which one despises will also perish. The character of the demonic is that it is entrapping; because it denies, on an aesthetic and emotional level, the validity of cool-headed logic, it tends to become more convincing the longer it is indulged. The demonic pattern of thought is attractive precisely because it is radically self-indulgent, it permits no questioning of a notion once it has been accepted, and so it tends to build on itself in an increasingly virulent rejection of the divine.  The strength of the demonic is this absolutism. The demands it makes are emphatic and so, unlike the rational, whose proscriptions must go through a process of verification and legitimization, the demonic can initiate a fatal strike before resistance can be mobilized.

The operation of the demonic is fundamentally individual. From an outside perspective it appears violently insane, but because of the appeal of its total self-indulgence, it is contagious even if it is not actually persuasive. The demonic should be not considered merely irrational, the irrational tends to end almost immediately in disaster because of how badly it corresponds to objective reality, rather, the demonic is counter-rational: it denies rationality as ineffectual and its overriding impatience makes rational counter-argument ineffective. 

The only way to combat the demonic is the descend to its level and appeal to the essential human impulses that it perverts. The divine is profoundly attractive, and it has a calming effect which serves to placate the crazed demonic attitude. Once calm the demonic tends to disintegrate; once the frantic circling of the demonic presence has stopped, normal rationalization resumes and the counter-arguments against whatever the demonic has inspired can come to the surface and erode the emphatic resilience that characterizes a demonic outlook. Because the demonic does not make arguments but rather asserts, it must constantly re-assert to maintain control of the psyche, from this comes its frantic, impatient, crazed, nature, but once the divine has had its calming effect the re-assertions become increasingly infrequent and rationalism can have an effect between them.

The tendency of humans toward excessive destruction is well documented and historically undeniable, and the inability to account for or address these patterns is the principle failing of contemporary secularism. Modern atheists have no satisfactory way of dealing with the experience of evil that does not revert to a moralistic framework. This is why the concept of divinity is so important, it offers an answer to the problem of the demonic that a simple materialism cannot supply without denying its own anti-moral framework. Some elaboration of this atheistic divinity would seem beneficial at this point.

Divinity does not mean divinities. Although the personification of divinity is important historically and very valuable in terms of symbolism, the divinity intended here is not a divinity of beings. Divinity is not an existent thing any more than goodness or justice. Divinity is that character of things that so surpass man that all our being pales in comparison to its majesty. We are irrelevant next to it, but not the anxious irrelevance of exclusion, the awesome irrelevance of being absorbing by the truly greater. This is why divinity has its calming effect, it shows us how little we are, how small all our concerns are in comparison to the movements of the universe. The demonic is always self-absorbed – the actions of and to the self are of utmost concern – the divine breaks this by showing how marvelously inconsequential the self and all its concerns are.

This dualism of demonic-divine should not be regarded as a Zoroastrian creative-destructive dichotomy or a Chinese yin-yang. Although the demonic is usually destructive, that is not its essence and is rather a byproduct of humans possessed by the demonic. Demonically-minded humans tend to be destructive because their level of frantic self-absorption is so counter to all healthy human activity. Likewise, the divine is not really a creative force, although creative forces often have aspects of divinity. Additionally, the divine and the demonic should not be regarded as equal-but-opposing forces. Although the demonic is an implicit rejection of the divine, the divine is not likewise an implicit rejection of the demonic and operates completely without regard to it. In this way divinity and the demonic are much more similar to the Christian notions of God and Satan, in which one is clearly superior to the other.

The demonization of people and their actions often has a strong escapist element. The term “evil” is used mostly when we do not wish to consider the causality behind an event, mostly because we are afraid of what we might find. Demonization allows us to dismiss people, to set up a goodpeople-badpeople dichotomy and wholly separate ourselves form that which we find morally repugnant. This, in turn, helps to dogmatize our moral framework, and lead to the demonization of any who challenge it. It is my hope that the definition of the demonic that has here been argued, as an understood force within human life, negates this use of demonization while also retaining the valid experience of evil. The purpose of carefully defining the demonic is not to distance ourselves from that which we consider evil, but rather to understand its operation so as to better combat it.

Fate and Fatalism

The word fatal is derived from the same root, the latin fatum - that which has been spoken, as the word fate. As I am coming to a strong belief in fate, this connection is of vital interest to me. 

My “fate” means events working together in a comprehendible way toward an unlikely conclusion – imagine divine providence without the implied benevolent deity. In this way fate seems amoral, it works independently and irrespective of my good. Yet fatal came to mean what it does today, causing death, from a Middle English term meaning destined by fate, or ominous. Thus it seems that there is a catastrophic undertone to the will of fate – that which is determined by fate, that which the workings of fate moves toward, is fatal, it causes death and disaster. 

For this there can be two explanations, the first, most obvious, and most optimistic is that the fatality (the fatal aspect) of fate is in reference to the eventual and inevitable death of him who is fated. All lives, and therefore all fates, which move in lives, must lead to death. This serves to redeem fate for less fatal ends before death; as if, although death is the final destination, fate leads many other places before the end. To an extent this must be true, if all fates lead to death, fates must be either total and lifelong, which is to remove the distinctions between strands in a life, or we would all be dead rather quickly. But fatal as causing death is a relatively recent usage and I suspect a more original interpretation of the term will yield a more valuable conclusion. 

Fatal means leading to catastrophe, the sudden downturning turn of events, death can be but one form of this. The second explanation for the fatality of fate is that all fated things, all working together of diffuse circumstances, conspire toward the destruction of the fated. Some time ago I wrote that I was considering three new ways of envisioning my life, this was as opposed or in addition to my underlying mechanist-deterministic outlook. Of them, this view of fate corresponds best with life as demonic assault: the slow manipulation of all things to my continual detriment. This encourages a more anthropomorphic view of fate than I am comfortable taking, but as a model and a narrative it is highly effective for conveying the lived experience.

This leads to a discussion of fatalism and the correct mental orientation toward the fatality of fate. Fatalism is the submissive acceptance of the sort of fate I have described, the bowing down before the unalterable forces of the universe as they destroy you. It is placing the noose around your own neck so that the executioner does not dirty his hands. And there is a great nobility in it, a clear-eyed stoic resilience that in some small way turns fate upon itself. It is however, not the only possible response. Recall Nietzsche, “Courageous, untroubled, mocking and violent – that is what Wisdom wants us to be. Wisdom is a woman, and she loves only a warrior.” Fate is not something to be overcome, but perhaps it is something to be challenged. If there is a nobility in accepting the will of fate maybe there is also a nobility in fighting it to the bitter end.

Transfiguration’s Going To Come

Can there be a god after Auschwitz?

Could there have been a god before,

Yet what rained down in sooty droplets if not his children?

Falling, those ashes as if spread in remembrance,

On my shoulders and cap

And I brush them away.

Yes, I brush them away.

Through the wire I see a man in faded pajamas;

He looks like the Christ Jesus carved in the tympanum of Saint-Lazare

I shiver and brush away the ashes

And hold my rifle a little tighter.

Yes, that is the side I would have chosen;

All those millions dead and avars rippling outward,

The child’s voice silenced perhaps forever,

A weight of guilt even death cannot relieve so that it passes to the soul of Faust,

I would not have seen it.

The twisted vedic hymn would have rung in my ear like bells announcing the approach of the lord,

And I would have ran to join his procession

What was it we,

Yes–we,

Were looking for in the pockets of those we lead to the ovens?

Was in jealousy that curled in our hearts,

Esau striking down the brother he might have embraced?

Or did we think they held from us some secret wealth

Offered to our enemies when our back was turned?

Whatever we imagined, surely it perished in the heat and the fire.

So who is it that asks,

‘What god could have survived those flames?’

They who stood before the fiery furnace and now rest in sheol and canaan?

No, their god has delivered them from all our machinations

And freed them for all time from our choking grasp.

No, it is our god who never lived to die,

And what falls in the ashes upon us is his last revelation

My peace with you, for tomorrow I shall be in Rome

I’ve had Caiaphas put in chains, I too was crucified

Sing me a new song: the world is transfigured and all the heavens are joyous

I now come as Dionysus victorious, who will prepare a great festival on earth

On Nietzsche

Friedrich Nietzsche is slowly becoming the older brother I never had. I do not necessarily agree with everything he believed, but we were raised in the same house and his instincts are very similar to my own. 

As I read more of Zarathustra and The Will To Power it seems probable that he will soon join McCarthy and Tolkien as one of my principle guides for dealing with the world.

-

I do not fully understand how it is possible that in the 1880s he described mid-late 20^th century Alpinism so perfectly.

On the Tree on the Mountainside

(from the first part of Thus Spoke Zarathustra)

Zarathustra’s eye had noted that a youth avoided him. And one evening as he walked alone through the mountains surrounding the town which is called The Motley Cow—behold, on his walk he found this youth as he sat leaning against a tree, looking wearily into the valley. Zarathustra gripped the tree under which the youth was sitting and spoke thus:

“If I wanted to shake this tree with my hands I should not be able to do it. But the wind, which we do not see, tortures and bends it in whatever direction it pleases. It is by invisible hands that we are bent and tortured worst.”

Then the youth got up in consternation and said: “I hear Zarathustra, and just now I was thinking of him.” Zarathustra replied: “Why should that frighten you? But it is with man as it is with the tree. The more he aspires to the height and light, the more strongly do his roots strive earthward, downward, into the dark, the deep—into evil.”

“Yes, into evil!” cried the youth. “How is it possible that you discovered my soul?”

Zarathustra smiled and said: “Some souls one will never discover, unless one invents them first.”

“Yes, into evil!” the youth cried once more. “You have spoken the truth, Zarathustra. I no longer trust myself since I aspire to the height, and nobody trusts me any more; how did this happen? I change too fast: my today refutes my yesterday. I often skip steps when I climb: no step forgives me that. When am I at the top I always find myself alone; the frost of loneliness makes me shiver. What do I want up high? My contempt and my longing grow at the same time; the higher I climb, the more I despise the climber. What does he want up high? How ashamed I am of my climbing and stumbling! How I mock at my violent panting! How I hate the flier! How weary I am up high!”

Here the youth stopped. And Zarathustra contemplated the tree beside which they stood and spoke thus: “This tree stands lonely here in the mountains; it grew high above man and beast. And if it wanted to speak it would have nobody who could understand it, so high has it grown. Now it waits and waits—for what is it waiting? It dwells too near the seat of the clouds: surely, it waits for the first lightning.”

When Zarathustra had said this the youth cried with violent gestures: “Yes, Zarathustra, you are speaking the truth. I longed to go under when I aspired to the height, and you are the lightning for which I waited. Behold, what am I, now that you have appeared among us? It is the envy of you that has destroyed me.” Thus spoke the youth, and he wept bitterly. But Zarathustra put his arm around him and led him away. And when they had walked together for a while, Zarathustra began to speak thus: “It tears my heart. Better than your words tell it, your eyes tell me of all your dangers. You are not yet free, you still search for freedom. You are worn from your search and overawake. You aspire to the free heights, your soul thirsts for the stars. But your wicked instincts, too, thirst for freedom. Your wild dogs want freedom; they bark with joy in their cellar when your spirit plans to open all prisons. To me you are still a prisoner who is plotting his freedom: alas, in such prisoners the soul becomes clever, but also deceitful and bad. And even the liberated spirit must still purify himself. Much prison and mustiness still remain in him: his eyes must still become pure.

“Indeed, I know your danger. But by my love and hope I beseech you: do not throwaway your love and hope.

“You still feel noble, and the others too feel your nobility, though they bear you a grudge and send you evil glances. Know that the noble man stands in everybody’s way. The noble man stands in the way of the good too: and even if they call him one of the good, they thus want to do away with him. The noble man wants to create something new and a new virtue. The good want the old, and that the old be preserved. But this is not the danger of the noble man, that he might become one of the good, but a churl, a mocker, a destroyer.

“Alas, I knew noble men who lost their highest hope. Then they slandered all high hopes. Then they lived impudently in brief pleasures and barely cast their goals beyond the day. Spirit too is lust, so they said. Then the wings of their spirit broke: and now their spirit crawls about and soils what it gnaws. Once they thought of becoming heroes: now they are voluptuaries. The hero is for them an offense and a fright.

“But by my love and hope I beseech you: do not throwaway the hero in your soul! Hold holy your highest hope!”

Thus spoke Zarathustra.