This is a test. This is definitely a test.
I have recently contended that the veil of Maya or the veil of distraction, the typical element that constitutes a normal, workaday human personality were not just distraction, that they are a part of the set, a real part of the set of what it is to exist and perceive [?] and I realized—or at least had argued—that it is not falseness that we see when they slip away, but rather the quickness with which they can change. And now, if I say that I can quickly and easily become another person, it does not mean that there is not a real thing; I, my mind, I dwell in a person-space, a real person-space, and so it is not falsehood. It is just variability, ease of change in certain ways. As for what the fear is—fear of that change—something to do with .. I’ve wanted to go somewhere bigger. I needed to go. I left, I went to Gainesville, I needed to know more people, and now I go to New York. And I don’t know if this would be a plan that I would normally take.
Honestly, what I fear would be to fall into the infinity of philosophical, psychedelic analysis. It’s hard [?] to investigate too much—the world of terrifying beauty, the world of Herman Hesse and his loving and devouring moon mother. His autumnal—that is, the fall, the harvest mother. And it’s not that that world of like infinite terror and love and beauty, white and black, and the fractal patterns beneath them that, by trick of light, and the way that it catches the eye, seems to be colored, that crystal, infinitely small and fine, through which the light that is all our universe pours. I am not afraid of that place.
And, in fact, that is the source of this vision, this reality—it is what gives weight to it, is what makes green mean anything. So you can imagine not a p-zombie, not a creature that acted but didn’t perceive, but a creature which acts, perceive, and just doesn’t give a fuck—that just does not feel delight in green, simulates the delight just as a p-zombie does, but even then, for the p-zombie there is no perception, but for, uh, giving-a-shit zombies, there’s no joy. There’s elation, there’s the muscles moving into a smile, a cheer, but no joy. And that is why philosophy, φιλοσοφία, gives life satisfaction and beauty, gives it greatness.
All the same, I feel that the fact that we exist here at all says something. It’s not meaningless. Otherwise, it would just be that unmitigated black and white forever. Why the pattern? Why that at all? There’s gotta be a reason to perceive time, to perceive distinction. I am not ready to return, fall upwards off the face of earth, right up into the face of God. Why anything, if we’re just supposed to seek the godhead?
A couple just passed me bicycling, and the woman—there was a man and a woman—seemed distressed, and I thought of someone who might think the thought, ‘How could you be unhappy in a place as pretty as this?’ And, of course, I don’t know. Maybe they just got in a fight, or maybe it was just a grimace of exertion and not actual upsetness. They look very similar, of course. At any rate, I noticed as I passed that I felt an urge to think more about those people, maybe even to glance backward at them, try to gather up as much as I could in understanding about them, and I didn’t. I could feel as if a thing had passed by at which I would normally grasp, and I just sat. Mentally sat. Just because it felt nice. Just because it’s almost like, ‘Too lazy. Too tired to figure that one out,’ which, it felt nice. All the same, I felt—
Of course, there is a change. I did not do a thing which I would normally do, and so I wonder: it’s like, I mean, unless you really are taking something like my first trip’s theory, that God is everyone living through life and that I, on that night, you know, realized the question and affirmed it, you know, perhaps I’m one of many to realize it, see it, and decides yes, the mission is good. And he saw that it was good, you know, like, and let it continue, and maybe, okay, so that happens, that’s a theory from that first trip, this theology. It’s not falsifiable. I mean, maybe it can be falsified, but that’s a whole ‘nother fucking issue. At any rate, unless that theory, that crazy theory is true, then what you actually have is one person feeling the importance of like, being all the universe, or whatever, you know, but like, this doesn’t explain the spaces between us, doesn’t explain the air. I mean, you know, that has always been the problem with that philosophical theory, like, that psychedelical theory. Like, what’s it like when God bes a fucking oxygen atom. What’s that like? Does he do it from beginning to end? And besides, how many other organisms that he bes does the oxygen molecule go into. What’s the set? [?] Any way? [?] Maybe.
At any rate, I am here, and have been focusing on other human beings, because I’m a human being and this is the way of seeing the world, I guess. Maybe I have been racist. But you know like, what am I? Why this fucking path for God? Why not one that also includes, you know, like uh, the volume of space, um, you know, a football field—I don’t know. Fuck, some cube of space somewhere. Why don’t I experience that, too? Anyway. I focus on these people, but I am trapped here. I am trapped in this body. If that theory is true, even still, I am trapped in this path for God. What am I supposed to do about that?
I guess my point is that, like, why does every single one, every single fragment just have this obligation to contemplate. It’s as if this whole world were created only for, in the midst of the whole fucking shebang, for like the beams of the ceiling to just start falling down, hitting the ground, and disappearing. You know, in the middle of fucking church service. What’s the fucking point? Why seek the godhead so fucking immediately? This is—you know, I get genuinely angry at the whole thing.
It seems almost [Wind] and then receive the commandment to utterly ignore them. We can only [?] return to the godhead. Maybe this is what Dain was talking about, but still. Why did that goal even matter? I mean like, you know, you talk about physical joy [?] of other people in God, but frankly, I see my friends disappear. The perfection of God obliterates these beautiful differences. The perfection of God obliterates the beautiful additional good that a non-perfect being can achieve, which a perfect being could never achieve. I can’t—I can’t abide that. We ate that fruit for a reason. It was a way out. It was a way out of God, or at least the tyranny of perfection. Like, in this fallen world, there is no perfection, but that’s fine. The door is always open at our backs. And so I guess the idea is, it’s not—while yes, God is the dust, God is the filth in the sink, it’s true. And then that again is a kind of beauty. But what about all the other ways of feeling about it? These imperfect ways of feeling, these complex ones. Ones which do not, you know, unite the distinction, [Garbled] conflicts. I feel like—I feel like I become a fucking sphere or something. No points at all. Infinitely variable. And so, I stumble upon a question I’m not sure I know the answer to. Why be afraid of that variability?
And I think it just ties back into why this time, why this body, why this place, why this world, why this specificity? You know? So what, if like you could take something and see the whole world dissolve into this infinitely joyous, infinitely tragic oneness, this all-being, all opposites united, blah-dee-fucking-blah, you know, and it’s [Wind] heroin. You know? It’s like, why any of this, just a distraction? Is this what the Manicheans thought? That, you know, go to the fucking junk? Get on the junk ASAP? I don’t know. I mean, is the demiurge such a bad fucking guy? For wanting us to check out something that might not be God? That might be, you know, different in some way? Fuck, I mean, even mixing with the shadow you get new colors. You add that fucking K value. It blows my mind. I don’t know. I guess that’s really it. Why do I hesitate about that variability? Just because the derivative of that is infinite. The derivative of that, when it’s all applied, the maximum change is no change. The maximum change implies just like a simultaneous existence in all times and all places. Great. So God is what it feels like to be the world. But it’s not what it feels like to be you or me. God don’t know that one. And he tried it, allegedly, you know, maybe he put his fucking tendril down. But Christ ain’t the only one who God was supposed to have been either, frankly.
So, I don’t know. And it’s all just a theory. But I guess it’s a theory about what you’re supposed to do with your life. Like maybe the theory is, be a monk. And my theory is, fuck that. I’m gonna go keep drinking and trying to write poems and live in New York fucking City, and after that, maybe I’ll move to fucking India. I don’t know, and maybe eventually I’ll settle down and become either a father or a monk, but you know, for now, I don’t buy it. The argument ain’t sound. It’s got its appeal, it’s persuasive, but it’s not absolute. It does not have the weight of truth to enforce its prescription.
Frankly, if I want to go out on the goddamn Hawthorne trail and appreciate the beauty in a sort of passive way, but you know, if I don’t want to contemplate the deer and instead I want to talk into my cell phone, I’m not necessarily wrong. If I hadn’t done that, if I do anything with this, you wouldn’t be hearing this. The world is more complex than that back-to-nature, like contemplate-a-fucking-deer shit. Why do skyscrapers work? If God just wanted us to contemplate the fucking deer, then why do skyscrapers work? How is such a thing possible? How can we live these whole lives where we’re divorced from the truth? You know, you like to think that the deity might have some notion of equal opportunity for all his creation to witness and then fall into the godhead if that was what he was really concerned about.
And you know, the fear of the policeman is not actually a fear of the policeman, because truly there’s no actual major harm that could come. I could still go to New York, but the point of it is, is a fear of the state, fear of the blind or the all-seeing god—I guess yeah, that’s more like it, because he ain’t blind. And you know, arrest—conspiracy against you.
And maybe this is just so much more egotism. Maybe it is, maybe it is. Huh. Huh, huh, huh. You really kind of have to believe you’re a pretty important motherfucker, right? Like, if you really believed that fucking policeman bogeyman listening to everything you do, got your phone turned on right now, tapped, beaming my every word, waiting until I was vulnerable to arrest or trial whatever again? You know, gotta think I’m pretty fucking hot shit, right? Gotta think I’m like—
I mean, gotta be a solipsist, gotta think the rest of the goddamn world is an illusion, and God’s just waiting to snatch me. Yeah, that’s a pretty creepy one, right? You know, you got the god of infinite power, and he lets you live this solo little life, he creates a universe around you full of zombies, comes down from the fuckin’ heavens and cackles every now and then, and then one day just fucking ends it. I mean, it’s not an implausible universe; I can’t rule it out. Neither can you. There’s no refuting solipsism. But there’s no proving it, either.
Yeah, I guess what you see there is like kind of an existential terror. It wouldn’t be egotism if I didn’t believe anyone else existed, but I guess it does require—I don’t know, it necessarily posits some act of force by which that might even conceivably be done, but why I am I afraid of it? What proof have I been given that it’s even a possibility? Am I constantly waiting to get fucking busted? By God, even? Am I guilty, or just—or am I always just waiting for something bad to happen. Maybe it’s that I care so much about the plans that to lose them—I’m just so jealous of them, paranoid that anyone will take them from me.
It’s not even misfortune that I fear, so much as utter misfortune, utter ruin, and the fact that it can strike so easily. Someone said it recently: it’s not death that I fear; it’s dying. Maybe that’s true. I do not think that I mind that one day I will not exist. That’s fine. But, the twilight, or even just the excruciating moments of having it ripped. I don’t know, I guess you can just enjoy those, but I guess maybe I’m hedging a lot of short-term things and I’m allocated all long-term.
I guess even though I don’t really have a word for it, that makes it clear that, one, I wouldn’t say that happiness is the goal. Nowhere in that little story do I mention happiness. I mention something, but I wouldn’t call it—I honestly don’t know the word. Tension, maybe. No. That’s not it, either. Or is it? I don’t know. Whatever.