I declare myself of the family of those
Who from obscurity to clarity aspire. (Goethe)
Blind, deaf and insensitive to any rule, we are overcome by riotousness that, given the ferment on which we are now nourished, what else can we glean from the very handiwork we have laid! Why are we appearing to be so alarmed by any Soul that is thrown into the conduct that we are wont to suggest we are, each one of us, mitigated exempt! We live a lie that has become an ineffaceable seal, and that, withal that is vile; we have become its progenitors.
What can we hold on to, that is not only unstable, but also opportunistic, and will not irreverently hurt us? We are to be besieged by an order of violence that is around every corner we held as defense against things we cherished. Now brotherly to the teeth, the tongue whips out its curse-calling slang: its slandering noise, its odious miasmas, stone crushers, eclipse of ideas, all let loose to the bankruptcy of any philosophy of ethics in order to invent hallucinating enemies that would define us, good and god-fearing!
In Decent days of old, Granny used to warn: Take heed, you will sleep on the bed you laid or more, from her arsenal: You will reap from the seed you sow, the same fruit! Hers were of the metaphysical, abiding in faith and in achievement spun from the essential nature of man that is light made Word… Word made world! We stopped listening a long time ago –diligent to an ignorant spleen– setting the stage for inevitable, disastrous consequences.
Gross circumstance now embroils us to the slightest contour of conscience. We are the abandoned of ourselves. Naïve and rudderless blind, we, motley and brimmed wild with insolence, there is no secret to our unholy homage and communion in the bread the devil knead! Shy no more of being worn-out, beguiled and pliant, the soul finds composure in a fashionable lubricity that pervades our sickened-flat landscape of consciousness.
The exuberance with which our youthful arms flung hope to the skies, the invitation to adventure from the languor of our breast-full hymns –all innocent to the clanging brass– were truncated by a villainous Greed that seems to come from a nowhere we slept to be awakened rigged descant to compassion, a fiction, but really angled to mockery and disdain for the good of us.
Already, the mind of our muscles, slackened to the indefiniteness of an atrophied, bilious mass, has become incapable of manifesting a personality, free and consistent with what the soul of a healthy people would have augured, instead of pushing ahead its debasement!
Indeed, we ride on improvisation unto death; we are not well. At best, we are false and in need of a fix to halt this tragedy of dissimulation to which we are likened to a fad, –“nine days” has lessened to four! Drunk silly or plainly disorderly, our tired mob swells in damp discord; a carnivalesque retinue with subtle virulence yields chapter after chapter of plaintive rhetoric that is no remedy for the ugly bulge of our mimicry that rather our unthinking public.
Swift and ceaseless, unwise to what we commit, we are seldom teased by those grand designs with which memory was embroidered and which offered leisure and allure to our lively instincts to contest a perceivable future! And that would require of us, first and foremost an incontrovertible, critical effort to settle those pathological, as well as demographical elements that vacillate in a limbo of nothing, nullified to suit the advantages of all other than ourselves.
Unnoticed, or is it that we care not that the lower our aspirations are of becoming underfoot, the higher our enthusiasm is driven to confirm and find our complacency, fashionable delight in narrow deeds that eventually emerge as inextricable labyrinths, often woven to our ready ground of false oaths. For example: “Forged in the Love of Liberty”, “Where every Creed and Race has an equal place” and this one, “To protect and to Serve…” Those deceptions have fulfilled the mamaguy we are become, for, in them we have not ever stated a veritable, spinal thrust of faith.
Downtrodden by pressures brought to bear on our inexperienced shoulders, we are confined where our consciousness is made uselessly dry entertainment before what we ape as modernization –a cynical transformation of cultures that suitably sustain the bulldozing power of flat, linear profiles of global appetites. And, that has caught us silly- unawares in the “Dog eat Dog” syndromes of frontier type outrageousness, snarling clueless of our fragile predicament, masked in over-pixilated bling-bling, at the unknown.
Lost to us is any concern for posterity’s view of us. Far more grave, the trauma, that no head has yet arisen from this life-and-death quandary we hug so carelessly and with impunity; no nothing is aimed at lifting opinion to a place where we might be obliged to regain some joy in doing for all a common good. In our rusty condition, what is ought to be preserved; our selfishness, our imbecility has bred impotence, a very persuasive nonchalant disposition to the null that mitigates effort that yields futility.
In peripheral rituals far and safe from conscience, there can only be masquerade. We pour on our polished marbles, the blood and milk and rum of creatures bent poorer, sacrificed by the unmediated approximations of whim and fancy. Those prescribe our lives, a fate riffed burlesque, tragic and devoid of Language and Art, with no zeal to codify quality vistas of living that can generate aesthetic and ethical archetypes, axial to a truly brilliant, modern world. Ours hang-in like juicy fuzz in a misty glass of a drunk.
All is really left abandoned to the fumbling of insensitive cults of a blind-eyed null, –a diseased sun– oppressive as a stone, which has come to weigh us in infamy by restraining all fibres of our well-being to a catastrophic tug-of-war that has bound us, vicariously perched on conspiracies rooted in ever newly found anxieties, that may for practical reasons be wrought in what, the awesome –galaxies– that is yet beyond our perception to include the property of the Languaging or the Arting of us: the readying to engage or dwell in what is truly us –our phenomena– us, as phenomena!
We can only doubt within our dismantled psyches that that is where we need to go if we are to stand any chance of self- recovery in the bearings of authenticating dispositions. Investigation, if not meditation must be brought in attention to our stubborn opposition to the demands made on us by Language and, by Art. So closely knit are those, that between them, redemption plies in that paradoxical air of anonymity, certain that a single most, grueling, “self-constitutive” nuclear state of mysterious authorship will emerge!
The Visionary. Can a stern Eye ever be made to relent, or for better or worst, grow extinct, so sobered to the cosmic text of his soloed requiem; the waiting core of the Dark swallows him up to its throat-ends. There, under the spell of migratory birds go quack-quacking: the air laden with fragments of fire, of water, of word and of all things considered by the measure of man himself, to whom the earth is made good and bountiful in the fairness of his duty, his dominion is likened to the light in his soul.
With him, Prophet or Poet, the Soul’s world traverses the abyss of discontent, and is neither unnerved by applause nor lacking in dignity, surely, with graciousness it arrives, punctual, simple and pure in conversation with reality, mindful of the ability to transcend it!
Rebirth. All fine things gathered, fuel the Vision to its vigourous leap forward, fully cognitive of progressively reshaping and reintegrating things and ideas. Urged on toward open and careful collaboration, our experience, clarified by the innards of our spirit should incite a peaceful understanding with us suitably qualified and appropriated hierarchically at the helm of the thrust of ego or signified, a Being degreed/decreed by Destiny. The Work is begun… In us, guaranteed!
Yes to our indomitable will, all is solvable! A new day is ever taking form in the galaxies of our interminable imagination. The sure hand of genius, recognized to fish it out, beckons relentlessly. For us in that rotating now there is the awe of faint echoes touching our sensitive mind with riddles like peeling bells of sun in the ears of our Dawns and our Settings. There you are… There Eye am… Encouraged by our Destiny to being launched, moving towards something that awaits us all, to complete it, and perhaps, it will fulfill us!