![]() | Roleplay | Writing Forum | Viral news today | Music Theory |
The poems to come are for you and for me and are not for mostpeople-- it's no use trying
to pretend that mostpeople and ourselves are alike. Mostpeople have less in common with
ourselves than the squarerootofminusone. You and I are human beings;mostpeople are snobs.
Take the matter of being born. What does being born mean to mostpeople? Catastrophe
unmitigated. Socialrevolution. The cultured aristocrat yanked out of his hyperexclusively
ultravoluptuous superpalazzo,and dumped into an incredibly vulgar detentioncamp swarming
with every conceivable species of undesirable organism. Mostpeople fancy a guaranteed
birthproof safetysuit of nondestructible selflessness. If mostpeople were to be born twice
they'd improbably call it dying--
you and I are not snobs. We can never be born enough. We are human beings;for whom birth
is a supremely welcome mystery,the mystery of growing:which happens only and whenever we
are faithful to ourselves. You and I wear the dangerous looseness of doom and find it
becoming. Life,for eternal us,is now'and now is much to busy being a little more than
everything to seem anything,catastrophic included.
Life,for mostpeople,simply isn't. Take the socalled standardofliving. What do mostpeople
mean by "living"? They don't mean living. They mean the latest and closest
plural approximation to singular prenatal passivity which science,in its finite but
unbounded wisdom,has succeeded in selling their wives. If science could fail,a mountain's
a mammal. Mostpeople's wives could spot a genuine delusion of embryonic omnipotence
immediately and will accept no substitutes.
-luckily for us,a mountain is a mammal. The plusorminus movie to end moving,the strictly
scientific parlourgame of real unreality,the tyranny conceived in misconception and
dedicated to the proposition that every man is a woman and any woman is a king,hasn't a
wheel to stand on. What their synthetic not to mention transparent majesty, mrsandmr
collective foetus,would improbably call a ghost is walking. He isn't a undream of
anaesthetized impersons, or a cosmic comfortstation,or a transcedentally sterilized
lookiesoundiefeelietastiesmellie. He is a healthily complex,a naturally homogenous,citizen
of immorality. The now of his each pitying free imperfect gesture,his any birth of
breathing,insults perfected inframortally milleniums of slavishness. He is a little more
than everything,he is democracy;he is alive:he is ourselves.
Miracles are to come. With you I leave a remembrance of miracles: they are somebody who
can love and who shall be continually reborn,a human being;somebody who said to those near
him,when his fingers would not hold a brush "tie it to my hand"--
nothing proving or sick or partial. Nothing false,nothing difficult or easy or small or
colossal. Nothing ordinary or extraordinary,nothing emptied or filled,real or
unreal;nothing feeble and known or clumsy and guessed. Everywhere tints
childrening,innocent spontaneaous,true. Nowhere possibly what flesh and impossibly such a
garden,but actually flowers which breasts are amoung the very mouths of light. Nothing
believed or doubted;brain over heart, surface:nowhere hating or to fear;shadow,mind
without soul. Only how measureless cool flames of making;only each other building always
distinct selves of mutual entirely opening;only alive. Never the murdered finalities of
wherewhen and yesno,impotent nongames of wrongright and rightwrong;never to gain or
pause,never the soft adventure of undoom,greedy anguishes and cringing ecstasies of
inexistence;never to rest and never to have;only to grow.
Always the beautiful answer who asks a more beautiful question