Containment

When containment sinks within us its deep and suppressed absolution, much like an arrow of similarly intentioned completion; we do not -as with the proverbial arrow- reach a quick witted death of wisdom's expression within our reputation; instead, we reach a conclusion much more fitted for the dying; one that refuses the freedom of death, but at the very same moment compels us to life- to a life which is not our own. As we claim our own life, we forget what we never knew; the value of our existence. Only when we forfeit what we think that we have, can we realize the actual value of it. Thus, this principle is at work within our bodies: its preservation is desired because of its apparently great value. The Pride of Life therefore being a great and common transgression, if not the root of most transgressions themselves.

We must realize our own foolishness. The preservation of our lives is desired so much because of how much we believe it is worth; yet we forget that until we place it in comparison with something else, this life is out of context and is lost in nothingness. However, the powerful and debilitating truth is that as soon as our life is put into context it never even budges an inch from the nothingness it was already. In fact, I think that as soon as our life is put into context, it becomes even less than nothing. How can we expect to move beyond the containment which is itself contained within our souls if we never get past our own boorish tendency to think that we are worth something -even to think that we are worth a great deal? We must step beyond this pride, and recognize the necessary trading of our life into the currency of value and its consequential and immediate decimation.

Yet, when decimated, I think that we may find what we were looking for; as we realize the less-than-nothingness of our life's value we will be able to admit our own inability to change that status, and thus, in the most dire need, cry out to something which can both claim and retain some value for our lives and person; something which does not have an obligation to make something of the nothingness of ourselves, but rather something which can move beyond the containment we naturally maintain to deadly perfection within our mortal bodies into a place where the containment is a constant acceptance of the absolutionistic terms of peace we have been offered -no- commanded, by the One who lays claim to our nothingness.

And who alone, my soul, can rightly lay claim to nothingness but the One who can make from it something? To this One I do myself repair, most diligently and urgently, for if I tarry- I am lost.

Sybaris

Debating along the western shore,

Sunset colors sweetly filling the sky,

Ionian waves softly doing their chore;

Whispering news from the bridged Gallipoli,

Its beauty due not only to its name,

But also its taste, its touch, its prize;

From its aging wine, and oily fame,

Praising its Island beauty and limestone thighs.

Taranto also speaks softly through,

The idyllic waves of the Mediterranean Sea;

Calmly they report the stunning view,

Its eponymous founder once felt on knee,

As he rode dolphins near the Appian Way,

Neither also must one cast a worried glance,

For the Theraphosidae keep away;

The Tarantella thus a superfluous dance

Pleasure dribbles across the lip,

And the opulent musings of the mind,

Keep the body closely to the sensuous script;

The song the sea that with wind combined,

Follows the hips in their regulated,

March upon the beach of mystery,

Its fields behind, its waters ahead,

Nearly all is washed away through history.

Politicians, bureaucrats, and those lacking zeal,

Gathered as one, and sought with success,

The scorn of the nations –oligarchic ideal–

Drowning the beauty of happy excess;

The passion of rage and resentment,

Raising Telys, their demagogue devil,

Who would free them of contentment,

Unto their lowest and darkest level.

The sea, mapped closely, does run,

As do fugitives from pleasured simpletons,

Along the grave of Dyrrhachus’ son,

The way to the Panhellenic Olympians,

Safety was sought in power, in discipline;

Away from the tug of luxury, of vanity;

In exile then, contented Crotona within,

From the voracious Telys, from insanity.

Reaching strong gates, housing men of the same,

Seeking surrender and completion of the death,

The luxurious citizenry, sought to regain,

Those gasping through the blood for breath,

Into their hands, bloodied by the greed of security,

Calling down curses upon their sober opposition,

Preparing to draw the sword even against purity,

The seekers of indulgence pined for deposition.

Unable to stand by and unwilling to yield,

Those strong Crotoniats, upholding the right,

Boldly they, to the partisans of doom, themselves revealed,

Heavily outnumbered but in strength not slighted,

The defenders of plainness battled the aggressors of lavishness,

While the reckoning of pleasure saw insufficiency;

The science and strength of the simple saw success,

Over those with a distaste for pleasure’s deficiency.

Down at the river Traeis did the armies meet,

To decide the graceless end of this sudden war,

Which leaned most powerfully to the defeat,

Of the seekers of pleasure with their luxurious rapport;

Reaching their own gates, gasping for breath,

Even the devoted could not deny the demonization,

Of their own personal Angel, whose name is Death,

And who sought with success their complete annihilation.

So ended the army of the city, pleasurably inclined,

But the simple in life, could not be simple in mind,

Destruction of this pleasurable place, determined,

As they were, that no human within should any ever find;

Turning the course of the river Crathis with spades,

The victors drown the ruins of the city of brutalities,

As they turned the battle with their blades,

And buried the aggressors in their own fatalities.

This divine punishment, the luxurious ignores;

Drowning the pleasured in their complete inability for restoration,

Allowing the survivors refuge on the Tyrrhenian shore;

A temporary base for the unsuccessful reparation,

Of their prosperous city of fantastic lore:

Complete was the punishment and swift the retribution,

Keeping dark the streets of pleasure forevermore,

Under the watchful and sharp eyes of the solution.

The questions of time weary the mind,

While the sun slowly ceases it dozing,

And bumbles to that to which it is consigned:

Dipping itself into the hills, dark enclosing,

Its rays slowly receding from the troubled tide,

Slowly moving over the finality of appropriation,

Appropriation of pleasure debates with one’s pride,

Misunderstanding simplicity and reservation.

This mysterious shore, near the sunken city,

Its somber message to the listener whispers,

Queries of the value of luxurious prosperity,

As does the wind in the ear and through the firs;

Those who hope to see its profound combat,

Must move beyond greatness enjoyed,

For this city of pleasure, was that, and for that:

                                                Destroyed.

Absolution

I could not recognize him. But I must. He knew –but how? I did not ask him what I knew was the question, because I had forgotten it. Looking at his face, my worse fears, even if I did not possess them before this very instant, were realized. I was realized. I was understood. I was known. My soul sank in a disillusioning type of déjà vu; I currently recollected that I had feared that this would happen. Far back in my memory, I knew that I had wanted this, but not until I saw presently did I know what it was.

“You–” He was there, but he could not see that he was; but he knew. He knew that I was there, but he was blind. I could not see myself, but he could. I did not want to believe I was there, but I was, for he was the one who knew it, and so –my consciousness was held captive by his. I was present in the place because of his knowing, and because of my seeing of his knowing. Am I really this contained by what I think that I see?

Around him, a world of people I knew, who he should not have known, but he did; he does. But I knew them, and I could see them. So how could it be that he knew that they were there, how could he know them, knowing I knew them, but not him? But I did know him, for he knew me, and there was such a knowing in his presence, that my presence leaned upon it for support. He knew that I did not know him, but he knew that I do, that is, that I would, but I know now that I did, even when I thought I did not.

“Will–” Inclining my body to receive his slow and deliberate speech, I attempted to comprehend the words which I could see he knew I already knew. But how did he know this? How could he possibly know that I already knew? How could he say “you will” and know that which I know to be untrue? Where could he possibly have obtained the notion that I knew what he was going to say, or that I knew it was right? But I did. Though, even in the moment of recognition that he knew I knew, I could not remember what it was that I knew –I only knew that I knew it… or that I know it now.

What will I do? What will I be? What will do I have? Or do I have a will, or is it what I would? Could it be that he knows what I, in the future seek to be? He cannot, for I cannot know, nor do I –but I knew at that moment that I did, or do, know it. Perhaps he knows what I, regardless of my seeking and desiring, am. But how could he know presently what is still future for me? How could he know now that I “am” in some other time, especially when I know that I “am not” now, yet then, thought I would not? I do not know, but he did.

“Not–” Could it be he would so understand the ridiculous nature of this dialogue? He knew as well as I that it could not be. At no time was this possible. At the exact moment that I could possibly not be, that was the precise moment he would not know me. If he knew me so well, he also must know that with his present knowing there was no possibility ever, in any time, that I could “not.” His supreme knowing, his surety of my presence and my future existence presently negated the possibility of my ever ceasing to be. My presence in this strange place was proved and upheld by him.

His words sought to give me an identity, but he knew not his place. I knew it. It was in a park, near a shoreline. And along the gravel path which I had followed there was a tree positioned on the right, beneath this tree was a bench, and upon this bench he sat. I knew this; I could see it. He did not know it, but he knew me, he knew my presence. My present ability to see him gave me confidence that he actually was –but he is, or did, tell me that I would not be, that I “will not!” This is logical, so why am I trembling, –not then; but now.

“Find–” This he could not know! How ever could this man know my seeking? Could he ever assume that he knew there was something which I sought so dearly and completely that my very existence and entire identity was so precariously placed upon it and upon his knowledge of it? Yet, how could I know that this would be? How could I know then that which I know now: that it is, and that is has always been? But I do. And so did he.

But how? I could not be in so precarious a place except through the words of this man, yet by his very words “You will not find it.” Is there the slightest chance that if I was, and he knew, that I could be in the future what he knew me to be then? If so, then how in that same future, in which I presently am speaking to him, could I “not”? For, how then could I be placed in existence so heavily upon my apparent seeking of something which I could not find? Unless, –and I shudder if this is what he knew, yet I know now that it was what he knew then: I have been seeking the only thing upon which my entire existence and identity could be contingent upon; myself.

In utter confusion, I, even now, damage my brain with the seeking of where exactly I could have possibly missed this thing which I search for, seeing as I currently exist. Yet, is this existence more than just of trick of my eyes? Is what I see, actually existing, or, in my search for myself have I actually created it within my mind’s eye, so as to actually obtain it? If, I have created it within my mind’s eye and have begun to seek it, did this man say these things to me so that I could understand now what he already knew then; that if I have created the goal and the means with which to reach it, I could also render my possession of that goal impossible? Maybe this is more possible if I am seeking myself, for if I do not find it, I could not ever finish the journey, nor find my existence.

“No matter how hard you try.”

Then yes, he must know. He must know, for I fear that he was correct; I will try –but I will fail. I know now that I did fail, because he knew then what I know now; the impossibility of my success. And all this because I sought to reach a goal which we both knew was impossible. In that moment I realized that I had not been seeing with my own eyes. He was not blind, no, he could see exceptionally well, and he could see himself, for he could see what I saw; I was seeing through his eyes. This whole world, all these people, even this man, all that I thought I could see and which I thought that I knew, he saw, and he knew. But what did I know? Did I actually know this man?

It was then that I recognized him. It was then that the face which was twisted with the chains of lies and pain, both received and given, began to familiarize itself with me. His face searched mine with the knowing of a friend. –No, more than a friend. At that moment my memory was gripped by the reality; he was not my friend but I knew him and he knew me.

I knew him to be who he knew me to be: myself.

Context

Context needs itself to exist. It is the penultimate surreal word (after surreal itself). Curiously enough, surreal was originally a back formation from surrealism; the mindset existed in a literal form before the literary meaning was even reached. So it makes sense that it is the ultimate surreal word (e.t.e. literally). But I am getting lost in the description of the context; let's get back to the context.

Try to describe to me the meaning of the simple noun. To do this, you must first describe the rules of grammar, which is the foundation for language (the foundation of words). But underneath this, you must describe the foundation of language, which is thought. Basically, the context gives you everything that you need to describe this word -and I have not even given you the word yet!

If I were a crueler man, I might ask you to define context, but that would defeat the purpose. You know what is odd, I am writing this in my journal. And I have been trying here to capture part of the banter which is bouncing around in my head. If I do put this on my blog, it will probably confuse people, since they will think it is written to them. Interesting. This context is kind of beating me in my attempt to overcome it through my description of it.

Why cannot people seem to grasp that no thing can be defined in an verbal or literal form without a thorough exploration of the reality within which it rests? See, to be a bit of a poet; I would say that reality is always at rest, it is never stressed or pressured, it is either ignored or championed. Humanity's weakness is found in its belief that it can affect that rest or increase what could be called the "heartbeat of reality."

Words develop in the same way that we encourage order. For instance, look at a filing system: we begin with larger files and then delineate all the way down to a specific fact. In the same way, we educate through broad areas, increase our knowledge towards a specialization which we believe will fit, or be useful, to us in the area of work by which we often identify ourselves. This downward descriptiveness is the way that our brains work. When these facts begin to weave together with what we experience now, as well as what we have understood to be the past, we are beginning to touch upon context. And as we touch upon it, we soon lose ourselves in it, for once we have focused upon it, it begins to fade; as our minds seek to describe this thought which is so cleanly described, we must forget the word in order to understand it or to experience the identification which it gives to us.

Perspective

Perspective is a position within the uncontained and undisclosed location of something. It constantly screams for its self-exultation, forgetting all that is not itself; the rest of reality. Perhaps this is a more purposeful thought, this "rest of reality," but without a simple recognition of the rest, we quickly jump into a type of dangerous dichotomistic thinking that quickly sets itself up as God. Granted, there is a possibility that one could also fall into the current escape from reality (and a true recognition of it) by simply stating that it is there, without actually taking it into account. For though we may not like it, a budget is not simply a list of locations for fiscal allocation; it is a collection of actual amounts which have been allocated to specific locations.

In the first place, holding to an idea simply because it is what you have chosen is dangerous because it often leads to that dichotomistic thinking which claims supremacy. If you say that there is no God, you immediately make yourself such. If the definition of God is "the one supreme being, creator and ruler of the universe" then to say that this One does not exist is basically to say that you are the supreme being; the one who knows all (omniscient). Granted, not all people believe that this one supreme being knows all, but I think that for the sake of argument, we can reason that He at least has the power to (otherwise His supremacy would be in question). So then, to place such a firm "belief" on something which you have decided (without even the simple recognition of the possibility of error) is really just to deny the reality that you are not God and that even if you do not think that He exists, One must exist. So then, if there is one person who at any time or in any place could possibly know more than you- to be completely dichotomistic in regard to any temporal earthly things is idolatry and to err.

In the second place, to avoid the previously detrimental mindset, we cannot revert to the very opposite. I would argue that if we are afraid of being too dichotomistic in our thinking and we just immediately rush to the "other side" to be "balanced" then we merely continue our dichotomistic regression; believing there only to be two options which must be simultaneously balanced. It is no greater an error to assume that you know what is black and what is white, as it is to believe that you are being balanced or "well rounded" to simply mention and recognize the existence of other beliefs and options.

The western world has tried very unsuccessfully to overcome their past dogmatism by thinking that the observations of various ethnicities, religions, or other demographics would overcome the current disparities. "Black history month" does nothing for the blacks but contain forever the sorry idea that this type of exhibition is dealing with the current issues between the races. If all that is needed is a parade, then we can no longer believe that gays, women, whites, blacks, or smokers are discriminated against. The only people who don't have a parade or festival are the pedophiles. Should we have a parade for them? Come on! Do we seriously think that correct representation and humility between various people groups is really just determined by the other people groups' knowledge of or allowance of other groups? Are we right in assuming that a correct mindset is simply knowing of the other's existence and allowing for a parade? It is foolish and stupid to think that a parent is good to his child simply because he looks down and says, "oh, there is a child." We have a greater responsibility than this simple recognition.

We cannot set ourselves up as the ultimate judge of our reality, for to do so is arrogant and idolatrous, and to think that the simple realization that there are other people in the world is not the answer to this dogmatic perspective. Instead, we must step outside of our perspective; we must be willing to lay aside our pretense and speak truthful about who we are. We must admit that we are mortal, that we are fallible, that we are weak, that we are foolish, that we are liars, that we are cheats, that we are ultimately perverse. For as Poe correctly surmised;

"Of this spirit [of perverseness] human philosophy takes no account. Yet I am not more sure that my soul lives, than I am that perverseness is one of the primitive impulses of the human heart-- one of the indivisible primary faculties, or sentiments, which give direction to the character of Man. Who has not, a hundred times, found himself committing a vile or silly action, for no other reason than because he knows that he should not? Have we not a perpetual inclination, in the teeth of our best judgment, to violate that which is Law, merely because we understand it to be such?"

We must admit this, for this is the perspective of reality. This is the perspective of truth. And if we are unwilling to accept this as the truth, then we are arguing that we ourselves are the truth, or the determiners of that which is truth. In our folly we set ourselves up as God. How foolish will we become?

"Fools are consumed by their own lips: at the beginning their words are folly; at the end they are wicked madness."

Dear God, save us from the wicked madness of our deceitful hearts.