In this entry, I will share the purposely juvenile covers that I made by hand last Thursday for my collection of self-amusements.
These two volumes contain ALL of the books, writings, texts, and semi-sensical anti-fun that I have ever composed – even the claptrap that I posted on Friendster & Twat. The only thing that they do not include is my Holy Scripture: I kept that text separate because it constitutes the personal religion that I created; which deserves to be revered, not lumped in with a bunch of experimental jazz.
After these images, I’ll continue to write more words until I collapse.
Here’s Volume 1:
And here’s Volume 2:
Last night, for the holiday, I saw my family. What is my family? About four to six people, give or take a fraction of three point something. What is a holiday? A symbolic attempt to remember an event from the past. (How should this attempt’s success be measured? And what was the memory that we were trying to recall?)
I wrote the above sentences and then read them over – I don’t like that they sound so passionless and logical. My real nature wishes to have as many lovers as the leader of a cult. Someday, maybe the subtler aspects of life will be appreciated on a global scale.
But is the marketplace immortal? The money market, the meat market, the word market. . . . This train of thought reminds me of a few aphorisms written by the insurance executive Wallace Stevens. I’ll copy them from Opus Posthumous, because no one can stop me from doing what I want with this weblog:
Money is a kind of poetry.
A poem is a meteor.
Wisdom asks nothing more.
Poetry is not personal.
Poetry is a means of redemption.
(Poet,) feed my lambs.
All poetry is experimental poetry.
Realism is a corruption of reality.
Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
All history is modern history.
Poetry is the gaiety (joy) of language.
Only a noble people evolve a noble God.
What I really wanted to say
Here’s what I really wanted to say: Holidays occur infrequently; so, if you love your family and enjoy spending time with them – as is the case with me myself – then the event is difficult, on account of the fact that it forces you unnaturally to cram all of your conversation and interactions into one single evening (and then you miss your loved ones afterwards); whereas, if you loathe your family, the event’s same aspects – its brevity and rarity – will soothe you, as they guarantee the imminent passing of your disgust (and then you breathe a sigh of relief when it’s over). In other words: Holidays work better if you dislike your fellow celebrants.
I prefer to spend frequent intervals of casual enjoyment with loved ones rather than infrequent, lengthy intervals of formal observation.
Holidays and warfare . . .
There is a strange relation between the concept of a holiday and the concept of a war. My assumption is that wild animals participate in neither of these observances – although that doesn’t necessarily mean that either of them is more or less desireable.
I mean, when the small farming village is attacked in the movie Seven Samurai (1954), it is good that the farmers fight back. It is also good to remember events that inspire our spirit and recharge our passion for utopia.
However, both wars and holidays can be dragged out too long. When you find yourself causing destruction haphazardly in a foreign land, and there’s no compassionate sentiment attached to the action, I think that war has overstepped the bounds of politeness.
And when a rumor claims that a slain heretic (bless his rebellious, fallen soul) has risen from death, flown back to outer space, and promised to return ASAP so as to save his earthly partisans from themselves, I think it’s reasonable to wait about 150 years for this to transpire – if more than three centuries pass, it’s time to admit that we’ve been stood up.
Yes, three is the magic number, when it comes to the limit on centuries of waiting for saviors. But imagine the desperation of a culture that spends two thousand years trying to remember why it even cared in the first place.
I’ll give one last thought after sharing this unaltered image from an old encyclopedia:
One last thought.
I was raised in the Protestant Christian church, so that’s my perspective. I’ve heard many, many sermons preached on the subject of the ‘messiah’, the ‘king’ – I’ve heard pastors and other believers repeat a simple tale – they say:
“The people who lived in Year Zero were waiting for a king who would give them worldly success (which is to say: realistic success); but God sent a spiritual king to offer them spiritual success (which is to say: imaginary success), and alas the people rejected this king because they were spiritually ignorant (which is to say: they were lacking in imagination).”
I compare this criticism to present-day believers. Christianity’s predicament, at present, is an exact repetition of that same old story: Modern Christians are awaiting the appearance of their king, so that they can enjoy the real success that they suppose this king has promised them. But now God sends another king of the imagination: a sublime yet lowly poet as another messiah-in-disguise: John Milton or William Blake or Emily Dickinson or Anne Carson.
Will religious believers have eyes to see and ears to hear, when the next prophetic divinity enters the stage? Or is religion always a mask for worldly avarice?