The Good, the Evil, and the Meaning within

Shifting about, searching for the Good in a world apparently without. For how can there be Good in a world with no God? In order for Good to exist, it must exist as a transcendent force--one to which we have no direct access, but must constantly work around towards. Yet, tracing our path, watching where we've been, going elsewhere, have finally run out of places to turn. We've learned that we should turn back, forsake our quest. For the quest, in all truth, appears completely unattainable now. For God is dead. Good is dead. And thus, meaning is dead.

And so, we choose not to choose. To avoid this gaping chasm, emptiness in front of us, emptiness behind us. We go on blindly. We fail to recognize, that with the Good having been devoid of all truth, we must turn to the Evil. The pendulum must swing... and that scares us. We know that the pendulum swings down much quicker than it swings up. And that point of moderation is but a moment.

What is this Evil, but the denial of Meaning. It is in the denial of Meaning that all Meaning lies now. It is the completely open into which we can pull ourselves up. It is the palace we've built in our search for the Good. Thus should we dwell in it. Is it so utterly incongruous with logic, that when one term is empty, the other term is full, pregnant? What awaits birth is not some abomination, but the product of our own thought. We must accept it, and accept it with the pride of a father and the heart of a mother.

But in our designs, we've built a trick against ourselves, a protection from that very Evil that calls. We name it nihilism, and run away. We're afraid to admit that for meaning to exist, it must exist in the abyss that is Non-Meaning. It must define itself by what is not itself, and therein precisely what itself is. Truly, to deny this state of Reality is the true nihilism.

For the Evil, that is but the reflection, to become again the Good, we must raise again an elite to propagate this message, this turn towards Truth. We must forsake the equality of ideas, and reassert the noblest, those most emblematic of Virtue. The best among us must walk again, and must do so boldly.

Hubris, no doubt, provides a danger, but a danger we must surmount. The vestiges of hero worship still run through our veins, as do the vestiges of heroes. But the split occurred, the heroism of the Mind and the heroism of the Body diverged, into their own respective spheres. The Courageous and the Wise, once united in Virtue, fell apart. For Salvation, they must unite.

For is not to fully put one's faith in God, in the absence of Meaning, in the complete and utter possibility that things might not work out, in the complete and utter possibility that they might, the most heretical of all views? It is equal to turn towards insanity. We do not harken back to primitivism, nor religion, where Meaning is vested in God. Rather, we turn towards heresy, where Non-Meaning is vested in God. To complete the cycle, we must turn back the clock and ascend its spirallic dimension. We must climb the stairway to heaven.

The essential Hubris of the tower of Babel is to think that we could build it. We cannot build a path to God, we must take the path God graces to us. Our difficultly lies in seeing it, for it is not firm, not material. Its transcendent order lies in its transcendent disorder, its incapability to be grasped by the knowledge we've also been granted. We must remember to forget, to put aside all our safety nets and fall upwards. There is Virtue in surrender to that which stands above. There is Hubris in thinking that we can make it there ourselves.

The eternal design, the cosmic order, is necessarily impenetrable. While its realization is, in reference to particulars, knowable, its grand schema is not. It is incongruous. Its logic is the logic of God. It treats all things as straw dogs. The only space in which the particulars fit is a space devoid of particulars. Thus it evades our particular knowledge, nestled in the bosom of absurdity. And thus absurdity just another attempt to penetrate the World, but it being yet another created form, an inevitable failure.

And so, through absurdity, cynicism, irony, and nihilism, we turn inwards, but not yet inside out. For these remain meaningful in and of themselves are therein mere images of Non-Meaning. They remain unable to fully penetrate its divinity, its reality. Like any other image, they are but paint splattered on the wall, pointing to the inexhaustible essence of Non-Meaning with equal intensity to their "meaningful" peers. So the signified remains eternally a known unknown, and even that falsely so.

Infinite regress, the death of a computer program, the death of Meaning. Through Hell lies Salvation. Spinning round itself infinitely momentary, the electron foreseeably occupies all space in the universe at once. Infinitely broken and infinitely repaired, infinitely birthing and infinitely dying, infinitely created and infinitely destroyed, Meaning and Non-Meaning occupy the non-verbal absolutes. The verbs in the movement, the leading to, the leading away. Reality is always already at odds with itself.

But this situation need not be out of control--that is, it cannot be in control. Never will it bow to the yoke of stability, and so we must cede to not bring it into our sphere of knowledge and so we must cede not to not bring it into our sphere of knowledge. Our Will grasps and fails, and so it grasps again, and so it must... but there is no end in sight, nor will there ever be. The World dreams eternal, and thus continues apace.

Entreaty on the State of Existence

Temporal, Spatial, Emotional, Logical, Self-Evident—Such describe our continuity in this life. A matrix of movement, a passion of souls. We decipher ourselves within this matrix, prey to the I. Moving with a sphere of mind, dedicated to rational world-self understanding, we explore its premises, accepting, rejecting, recreating. One foot back, we do the hokey pokey, for that’s what it’s all about. Seeming incongruities disappear to the fictions of reality, and the realities of fiction pick up the slack. But no truth defies us, whatever reality might deny us. And thus we float on, current to the current current, obscured to its self-evidence while taking as truth our own. Fraught with confidence (or not), we accept, reject, and recreate the world among us, dancing a jig to its survival.

On Freedom

Extreme perplexities of cultural algorithms continue to go unnoticed beneath the facade of freedom. Whether we are actually free is a question only for the philosophers, as the true believers have deigned to make it unquestionable in the surface tensions of modern American discourse. And we remain in servitude to these hegemonies, repeated ad lib in speaking points the world over.

Step back and relax. Wait, not to push forward? But that is the very imperative of freedom, no? And so we remain indebted to freedom. Freedom demands our action toward its realisation, and we comply. Afterall, what is there to do but accede to such powerful demands. Goddamit it's freedom that we're talking about. Fuck off to all naysayers that might foresuch exist.

Freedom is our destiny, our design. It is our responsibility, our duty to enforce it. To create laws by which freedom might exist. Fate is our bitch, Freedom is our love.