Empty Days

Friday, August 06, 2004



The nature of reality.

There is something somewhat insane about the way I deal - or rather can't deal - with things. I've reached a point where I can't tolerate any intrusion into what I have to consider my environment (that is a space I am actually confined to, it is in no way of my own free choosing) yet this environment is swarming with unknown people and their multiple wills - I wish I didn't have to bear their sight so often. Out of sight - out of mind. That'd be optimal.

One insane way is to fight wholesale against everything - for no other reason that it gets on my nerves. The philippino carwash is a glaring example of this particular fixation - it's a new thorn in the environment, it gets on my nerves essentially because it wasn't there before. But it is fundamentally insane to try to supress everything that pops up around me - there will never be an end to these things, or if there will be, it won't be because I made it disappear one by one: it will be a gift from the "gods" - a random combination of random facts resulting in an optimal situation.

Example of random facts: the flat above is still empty, going on three months now. Why? Because the owner raised the price so outrageously nobody wants to rent it. Bingo. From my relative perspective this is nothing less than a "gift from heaven" - a random reprieve, something I couldn't have effected even by magic. The ennoying fact of the carwash is also random. I "got" both the good and the bad - what's the point of going nuts over all this randomness?

What I do realize is that the place I inhabit is not mine. Both in practical and in symbolic terms - my very existence is a random fact, my presence in this particular place is even more random, the whole blasted thing is completely unnecessary, subject to change and anihilation.

Do you remember the twin-towers in NY? They're in all the romantic movies. I used to go to NYC a lot, these huge buildings seemed like Egyptian pyramids - eternal, a part of an eternal landscape.
Now - where are they? They're gone. Yep. Shit happens. Forget terrorism, Iraq, and the whole political claptrap. The reality of the world is that things happen and from individual perspective they come from hell or heaven, but their very occurance or non-occurance is random. What seemed like the most unshakable thing yesterday is gone tomorrow - immense surprise. Yet, big things are no different from small things - the principal fact is that nothing lasts.

Heh. Even the "environment" (in the green trees-n-birds sense) doesn't last. It's continually subject to anihilation. Nature itself, what the human world has known as "nature" for all eternity, is subject to rapid noticeable change and destruction. Immense surprise. Too many wills are working at once in a chaotic overpowering activity - the combination of all this results in random "facts" that keep popping up all over the place.

Worrying about all this is like worrying about the philippino carwash - it's somewhat insane, on the individual scale. The individual is thoroughly powerless to prevent all these endless things that keep popping up - if you intend to "fight" against such occurances, you need to join in some big communal structures to pull the ropes, where you will be lost and become yet another mice-voice in the great piping concert of mice folk.

I don't want to pull no ropes.

The madness of the Unabomber was expressed in his doomed attempt to pull the ropes himself, on his very own - to go against a huge, enormous, overpowering structure with home-made explosive devices directed at other equally helpless, insignificant individuals. From his relative narrow perspective they were essentially random people. He saw society as a huge unconscious army of drones working automaton-like into a certain hostile direction - and he threw bombs at this great mass. Of course it was insane and crazy because doomed. But it was not meaningless. This pointless violent activity gave him a sense of himself as an individual standing up against a hostile force. Taking shots at it, without other hope than that of causing well-publicized pain, made him feel slightly less insignificant. The moral indignation and the media-enhanced feeling of insecurity that his bombs provoked in the greater "society" was his sole reward - an imaginary one, just like the indignation of the readers of the unabom-saga in newspapers was imaginary.

Do I really care about what happens to the "environment"? No, not really. I care in an imaginary way - since in any case this is not something I can impact upon. It saddens me that most of the waters anywhere within reach of human agglomerations are poisoned and one can't drink this water unboiled. But it's been like that already before I was born. I can't get angry over this - it's useless to get angry over things I can't change. It's useless to care about things I can't change. I don't *really* care about Iraq or about whatever utter shit that goes on in the world - whenever I am "made" to care, it is only because some of my natural human buttons are pushed. But my natural individual ability to do anything about this stuff is completely checked and thus utterly useless. As a result I can't really care.

Moral indignation over such things is a bitch - utterly useless and raging in vain.

It is mind-boggling that so much emotional and mental energies are spent on topics that one can't do a thing about. It is the life of the imagination - as when reading an intense novel or seeing an equally intense movie. The fate of fictional characters and the fate of real people involved in distant events is perceived with the same intensity - entirely imaginary.

It does seem that imagination takes up all the space where action has no chance of ever taking place. Most of my life is imaginary in that sense. I can't know the world, it's too manifold to known - so I invent causes and effects, I interpret random facts. I am wrong most of the time of course, but since I don't know it, I keep thinking I am right. And this distorted narrow almost entirely made-up picture is what I call reality.

In other words, I live in a world that doesn't quite exist - I am continually surprised that my actions produce whatever actual effects, but I can never know what these effects would be in any particular case. I deal with people I don't understand - so I invent their motivations and I give imaginary reasons to their actions. And it goes on like that for ever and ever.

Being disconnected from the world mostly means not participating in the communal gossip, otherwise known as "exchange of information" - which is what creates consensual reality. I create my own monster - very uninformed but no more monstruous than the kind of common reality people are content to buy into.

I am clearly paranoid about a lot of things because I have very few means of defending myself against continuous hostile take-over - these random pressures are natural, they arise all the time without any particular personal intent, but they bother me and get me mad. The main reason I get bothered and mad is because I see no escape from them - if I knew I was going to move to the North Pole shortly, I could care less.

My inability to move to the North Pole of my own effort is what causes me to get mad.

End of story.





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