The Recluse vs. the Misanthrope

 Statement of a born anarchist who dreams of greatness in a wasteland

You might say that the plan of a quasi-invisible individual to strangle ideologically the human civilization is just a manifestation of the syndrome which pushed some lunatic to kill a celebrity, because this celebrity made him aware of his own insignificance. But it is more than that. It is a self analyzed, self assumed, self righteous, premeditated act, by which an individual can inflict another type of annihilation to his surroundings, in order to achieve the only possible greatness. The only one which is morally right: Greatness in a wasteland

Fashionably hanging

The recorded human progress is killing me from the inside, from the outside, crushes me from above and drowns me in a flood of enlightened phrases, evrikas’, queds’, equals to, solutions, psychological revelations, scientific breakthroughs’ and there is no promise for my fingerprints to be pressed against anything great and unique, unless they will be remembered by aliens as the fingerprints found around the neck of the corpse of human civilization. My wish is to weave a delicate scarf which the humanity will wear elegantly around its neck, only to discover suddenly that it had always been a dead man’s rope and the pedestal gives way to a free fall. 

In a few generations, humanity must fall! Everything has been occupied, whatever you dream of discovering has already been covered by some scientific paper or another. It has been enveloped by scientists and researchers into the cycle of human civilization where there is no more space for another generation of great humans; just for new generations of test crash dummies.  

There is no place you might want to go which has not been marked as the territory of some howling dog of the past, even philosophy is like an exclusivist toilet where lots of moles are crowding in to reek the farts of Socrates and the ones before him.

“Occupied” is the word which comes to mind obsessively, you realize that there are more humans than ever to share everything with: the space, the resources, the glory, your uniqueness… there is a cut throat competition for earning the right to become a human among this throng of test crash dummies!

Dilution

In order for the human to survive, humanity must fall! Is it not obvious that we dilute our soul(s)? Do we not understand too much and live to little? Do we not find other life forms to protect and at the same time curse our fellow humans? And why is that? Is it not a death wish, a result of a subtle, subconscious desire to help humanity commit suicide? Is it not because we are fed up with ourselves and we despise our own baseness as seen in the others? We recognize the mirrored reflection of ourselves in others only because we do not apply the filter of poetic or philosophic justification to them. How else could we see it?  Psychology rendered everything noble to selfishness, to thirst for power and a means of dominating your own environment. Is it then still possible, for an educated, free thinking individual, to go out on the streets and shout his lungs out for a noble cause??

God has already won

Nietzsche said that God is dead; he was wrong, God has never been more alive, happy and powerful! He is still alone on his lofty mountain peak, breathing in the fresh air of uniqueness, with ever recurring joy, oblivious to our struggle to breathe through the thick, foul smelling crowds. He is even unaware of the ones who are aware of him and I suspect that he is closer to complete ignorance that to being all knowing. 

Deodata...

Cand pedalezi in amurg si asculti muzica in casti pe shuffle, iar coincidenta face ca "shine on you crazy diamond" sa se suprapuna cu imaginea unui apus rubiniu care navaleste intr-o explozie de cinabru asupra Marii Mediterane, senzatia care te incearca poate fi impartasita doar cu cineva care traieste momentul alaturi de tine, ascultand melodia asta...te opresti si privesti, cu reverenta si recunostinta.

Blink

It was a late autumn afternoon and he had awakened under the spell of some awkward dreams, after falling asleep at 6 in the morning. It had been raining the whole day through; that kind of day which pours a molten lead mass into your head and drowns all your thoughts in it, starting with the more subtle ones and finishing with a powerful choke on the most determined and necessary plans, ones which you have carefully devised days or even weeks ago.

So it happend with Mark, who was supposed to make a few important phone calls that day, on which a lot of his future would depend. He did not yet know just how much...
Instead, he found himself wandering aimlessly through the streets of his native town, which he had been avoiding ever since he had graduated from the gymnasium, about 18 years ago. There it was: his school, his playground, his first kiss, his first painting, so many distant memories, blurry faces of past times, he had re-accepted them all as a part of his becoming.

The wet pavement started mirroring the street lamps' light onto its surface when Mark finally decided to walk back home and contact the people whom he was supposed to call more than an hour ago; he knew a few short cuts, but as it happened, they were all blocked either by wired fences or by buildings which he had no memory of from back when he was a child, so that the short cuts turned out to be chronophages and irksome.

Going back to the main street, he started wondering why the hell he had taken the time to walk these streets and awaken all these memories when he himself had made a silent, but such firm resolution that he would not return there. And why would he, when he had now outgrown that childhood's problematic character, dominated that impulsive rascal who had little patience with anything and was of a violent nature with anybody...

He was walking the only way back home when he thought he recognized somebody, either an ex colleague of his or a neighbour, he could not tell. But as she did not raise her head and avoided any eye contact, he didn't bother to start any kind of embarrassing conversation with a quasi-unknown and shy acquaintance with whom he must have exchanged not more than a few hellos almost two decades ago. But still, he turned his head after she had continued on her way and kept trying to remember who she might be.

He continued walking with his head turned when all of a sudden, a terrifying sound woke him up from the effort of memory which he was immersed in.
As he turned, he saw that in the middle of the street, a truck was braking on the wet pavement and was sliding fast with its trailer towards him. There was no avoiding it...He was unable to move a finger, although he could see the trailer approaching in slow motion with its tyres razing and carrying the huge monsterous load like a savage monster who admitted no negotiation; for a short moment he had a distinctive belief that no harm could come to him because of the well known brand which was inscribed on the truck's trailer, so he was half paralyzed with fear, half in disbelief. He could not tell how much time had passed or if time was indeed moving at all.

Death came fast, there was not too much pain, but the moments of despair when he had the clarity of what was happening to him, felt like hours and hours. He felt the whole intensity of regret for the unknown, assuming the sweet joy which the heart would never be able to feel again. He was still young, there were so many experiences for which he hadn't been completly ready, which he did not seek, saving them for later and later now it was all for nothing... or was it?

The whole world froze for a moment and then the Outline of all the things around him was growing thiner and thiner. It was as if one would watch the process of a finished painting going backwards to its beginnings until the incipient state of a sketch. First, there were no colours, then there were no faces, later there were no emotions and finally he had no perception. There was only an infinitely long, colourless(or infinitely colourful) thread which was about to weave itself into what he expected to be the non-perspectival world. But when he was about to see the Truth, he awoke on a sea shore where everything had come back to its full colour and he was aware that he had been left out of the becoming of things, so he could not experience the painter's fine touch of creation because he had been asleep as always. And again, all was a product of his perception...

As he lay there on the shore, sinking his elbows into the warm sand, he was watching the sun go down over the foaming sea, but when the vermilion coloured disk touched the waves in the distant horizon, it turned into the head of a freckled red haired nymph who rose up again and took the whole sea up with her in the form of a dress which was spread over the whole of the sky. She then soared through the air and her bright head was shining through the translucide dress, casting a bright purple light all around. With a graceful spin, she started her dance, made it rain and the falling purple sparkles spashed on his face in the rythm of an inaudible melody. When the nymph reached the zenyth, he looked up under her dress and saw a hypnotizing whirlpool which seemed to him to be the only entrace to eternity.  Needless to say that he got dragged into this sky, drowned into it and came back to life on a star. After the star had exploded, the supernova turned into a black hole where he found his way forward and experienced singularity. He then fell splashing into the sea throgh the cornea of the red-haired nymph who got turned into the sun again.

A sudden grip pulled him back four meters... he opened his eyes and saw the truck crashing and rolling onto the cars which were parked on the side of the street.

a light

Only the original ideas seem to vanish to one who gets them by aimlessly walking along a silent alley, lit by the pole lamps.
By the time he gets home, he will have forgotten everything because of the ever recurring triffles which take possesion of his thoughts with such an authority that they seem to be incantations of magic spells.
He will have to console himself with writing down the same phrase in which, along with many others, he mourns the eternal disappearance of a gleaming and exhilarating idea, the loss of which he suspects is one of his life's greatest tragedies. This idea would have had the power to unravell an entirely new and glorious way of life. It is because of these losses that the state of Sehensucht exists. For some...

power

There is a type of individual who likes to declare certain things as being "true". His firm beliefs are the result of a semi-counscious process through which he renounces any further investigation and reinforces these conclusions first upon himself. These are then rooted in his system of values and in his perception of reality, thus becoming convictions. All this, because the mind had lost "heart", lost the strenght to question the validity of the so called "certainties" and by the time it will have recovered, these "truths" would become much easier to accept than to challenge. At this point, the individual will use all his newly recovered mental and phisycal strenght to impose the idea of "truth" upon the others around him, as an innate desire to control and command his own environment. Far from him the idea of not interferring with the ones who are still searching...This is power, unfolding in its most vulgar form.
The above is valid for most of the "good advice" given by feeble elders, for most of the good natured people saying "if I were you" or "I'm telling you this for your own good". As an individual, you must be in a state of constant rebellion against these self proclaimed benefactors, even if by doing so, you will not avail yourself of many a good advice. The truths which you will have discovered for yourself will be much more valuable than the secure path lit by the lamps of these "benevollent" power addicts.
I want to plant this in your head as part of my own thirst for power and I assure you that it is out of genuine goodness of heart that I wish that you won't listen to me.

Gabi

Cand Gabi deschise ochii si se ridica din pat, isi dadu seama ca era ziua lui. Simti ca se inghitise pe sine, ca e acum propriul lui prizonier si gandindu-se la micime si efemeritate, incepu sa urle. Fugi catre usa camerei si o izbi cu piciorul, apoi lua laptopul si-l arunca inspre fereastra, spargand-o.  Odata cu cioburile cazu si laptopul, care zgariase in cazatura cu coltul, capul vecinului ce fuma pe geam la etajul 1. In urmatorul minut, vecinul batea la usa cu o insistenta ce-l scotea din sarite. Reusi sa spuna totusi un “imediat” aproape calm.

Cand deschise usa, vecinul se pregatea sa-l certe si sa-i arate cucuiul, dar inainte sa aiba sansa de-a rosti vreun cuvant, Gabi il prinse de piept tragandu-l in apartament si trantindu-l la podea. Incepu apoi sa izbeasca farfurii in jurul lui, spargandu-le pe toate de parchet. Il trase de par in fata frigiderului si il puse cu fata la podea somandu-l sa stea acolo nemiscat. Rasturna frigiderul in fata, sa cada peste el, dar cordonul electric scurt, care era bagat in priza, opri frigiderul in pozitie oblica. Usa, izbita de cratitele ce se deplasasera inauntru, se deschise si din frigider cazu printre altele, o oala mare de ciorba pe ceafa vecinului, dar acesta nu indraznea sa se miste si chiar in acel moment se pisa pe el. Gabi incerca sa smulga furtunul masinii de spalat, si nereusind sa-l scoata, il taie cu cutitul, apoi incepu sa-l plesneasca pe vecin peste picioare si peste spate. Ciorba care se imbibase in jerseul albastru de bumbac al vecinului, facea ca zgomotul loviturilor sa semene cu niste pasi grabiti in mocirla. Vecinul urla, Gabi urla si el. Cat de neinsemnat era acest vecin, care se chircise langa perete si incerca sa-si protejeze fata de loviturile de furtun. Gabi puse furtunul jos, merse in librarie somandu-l pe vecin sa stea la perete cu mainile la spate, iar cand acesta se conforma il izbi peste fata cu o carte cu coperta groasa pe care i-o puse apoi in poala. Urma o alta lovitura cu o alta carte, care fu asezata la randul ei deasupra primei si o a treia pana cand cele 8 carti groase pe care vecinul ametit le tinea in poala, ii ajunsesera acestuia pana sub barbie si neauzind alte instructiuni, statea acum nemiscat, urmarindu-l pe Gabi doar cu ochii cum cauta ceva. Vazandu-l ca vine cu o bricheta si un tub de spray, isi arunca toate cartile din poala si fugi alunecand disperat pe ciorba si cioburi. Cazu in dreptul usii dar se tinu de clanta si reusi sa deschida usa, sa se ridice si sa iasa. Ii trebuira mai putin de sapte secunde sa intre in apartamentul lui si sa rasuceasca yala de 2 ori. Merse direct la telefonul fix si statu cu receptorul la ureche, incercand sa-si aminteasca numarul de urgente, dar in acelasi moment vazu, spre nedumerirea lui un cearsaf penduland in fata geamului. Apoi, o pereche de bocanci care coborau incet, apoi picioarele pe care acesti bocanci le incaltau si in curand, pe Gabi in intregime, pitit pe pervazul geamului tinandu-se de cadru. Pana cand isi aminti de 112, Gabi sparsese fereastra cu cotul si intra in camera, putin taiat, dar calm si cu o privire inexpresiva. Il soma pe vecin sa-si lege telefonul fix cu cablul de picior si sa stea asa, apoi merse la debara ca sa caute ceva. Imediat ce Gabi iesi din camera, vecinul fugi la geam si sari afara, apoi disparu.  

Gabi urca inapoi spre apartamentul lui, gandindu-se pe scari cat de mic si neinsemnat e vecinul si intrand in apartament, se aseza pe un scaun de plastic privind ceasul de perete. Acul minutar facu o tura de 180 de grade dupa care polita batu la usa, il duse la sectie, fu gasit vinovat, facu 2 ani de inchisoare, o cunoscuse in programul de reabilitare pe o Anca, se casatorisera, avusera un copil, apoi un nepot, apoi un stranepot, si Gabi se pregatea sa moara.

Cand ii vazu pe toti stransi in jurul lui spuse : “La ce va holbati ma, anonimilor??” 

Credit:1

Intr-o dimineata, Gabi se trezi schimbat. Devenise peste noapte altul, cu altfel de dorinte, cu un curaj multiplicat factorial, cu mult mai multe pretentii si mult mai putine retineri. Simtea ca propria-i forma devenise neincapatoare pentru spatiul in care traise pana atunci si deveni convins ca este indreptatit sa isi intinda o mana pana la nori, sa ii stranga si sa-i risipeasca unul dupa altul in pumn. Era chiar nerabdator sa o faca, dar inca ezita… Astepta un fel de raspuns, poate o confirmare de la cineva care sa dea startul noii lui vieti. Si viata pe care si-o dorea cu atata ardoare, era neconditionata, cu adevarat libera, fara margini spatial-temporale si fara limite cognitive. Gandurile ii erau limpezi si se traduceau cu fidelitate completa in intentii, iar intentiile erau toate posibile si realizate perfect. Un zambet nestingherit ii lumina permanent chipul, actiunile derivau toate din activarea unui mecanism perfect. Nu mai era nimic la voia intamplarii, intelegea toate legaturile dintre corpurile materiale ale intregului Univers si toate cauzalitatile sui generis ale retelei de intentii. Isi spuse ca daca va continua asa, in curand isi va putea extinde propria-i dimensiune dincolo de toate conventiile spatiale imaginabile, intreg Universul ce ar putea exista vreodata va exista doar inauntrul lui, iar cand el insusi va incerca sa priveasca in jur, se va vedea pe sine umpland imprejurimile, inainte ca un interval temporal, oricat de redus, sa releve ceva mai mare decat el insusi. Nu era inconjurat de nimic, in jurul lui nu mai era nimeni, ci el inconjura totul si daca vroia sa observe ceva, nu avea decat sa priveasca inauntrul lui. Incepu sa calculeze. Oricand se gandea la timp, fiecare secunda il facea sa creasca atat de mult incat sa ajunga la dimensiunea unde timpul statea pe loc si isi pierdea orice insemnatate, actualizandu-i mereu marimea infinita. Raportandu-se la momentul cand fusese mai mic cu o secunda decat infinitul, reusi totusi sa calculeze la care dimensiuni si viteze ale Universului, respectiva secunda trecuse intr-un miliard de ani. Isi dori sa calatoareasca intr-acolo ca sa observe schimbarile, dar oricat de mic se facea, Universul se reducea si el ca sa-i poata fi incaput.

Deodata, simti o incertitudine si faptul ca o simti, ii spuse ca nu devenise inca Dumnezeu: nu mai era sigur daca murise sau urma sa se nasca, daca mai facea parte din ciclul nesfarsit al devenirii sau existenta lui era imuabila. Se gandi ca daca el insusi ar fi Dumnezeu, ar putea sa creeze un personaj pe nume Gabi, spre exemplu, care sa fie eroul unui joc electronic sau de strategie, iar amintirile si deja-vu-urile lui sa fie memorii ale altor “vieti” sau credite, pe care Dumnezeu i le jucase si pierduse in trecut. Visele ii erau camere bonus pe care Dumnezeu le juca daca facea un punctaj bun. Si daca era asa, intr-adevar Gabi evolua cu atat mai mult cu cat Dumnezeu juca jocul mai bine. Si cat de idioate puteau sa fie propriile lui planuri daca aceste banuieli erau adevarate!! Moartea ii era un simplu “game over”si invierea lui depindea de butonul de start. Si daca asta era adevarat, ii datora lui Dumnezeu mult mai multe rugaciuni decat ii adresase pana atunci!

La aceste ganduri, Gabi isi scutura umerii, dorind parca sa se desprinda de o forta invizibila pe care o simtea infipta in spatele lui, precum o marioneta razvratita ce vrea sa-si smulga libertatea din atele papusarului.

De cealalta parte a ecranului, Dumnezeu constata cu uimire ca personajul Gabi intelesese ca viata lui e doar un joc de strategie si avu impulsul de-a iesi din joc, dar cand se razgandise, isi dadu seama ca nu mai era Dumnezeu. In spatele unui alt ecran, un Dumnezeu cu un alt nume trecu prin acelasi proces de gandire, provocandu-i pe altii si pe altii sa-si piarda atotputernicia, pana cand in spatele unui ecran, cineva scria despre toate acestea si nu ii stia daca este observat…