December 27th, 2022, Diary Entry
I wrote what I imagined realistically would be a final letter to my pen-pal in Austria. Ok, Tyrol technically. I would have said Austria, but it seems they're quite independent around there and proud of it as a mini nationality. I noticed he sometimes wrote 'germany' or 'germans' or 'in german' with a small 'G'. Given my historical knowledge, that didn't surprise me. It could be an interpersonal minefield at times, laid by neither of us, but one person was more fixated on his colleague than the ground beneath his feet, that's for sure. Interestingly, his family were among the 0.27% of Austrians who managed to spend the entire history of the Third Reich’s regime completely defying and rejecting Hitler's Anschluss. It seems to have left an indelible imprint. I didn't have the heart to insinuate that his grandparents, or family, or neighbours might have lied to him, let alone all the usual officials and historians, and a couple of guides and academics in the tourism industry. He should have read the small print on the Auschwitz Museum signs when he went there on a school trip, or at least visited the remains of one of the four genuine extermination camps instead.
He had a little disinterested sympathy for Communism, liked the Social Democrats, was very weary when I openly discussed Marxists in his company (and not always in the academic ‘social justice’ sense), couldn't really get to grips with Bolshevism as having ever existed to do anything rather gory and extensive, had never heard of the Holodomor, told me “numbers aren’t everything” when I compared European Communist death tallies to the Holocaust, informed me “we’re very proud of our kind treatment of animals here” when I criticised slaughterhouses and meat-eaters, and politely went apeshit, refusing to budge an inch, if I discussed the Second World War or National Socialism with him, in aghast horror and great annoyance, adept at Orwell's 'crimestop' principle, wilfully misunderstanding every single last detail, always looking for yet more faults in my logic, misquoting the events themselves and providing cliché responses, and being repeatedly proved wrong with huge stashes of irrefutable evidence that any sane person really, by that point, could not dismiss, or at least could not dismiss without at least a few good questions. To dismiss consistent clear as day evidence to that degree, you’d have to ask what was psychologically in it for him.
We talked about other things. I'd mention the above quite openly though, in very casual candid asides, which must have shocked him very much. I liked him as a person. I see the truth was too much for him though, and, month by month, I watched him come to dislike me very much. Politely though. He wasn't a person for straight-talking or for confrontation. When I went mad recently, I filled my Facebook personal page full of total crud. Aggressive nonsense word-salad in strange patterns. I have absolutely no idea, beyond that, what I wrote, apart from a vague awareness that I’d made off-colour remarks about him being a social snob, somewhere between madness, exasperation, disappointment, and sheer rage. I assume I’d probably been blunter than that in addition.
My psychotic word salad overloads are notoriously acerbic, even if they rarely hang together for more than a few words at a time, if that. They read like Dadaist free verse block poems in places. I sometimes wonder if my long-term background interests in cryptography somehow filter into them, and the same polyalphabetic techniques spill out somehow, albeit void of any underlying logic. There are a lot of idiosyncratic speech marks and key symbols, and repeated motifs, and weird little patterns, all along the total bullshit. I always delete them immediately once sobriety returns, having to really build up nerve against the inevitable backlash embarrassment, delayed in this data cleaning only if I’ve been taken hostage by medical staff in the background.
The snob insult is only partially accurate, and I do think it was a regrettable thing to type publicly to him, given his nervous temperament and sharper tongue, even if I couldn’t really help doing so at the time. He’s more the type to rely on what everyone else thinks in public before considering in his mind if he should think something, and I did know he has historical social anxiety issues, and in the present.
Perhaps I meant ‘bourgeois’ instead, or ‘liberal’ to some degree (that hateful placeholder), despite being to the traditional morals side that’s more generally associated with social conservatism. I think I probably meant “snob” more as a synonym for ‘tries too hard to appear decent to the mob at the experience of individual wisdom and is thus disloyal in an unevenly weighted hostile environment’ and it wasn’t the right word to have picked in a daze. Or perhaps I was simply annoyed at him on an artistic level for repeatedly encouraging me to change my recording techniques to accommodate quantization, a mechanical post-production whimsy that does nothing really to prevent these tracks – across all popular music – remaining low brow white noise primitivism, despise the commercial packaging, more cotton wool for the consumer’s ear. I don’t think genuinely talented musicians would deign to play (or compose) anything but Classical music, and I didn’t like the impression I gained that he somehow considered himself an authority on musical taste considering that, though he is indeed very talented, and somewhat of a guitar virtuoso, he still insists on recording an experimental spread of postmodern ambient guitar works inspired by 70s and 80s rock music, and indeed sees nothing wrong with pop (i.e. anything not Classical).
Outside of this, his family had some problems long-term with genuinely snobby direct neighbours, and there’s a crass generational feud that has done his nerves no good at all, much as he has the equivalent of US ‘Southern politeness’ and doesn’t speak of them in overly harsh tones. He’s also a very passionate and technical guitar player, and very anxious in general, as might come with that, and has been messed about by the local Austrian bureaucratic system more than once, acting as a long-term carer on his elderly mother until very recently, and his father too before that, until he died too young. Like me, he had been a heavy drinker. I certainly don’t think he’s had an easy life of luxury.
I genuinely think he would have been a bit more patient with my crisis point had he not known that I have an interest in historical National Socialism and that I am not afraid to publicise it. Less politically knowledgeable but more political than me by response behavioural 'methodology', I could easily see how that would strip away his sympathy, as is intended in the dehumanizing efforts of the corporate media when it comes to creating thought-curtailing buzz-terms and building up enemy images with consistent daily propaganda designed to throttle and destroy dissidents. It’s been a remarkably effective technique, all through the 20th Century. You think you know the scary horror terms now, and thus know the people, and what they’re like (or going to be like), but you really don’t.
In psychosis, the mind shuts itself down as a defence, at a basic level below conscious decision-making, like a safety switch on heavy machinery, to prevent walls of traumatic stress completely disintegrating the human system, to a fatal level. It's a natural 'escape route'. Much as a nervous system useful for sensation, to prevent physical injury, and yet nerve stimulations reaching the brain i.e. physical pain, are very wearisome as an experience, so too is psychosis a total irritation as a defensive, soul-saving manifestation. It seems to be the best a body can do, annoyingly. You're still moving, and seeing, and talking, and typing, as a body, but it's like someone's strapped an automated vacuum pump to your forehead, and sucked the consciousness out, removing the biological phenomenon necessary to notice that you have a mind. The closest one could get to being a zombie, or an automaton, much as it doesn’t always have much impact on memory recall later. You do see the details, and can clearly remember the visuals later, and usually the events (although it can be a push to clear the brain fog), and your sense organ perceptions are unaffected at the time, but there’s some kind of barrier in place, a spiritual disconnect, and nothing makes very much sense, much as you bullshit your way across the gaps regardless.
The mental torture shifts to confused giddiness, fear, mania, and a hyperactive creativity, suspicious of the world, but more than anything, curious. The psychosis itself is the mind psychically detaching to heal itself from the dangerous levels of environment-imposed cognitive dissonance, like a bubble bursting and releasing the raw unconscious to take its place. A mind that is totally invalidated on all sides long-term loses faith it itself fundamentally, denied its ability to discern truth from lies following the intense strain of so many stubborn dismissals and arrogant cruelties – so much adult abuse in a nutshell.
The only way for that mind to re-knit hope and confidence, enough to exist as a distinct self, and to re-establish enough presence to recognise truth at all, and the truth of it being there at all, in a sea of conditioned uncertainty and the psychic agony of non-consensual egodeath, self-esteem having been effectively 100% evaporated, is to commence weaving competing narratives of varying truth-quality, a mixture of fantastical and otherworldly speculations and pronouncements that could not be true under any circumstances and small notes of interspersed reality, unravelling them out over a few weeks or so, exploring them to the last detail, and then winding them back in again, comparing different layers and themes, teaching yourself again from the ground up what truth itself is as a concept, and how to evaluate it at all, totally reliant on your own head for this exercise, this deepest safe-guarding cognitive process, beyond free-will and conscious control, and beyond awareness. As the mental process concludes and fades, an individual ego begins to form again and the long-term memory begins to lock back into place, alongside all gathered knowledge and wisdom, and enough faith in oneself to be able to recognise truth again independent of the personal judgements of others, and the devastating extents they go to to lie, to rebut, to dismiss, and to deny the interpersonal exposure of their errors and mistakes, their ignorance, arrogance, irrational assumptions and cowardly, conformist biases, their terrible lazy cruelty.
I look back on what I was thinking, and the narratives I was constructing for myself once I recover, and if anything, they seem like complex morbid short stories, surreal and unlikely routines that, from false axioms, propel one forward like an actor following a script, or some type of private detective, for days and days, to a bitter conclusion. It seems to last, at most, about 2 and a half weeks, but is usually much shorter, unless one is picked up outside of course, in which case, expect hell. As I say, the closest analogy is a curious, confused, fearful zombie stumbling about through an extremely fiddly, and yet convoluted, self-set Surrealist linear narrative, often exceedingly dark and sinister in nature, a mixture between ‘personal missions’, like an obscure sleuth with the wrong briefing notes (it’s like closed system protologic in overdrive), involuntary street theatre with no audience (by which I do not mean nuisance-level aggression, as that takes the public interacting – and they are invariably hostile from the start generally, if I am spotted), and f**king up my garden DIY or doodling on books, or – as I always hope – merely finding an unobserved search bar or tiny website window and spending 4 or 5 days typing non-stop crud across it.
Sometimes different voices come out of me, and I’ll speak as if I was another person, with a different personality altogether, and different memories, and certainly believe so naturally at the time. It’s very bizarre when this full-on psychological fugue dissociation happens (and it’s the rarest of the symptoms I get), usually in the first days of onset, as I’m sat down in the bathroom late at night, and it fades quicker than the psychosis does in general, generally gone by the acute point. As for my ‘regular’ psychosis, it's the most irritating experience I ever have to live through in life and is supremely humiliating in aftermath. My worst habit during all this is thinking I get away with emailing people as per usual. It’s been a 9-year exponential nightmare.
Anyhow, he was another one with quite a lot of the orthodox about him, fond of both meds and therapy, with a habit of psychoanalysing situations in that insensitive, pretentious manner. Quite sensitive though, and nervous, with much anxiety and phobia. The sensitivity of a more soulful modern artist. Very much less sensitive than me though, and a bit standoffish, dismissive, and cruel at times, from my perspective. I take it his empathy had run dry, and now and again I sensed arrogance. Not the sort of person you'd get an apology out of on their own volition, not on anything serious.
A letter to him, very sadly:
"I hope your family all had a good Christmas. I'm sorry. As usual, Facebook blew up in my face. I've been busy, painting, writing new offline music slowly, and thinking out a few words. I'm not sure what to say. The internet is not my place. I am very, very lonely though, and am always that way.
You're not a snob. My mind betrayed me under the electric burns of all the usual, in a vile house, on the skin of violated grass and stone. I'm not sure what to say at all. The attached article is not an apology note, though this emailed letter is, typed slowly, and in one go, over about 10 minutes. I don't know if you've read the essay already. I don't keep a visitors counter on my page as I consider it vain, and addictive, and no better than the 15 or so likes on 300 and a bit songs. The dislikes are never placed in my box for pleasant things. It's named a box for pleasant things, at least. Nothing has ever arrived, for me to evaluate pleasure or displeasure from. It's an easy way to fall, getting lost in craving success/stardom, knowing we are 'worth it', our naturally allocated level of pride there, unaffected, behind that knowledge. I've never bothered with it.
Regardless, there is an individual copy also now, more 'anyway' than 'just in case'. I hope it is not entirely boring. I'll leave you for a while. I have no idea what to do in any case. Your value draws me back, and then, nostalgic of great, kind, soft, exasperated patience, as an ok musician (and not much else) to a good one, the sound is not there. I'll leave that at the other side.
I hope you are well usually, and then on in that order. I have never understood how best to phrase and approach the nature of family with politeness, having had little experience. Stay well. I am ashamed when I anger you. The pain at the roots of my world is better in moist air than bloody tides. I hope you find something, somewhere in the mess of unapproachable words. I'll go now, to stare through the abyss of a pale, electric screen at the only solid fire left, in most ways, that reminds me I exist at all. I'm sure it will go on a bit. I'll reach into my drawer of sharpened twigs."
Later, his response, bittersweet, harsher than I was expecting. At least he didn't sugar-coat his emotions:
"I hope you and yours are well or at least going to have a better year now. You are right, I'm not sure what to say either. I didn't care about the 'snob', was rather angry on myself for having encouraged you to join FB again.
There was a time when one thought: maybe one can help another person a little bit. But I've come to realize it isn't possible. Even if there was a cure, you wouldn't want it. Your whole heart and art is based on your unique condition and the occasional extreme fluctuations. Being normal or at least stable in a way... would be a boring life. I hope this doesn't sound offensive. When - as you say - social media blew up in your face again, I thought: this is his true character coming from the depths of a troubled mind. And it has to stay like that. Being nice would only be temporary sugar-coating.
I was a receiver of your art. That's ok and interesting, as it doesn't get overwhelming. We all are reciprocal tools in a way. Never consider anything a final 'product'. My mind isn't in a position at the moment to read and absorb everything. I'm aware of what "Behold, the Bearded Ladies!" is about though. We have our own problems, but I will not throw them at other people's heads. Not even in an entertaining style anymore. Most of them are busy with themselves or with shallow, hypocritical social media conversations.
Regarding the latter you are different, Benjamin. You could be seen as a positive exception. That‘s how it is. I'm too old to change anything or anyone but myself. I really wish you all the best possible."
A day after sending my own words to him my mind, unable to bear sadness any longer, broke in agony, and psychosis re-emerged. I had not long returned from the previous madness. Back into the stress. I did not get to wait for his reply. This time, I fled the house, running out into the street in confusion and barging over an old man walking his dog. Physically, I was dragged up off the road outside by Police and pushed and pulled about until my arms bled, in thick bruises and open wounds, twisted behind my back, in terror, gibbering, sobbing, and screaming, with some type of flashbacks, no idea what was going on, and pushed in the same old dark tiny locked carrying box, and dumped alone in a tiny bare dark room at the end of a locked psychiatric unit 60 miles away, and held involuntarily. Somehow, I was calm a while later, knowing I had to be. I just had to be, and in their time, they let me out. I found his final response four days ago.
The only long-term reflection on my part, considering the letter in brief, rather than delving into every sad, painful detail, is that I wish he had opened up more. I would have been able to talk about his life with him. I would have been happy to. I wish he had talked of his emotions in our correspondence, and not just physical symptoms of weariness. I didn't see many questions either. Always the "I hope you don't find this offensive..." as more offence was delivered. As if they were the magic words that made it all okay to be dispassionate. Timid of me getting annoyed at him? Was he scared of me? Scared of what, exactly? I was inscrutably polite with him by comparison. Forward, blunt, intense, but polite. I disagreed (because I did), but I tried my hardest not to be snide, or snappy.
I am always frustrated in life when the word “argument” is taken from the realms of philosophical conversation and logical debate and used to describe a domestic row, or a pointless and destructive slandering match, aware that this sloppy use of language also conflates all discussion with rowing, and trains people to respond to you as if in a row, even if you are not emotionally affected yourself, and are not angry in tone or body language, or out of control (though can be made so), and are simply speaking to them from a position of meticulous disagreement. Always without fail, I do not care what the other person says as their response, provided they do not get audibly angry, or sarcastic, or derogatory, or try to curtail my thoughts, although obviously I like to argue to resolution as opposed to leaving full agreement off limits. I certainly don’t think I’m disproportionately argumentative as a person and am perhaps slightly below average in that capacity even. I’m ferociously disagreeable though. That’s certainly obvious to notice, but there is a huge difference between quarrelsomeness and disagreeableness, and only the latter is constructive.
I offered him no personal advice. No prescription. No pedagogy. I spoke of the world at large. The arguments could apply to anyone. Only by the very end did this patience wear off. I knew there was a sense of panic to his world, he had admitted it himself. But was panic enough for this? His hope could not mitigate that offence. It was offensive, after all. Objectively, it was offensive. Brusque at times and psychologically inept, bordering on callous in little places, a hasty faux pas dotted in between, the ‘older and wiser’ scold of a confident enough man. I tried to not be hasty in forming content, though I sent a lot. His words were quite often selected dimly – both English and German have wide lexicons, a huge vocabulary, many near-synonyms of subtle difference. Much as his English was superb and my German non-existent, leaving him with the harder task of applying translation effort, I found some of the terms a little cold. I sensed that translation programs and dictionaries, always there to bolster personal foreign language knowledge, were quite extensive. From this I decided that the choices were deliberate. He was often in a hurry, and rushing under pressure, but it was the simple terms that got me. Irreverence. His fear was worse than my torment.
I sense, again, he was always looking for comparisons, for equivocation. To calm him. Something else in common. More people with something else in common. More of him. But on his terms. Otherwise panic, I suppose. To what degree? He didn't say. Regardless, if even I could control myself better, then something was clearly amiss. His compassion seemed functional at one point, and very candid in one particular letter. I was glad for it, and genuinely touched. It did not always seem as sincere when he made a caring gesture. He was convinced he was powerless, on everything. If so, where did this willpower to resist come from? Powerless to do what, to be wrong?
At a very definite point though, any compassion was completely gone. He admitted he disagreed. He did not have the balls to say more though, on any disagreed point. I sped on, writing, and politely adding in formal academic prose that I disagreed with him if he wrote back something still a little off to me, provided I had enough cause to, and I spelled out why, in huge reams of moral philosophical asides, trying to be reasonable and logical. Could he understand something he could not relate to by his own experiences? Can anyone? A profound question for me, as it always has been. I do not know the answer.
I would imagine, tentatively, that it depends on the presence of innate kindness if anything, more than experience. One is compassionate or they are not. No impact of the world on their senses can really change this. Childhood destruction can. The ancient wisdom, common to European myth, of the hero's journey, beset by trials and doubts and periods of all-encompassing retreat and pain before mastery of self is attained. Those in our civilization with the highest empathy, the firmest insight and emotional intelligence, the most developed compassion and mental strength, are those who have had this instilled in them through truly torturous lives. If they survive at all, the process shapes their understanding to fine degrees of perception. Long years of painful thought and analysis and self-reflection. Without that punishing refinement, true humility cannot be grasped.
European children are born compassionate, every single one. Their parents' degree of love and care, more than any other factor, will establish their future qualities, and decide if this innate compassion is to survive into adulthood. Treated well, and happy, in healthy families, it will. It remains a terrible irony that the strongest, most-disciplined, most intact racial souls will only have their deepest empathy honed by immersion in the scourging crucible of bleak, consistent poor treatment, whittling away at their pride, flensing them of arrogance and insincerity.
Outside of these two groups, there are too many deadened morons though, intelligent enough – and suitably productive and functional, certainly – but brutalized, and brutalizing, with so much less they need to complain about in their upbringing, too proud to see the problems, lingering in complacency, and quite some denial. The denial is not conscious, and cannot be openly felt at superficial awareness, much as they can consciously chose to deny that they are repressed by it.
Aside from that, there is IQ. I don't buy the 'genetics is effectively all' anti-leftism arguments of the racial right, no matter how much fiddly detail they go into, paper after paper. I do read the papers though, when I have the time, and work through them. Anthologies, presentations, and rare finds by Dutton, 'Thuletide', 'Joseph Bronski', that sort of thing. The contemporary crowd, basically. It's still very mechanical to consider as a perspective. Boiling everything down to what they have continued to assume is mental illness (by standard definition) and IQ-loss, and all stimulated by Victorian-onset dysgenics from a relaxing of societal pressures though sanitation and vaccination, and the creation of social policies and safety nets for the poor and dysfunctional, allowing the survival and growth of families of anti-civilizational mutants at the expense of a religious elite, as if somehow that drive was innate to their uniquely ‘spiteful’ biology (or even an automatic problem at all, in genuine applications of that definition, if we are to be Aryan about it as opposed to doggedly requiring the polite housebreaking enforced by these civilizing vicar-types).
They seem obsessive at times over it, in sadistic relish, at the exclusion of all else, ignoring the tautologies and biases and authoritarian vulgarities that their rigid common sense eviscerates contemplation of in the process, and in the first place, probably. It's like talking to armoured rocks. Prepare to get sneered at.
I'd say, regardless of sub-optimal genetics worries, that Europeans have an advanced innate kindness, more so than any other race. That is what I deduce from the genetics perspective, and I mean that having approached from a scientific review of data over the course of about 4 and a half years. That is all I deduce, and I do not make further assumptions. Your racial research on non-European races is sound, albeit superficial at times, knee-deep in genetics, and ignorant when it comes to analysis of the impact of their own long-term child-rearing practices down the generations, a primary historical factor in why their races often behave barbarically, their societies remaining primitive for millennia, the physical anthropology of their bodies different to our own, their minds alien. But I cannot say the same for the anti-leftism as applied to our own people.
Your biases, even as you do not know they are biases on account of your ignorance and lack of reading, dictate the frameworks you construct. You have taken 'mental illness' at face value, and followed the orthodox of mainstream psychiatry, and the punitive medicine system. A term reserved by the uninformed for the historical Soviet punishment of dissidents, you have been unable to realise your flaw. Papers suggesting that leftists are higher in 'mental illness', the criteria for judging this being that they are more likely to have been told they have 'mental illness' by a psychiatrist, at least once, or been placed in a hospital treatment setting?!
Do you not see your error? You have constructed a tautology, self-assigning validity to your metrics. You are being modern, and you traipse your research hand in hand alongside their own paradigm, immersed in their neologisms. Your Christian need to find this 'original sin' in others. An immutable 'evil', or wrongness. Really, a convenient excuse for a fundamentalism of dogma, irrespective of science. How would one then define a 'leftist'? I would suggest, more than tentatively, that I was not one. Soiled in your political reasoning, your activist reasoning, you have missed this, and I am not alone in noticing.
So keen to be right, the vengeful, easy, urban joy of a nerd's euphoric cruelty, you have not researched psychiatry in full detail, and you have not considered the trauma model as expressed by Alice Miller, much as a few small secondary importance errors remain even in her work. If leftists (and we do somehow recognise them) are all mentally ill, then mental illness becomes a term of abuse, naturally, by the nature of crowd mimesis. What of a National Socialist who became ill yet was still a National Socialist. How would you respond to them? Not with kindness, not with clarity, that is for damn sure. You should be honest. You would brush them off, and you would punish them, in disgust, and this outrage, and you would have no compunctions applying the same treatment to them as you would your political rivals.
You are unable to decide whether they are 'leftists' primarily, or mentally ill primarily, much as you think by now that you know the latter. The feeling is that you have flung together two frameworks that you cannot quite define, one significantly more so than the other, and your historical, and now contemporary, hatred for the ideological street activism factions you despise – and have been at times outcompeted and humiliated by – have led you inexorably down a false research tangent, far too late by now. Perhaps both frameworks are incorrect for this analysis. Have you ever wondered that?
One could legitimately ask you whether all Europeans are born well, even given the damage to our racial bodies by many centuries of miscegenation, and what has been done to them since, so as to lead so many into pain, some into the stupidity of excuse-making, irrationality and lies, as would befit the far left, some into pain itself, which seems forgotten, and some into cold cruelty, mute, common, taking safety and solace in numbers, a democratic conservatism, no different to ever. I would like to see you refute me outside your own discipline. You are ignorant. For all your whines about political losses, like a football team in defeat, like hooligans, I repeat, you are no better. You utilize the language of the 20th Century, and the attitudes of this time, much as you consciously feign hatred of it, perhaps telling yourselves you must, and your knowledge of history is narrow, superficial, and specific, like an amateur fan club. You see the people for their utility (and IQ sometimes assists, granted), not for their racial existence as Europeans.
How different are you to Cass Sunstein, or to the British Police? I'll give you the answer. You're not. Proud, in this endless, coruscating, mindless thrust of antisocial, anti-European power envy. If you had control here, it is so easy to plot, actively, on axioms of keen intuition, and by decades of observation, what would, most likely, occur. So what for your genetics? You are cruel to your own people. You are the traitors to them, no wonder so many don't like you. I resent being tarred by that, usually. Your newspeak, your neologisms, ultimately, your mistake. You will drop your lingering Christianity. Or you will in time be opposed, as direct enemies. Better to capitulate, even if one is totally unable, in any way, on any tiny note, to agree with the slightest understanding of this. Better to capitulate, than to engage in holy war with your very own folk, surely one could see the pragmatism to that. Are you as Muslims to me? The feral theocracy you yearn for. That theocratic empire of peasants in expensive habits.
Listen to yourselves speak, you sound like 90s teenagers. I see you haven't noticed much at all, and your self-learning is jeopardised by group-thought, and the easy way out, cribbing your lecture notes, fretting, desperate to be good and tough, against the fundamental weakness of your bully-minds, so weak you require an eternal crutch, having turned the Imperium Romanum into a vale of soul-making, of souls less than European, this life not good enough for you. A mere atrium, no wonder you are poor to it, clamouring to be told what to think, by level superiors. What is intelligence alone to wisdom, and to strength of will, and to enthusiasm? What is it to love?
It's a shame we wreck our families so young. One may, and will invariably, utilize any terminology assimilated, to the sealed conclusion that is their adult mental age, much as some are nastier within that parameter. I try to avoid Newspeak though, both from the ‘left’ and the ‘right’. National Socialism's worldview did not find itself reliant on Johannes Freidrich Miescher and his progeny, much as Hitler's Third Reich was profoundly knowledgeable on and supportive of science, and stimulated very high standards in academia, research, and innovation. He didn't like Christians and secular Christian moralizers damning his children with original sin - and he spoke at length over dinner in private on the fact that he considered all German children around him to be his children, and treated them as such, with godly compassion.
Stop bitching at them, you morons. Your pitiless authoritarianism really is no better than that of the system itself. I see you as more of a threat. At least it's obvious that your ‘leftists’ are cultic, ideology-fancying excuse-makers. Try it on your league and see what happens. I don't deny racial IQ differences or the biological survival requirement of a homogenous pan-Aryan Nordic imperium ethnostate. You’re not superficially incorrect. It's just you've sacrificed your European humanity and consciousness because you're angry and frustrated, and impatient, and maths and data analysis is more fun. In some ways, I almost, almost agree with you. I just don't act like Matthew Hopkins in a lab-coat towards my own folk. A guild of snarling overseers, completely contemptuous. Your university science is weightier than your natural honour. Degenerate in character.
Much as with Franz Boas, I wonder if, somehow, you've gone down a psychologically appealing dead-end, and are trapped a bit too far in now, incensed – furious actually – far past your muted, atrophied reserves of niceness, and into compassion burnout. The arrogance of the elite echo-chamber, certainly more astute and academic than the feeble hooray henry pub-crawlers of the dissident right, being at least in possession of some permutation of critical thought. Just muted, isolate, monochrome. Step outside your discipline for longer. How can you speak of great European culture when you have none of it, listening to foul modern music and defending your poor tastes in the obscene, watching the trash of Hollywood movies, reading subversive American postwar fiction like a club of pipe-smoking beatniks, praising modern art and fixating on the same spread of garish digital glyphs, all Americans now, from Chicago to Berlin, quoting from Star Trek and Warhammer and Dune, posting hackneyed lines of doggerel verse by Poe, in the febrile digital show-and-tell of Telegram, Twitter, and Facebook artificiality, stepping at reach no further than Julius Evola, or Oswald Spengler, with all the cheap nostalgia of sagging 50-year old metalheads in band T-shirts, sat in their filthy shop surrounded by stale smoke and beer and noise, a never-ending stream of popular mass consumption vulgarities, all the vapid, inconsequential paraphernalia of their addictive adolescent pretensions, and feeling so very, very noble?
It seems too late. A sterile environment from its conception, appealing to those who, as always, do not seem to like other people, or like other people as much, indiscriminate on this account, and somehow, behind going through the motions, quite misanthropic. My friend could not hope me into not caring. He could not use hope to force me to care as little as he could make himself care, desiring really, I think, that it would stop me needing to care. He was not responsible with his remarks. Maybe some of mine did make sense. I faltered, again and again before a coward. To seal off from sensitivity entails a lack of it in addressing others. How long had he had his routine, his act, his safety device. There had never been the self-reflection though. I knew things too. My 'research', whatever it is, is informed. I knew more than him. How to impart that, especially given that I am younger?
Illness a crutch for him, and an explanation of all. His paradigm of understanding. An inquisitorial biological reductionism his only heuristic. Outside of considering all as illness, he did not know though. A person's own psychology as an adult compared to the compassion gifted by nature – a matter of a non-overlapping magisteria. Outside, everywhere, the West, falling. His witchcraft was to force it all back into him, all that world outside, shutting gate after gate. Till it was him, and he was calm finally. Despite his contained, worried, yet quietly hysterical remarks to me on Wicca and Satanism, that is witchcraft at root, really. Words of power, to suit the universe to a self. A feminine response. Stretching through it till every self continues to collide. Making it all safe and friendly, the future already sedated for him, grabbed at and latched onto, and pinned down. No self can travel that far. Reeling in prematurely, he did not seek anything at all. More of the same. Closed. Rigid. A carbon copy man. How much, I wondered, until he was done. I don't care. I have to say that for now.
The "stiff upper lip/can't express/mustn't talk about it" attitude is a real killer in humans. Because they can't, the implication is that you can't either. I struggled, always, to understand how unfamiliar, new, unexpected ideas could cause someone to recoil so much, and to seal off. What it was that made them so uncomfortable? Is an idea contentious? Is it not just an idea? At what end does the contention lie? I'm sure he grew to resent me very much. An emotional openness on my part, a lot of thought, and an increasing desperation for engagement. If one can talk at all to another, why are so many things off limits? A sense of moral outrage, offence, and inner fear.
Not just moral outrage, but moral hatred, not a resolving, raging, decisive, moral principle expression of deep, nuanced emotional hatred, on a terrible enemy, worthy only of complete destruction, a necessity for a dying race, a regenerative fury, overcoming sadness and pain and lament, a healing of us, that saving of our biological heritage, the hope that is Europeans; that is goodness, but instead Nietzsche's observation, in his oncoming madness – moral hatred! The subterranean horrors of the beasts of the deserts. The destroyers of Rome, and the enders of the world.
It is a shame that, though he was "getting into Chomsky," he did not consider On the Genealogy of Morals, written and initially published in his own great language, and draw any of his conclusions from The Antichrist, much as he professed a genuine disdain for Christians and their churches, finding the buildings psychologically unsettling. Perhaps he believed, incorrectly, as do so many others – this new breed of post-German invert European slaves – that the Catholic church supported Hitler, or that National Socialism was in some manner tolerant of Christian axiology, and this unwholesome dread lingering in his mind was yet more introjected contempt for the recent past, timid, welcoming a masochist’s suicidal humiliation, as is the done thing, more long-distance sympathy offered to his Jews and dead Jews, at the expense of his own massacred people, and their dead future.
A fundamental truth inexpressible in the permafrost of new genetics papers and telling models. Consider for just how long our society has been incorrect on this, piling hasty paradigm on top of hasty paradigm, making some sense to us, helping us grow, and build, and decay, traumatized down the generations, unwitting of this, brutalized until we are unaware that we are cruel, and cruel on that very unawareness, even as we deny our cruelty, or make excuses for it, the word known, but never resonating, never accepted, never assimilated as our own manifestation, as a product of our own selves, as one says 'sorry' to another, the word itself, a formulaic token, thinking neither sorry, nor experiencing any sorryness, any understanding that it is us ourselves who have done wrong, ourselves who have failed, who have been bad.
No conscience, in essence, merely that tiny flippant token, even the word itself resented in open usage a little, to be shivered at and psyched up for, that tiny reluctant token to shut the other person up and quiet them, so we do not have to change, feeling irritation the while, always outward, never at our own wretched soul death, in denial of the total inadequacy of our own minds. Rubbish in, and rubbish out. For at least 1700 years. We measure our very calendar by our own dissolution.
I resented myself, always feeling I was using him, beating on a bolted door. At the same time, all I really looked for was an actual open engagement. It's up to the dying to comfort the dead. Among the living corpses, so few worth saving. It has been like trying to explain colour to the mocking dissonance of blind men. It makes sense to me that life-circumstances could seriously affect someone. It makes sense regardless of my subjective input. Unorthodox opinions seem to do more damage to these hollowed portal automatons past a point though. It really would depend on those early life-circumstances.
The vacant brutalized cannot see the flaws in their foundational perceptions. The moralizing is the ideology. It works atop easy lives, and easier lives. I will always wonder if it ever crossed his mind that it could have been nipped in the bud early on if he was less closed in attitude and could be relaxed enough to see it as mere written speech. "Thou shalt not speak of these things!" so very common. I wasn't asking him to help me out of my environment. I was asking him to listen to it at all, to bear witness. To listen at all and wait before wanting to form opposition of any sort. In strangeness, for a wreck of a person, I did remain stronger in mind than him fundamentally.
I see in his final words that he was totally unable to see me as anything but a diagnosis. And even then, a few more callous speculations also. The usual fascination with the 'mad artist' cliché. It was thus allowable now. A good enough explanation for what I am in his eyes. My "unique condition"? Sadness, surely, a great, inexplicable, burying sadness, at closed-mindedness and fear. Symptoms of escalating distress. Ways to escape constant pain around ignorant, prescriptive people. A horrible early life around two Catholics, one professing secularity. The annoyances of the dark, and the wild, and the schoolyard. An adult life not much better, and for identical reasons. Lazy, shut-off people, always excusing themselves from their cowardice. A cure? A f**king cure?! How much of me is even wrong? Buried in this tragedy, never – in their squat flat lives – never, never do they consider that it may be them, not even for a second. Do they, will they, can they, ever, ever understand this? What are they? Just for once, what have they wrought, all by themselves? What have they done?
Despite all that I wrote, was it ever realised how much I did not? How many understatements? How many times I bit my lip, aghast? All the things, trying, yearning, knowing futility, that I did not say? All the things I never said at all, from the very start? The ignorant dispassion I ignored, even as I read it, and made no move to highlight at those times? The pitiful forgiveness I granted, always holding back, in the face of so many curt presumptions, clueless assertions, and pedagogic mistakes. A flippancy. Words not chosen kindly, no matter the intent. Sculpting my letters, though many in number, and delivered often, to be as delicate as possible. More delicate than him.
I loved my friend. I cannot write to him again. I sense his terminal intention. The desire is clear. His parting gift, really, to lecture me further on what was wrong with me, based on himself alone. Not even an incorrect fact that he had somehow spotted. But an incorrect being. Yes, to him, I cannot be "nice", even. Good words. Smooth talking. Way to go, yes, that makes total sense, doesn't it! He sees my "real" personality now, does he, what I "really" am, content to have spotted uninvestigable evil. A curt reframe. What in the f**k is he talking to himself about, lapping against me in smug resignation disguised for himself as weariness, in spite simmering beneath formality, all matter of fact "I see now...", washing his hands of the entire affair?
It would not be wise of me, or kind at all, to offer any further comment to him, of any sort. Unkind to him, unkinder to myself. In slim, hollow spaces, I can consider that if there was ever any tolerance, or any real genuine human understanding between us, developed in honed miles of dry and snickering thought, and traumatized thought, constantly re-examined, tentatively rephrased, it was mine.
One is not driven mad by madness. The final blow on the healthy psyche is laid by cruelty, and by disappointment. Ostracised and scapegoated, and – probably at times to some degree – envied (a disturbing idea to consider, impossible to me), by crowds, or by the remains of crowds, as one by one good Europeans fall away, proving themselves subhuman, and inert. That is what ruined Nietzsche. The long years of silence, left only with the subconscious imprinting of his childhood’s Christian piety, resigned to delirious fatalism, a benighted rationalization for his enervating disappointment, and doubting himself all of a sudden, pandering to the brute consciousness of ignorant crowds, going mad. His insight. His work. His knowledge of the truth. Completely ignored in his lifetime. The endless silence, rejected, reprimanded, insulted to his core. The silence killed his spirit, and all he was fled, under ultimate betrayal at a full, grouped, one by one, individual stupidity. A stupidity so full, and adult, that it cannot be used as an excuse to deny malevolence, to avert recognition of inner rot. When the long, deep silence fell to its deepest, abyssal night, in subterranean horror at the death of joy, and the inverting of sense, and of love, he was already dead. The crowd moved outside, as it does now. The faces known and unknown the more.
All you have is truth now. The Bull of Dharma teetering on that single leg. But they are always there ready, and so very quickly. The hushing. The tutting. The hypocrite's redemption offered to them by invocation of the void. The silence falling again. What have they done?
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