http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/ change this in your admin panel! en Mon, 24 Mar 2008 02:50:18 +0000 My Head Is currently under renovation.

They're rearranging the furniture.

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1537584.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1537584.html Mon, 24 Mar 2008 02:50:18 +0000 Come Let Us Make It as Difficult as Possible—Let’s Make It Impossible People nowadays share the Gospel like selling a product, trying to use all kinds of strategies and fancy gimmicks, impressive lights and sounds, to lure the unbelieving into some kind of quick acceptance. They say all kinds of promises, about how your life will never be the same again, how the Lord loves you so much, about how will surely pour out all kinds of blessings over you if only you pray this simple prayer: “Lord, I know I’m a sinner, please come into my heart, I accept your Son and believe that He died for my sins…” And then *poof!* by some kind of magic process you are finally secured for the next life, and now you are finally a CHRISTIAN, and it means so many things to your advantage now, doesn’t it?

And if you would only attend Church at least once a month, or if you would only be willing to say to one of your friends, “Actually, I believe in God”—these would count as wonderful sacrifices on your part for God’s sake, and basically life still goes on as usual… It’s a simple matter really of just doing the minimal of what all the other Christians do, of being proud of yourself for having bought membership to this new club, which amounts to a kind of wise, long-term investment which other people aren’t as wise to make…

But you go on with something terribly missing, and you imagine to yourself, this thing of being a Christian, it’s a little too easy—and no doubt it was made very easy for you, and no doubt the whole thing was all about you when it was first presented, all about your happiness, your peace of mind, your right to a good, decent life. But because of the ease of this whole arrangement, it’s hardly able to support you against the difficulty of this life, and it becomes rather disappointing, and it’s so easy also to take it all back, maybe for just a moment, when “sin” can’t really be sin if it makes you happy, or maybe for the rest of your life—when you can say, “oh Christianity, been there, done that, it really didn’t work out for me.”

People have made it as easy as possible, it’s almost nauseating.

And because of this, more than anything, I want to make it as difficult for you as can possibly be, so that it can be like a silver blade thrust through your heart.

And yes, indeed, not everything the popular evangelists tell you is false, but it is often so very incomplete and pared down. And let me tell you what they are scared to say, because then maybe not so many hands will be raised at the end of the sermon for prayers of acceptance, or that maybe the Church numbers will dwindle, or that they’ll sound so grim and intolerant. There are verses which are unpopular, which are glossed over, which are “taken with a grain of salt”, but they mean the real deal:

“If anyone comes to Me, and does not hate his own father and mother and wife and children and brothers and sisters, yes, and even his own life, he cannot be My disciple.

“Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after Me cannot be My disciple.

“For which one of you, when he wants to build a tower, does not first sit down and calculate the cost to see if he has enough to complete it? Otherwise, when he has laid a foundation and is not able to finish, all who observe it begin to ridicule him, saying, ‘This man began to build and was not able to finish.’ (Luke 14:27-29)

“Do not think that I came to bring peace on the earth; I did not come to bring peace, but a sword. For I came to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law; and a man’s enemies will be the members of his household.
(Matthew 10:34-36)

“Not everyone who says to Me, ‘Lord, Lord.’ will enter the kingdom of heaven, but he who does the will of My Father who is in heaven will enter. Many will say to Me on that day, ‘Lord, Lord, did we not prophesy in Your name, and in Your name cast out demons, and in Your name perform many miracles?’ And then I will declare to them, ‘I never knew you; depart from Me, you who practice lawlessness.’
(Matthew 7:21-23)

“Whoever wishes to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for My sake will find it.
(Matthew 16:25)

Yes, Christ will turn your life around, and you will never be the same again, and there shall indeed be blessings without count, and there will be eternal salvation which begins not just beyond death but now—HERE, and NOW—but do not think you will have this all with your easy, half-hearted commitment, your half-hearted love, which at the first sign of inconvenience breaks faith and runs to another lover. Instead go and draw the line now, count all the costs involved—how it must be an absolute surrender of your entire life, every aspect of it, to the sovereign will of your King. And decide, now, whether you can handle it. Because no one is forcing you to accept it. And do not ever presume to come to Christ with your soggy, double-minded involvement. And do not think you are a Christian because of your family, or your intellectual assent, or your paltry prayer which never really amounts to transforming your whole life. Why don’t you say instead, “No, I’m really not a Christian.” And then it would be fine, wouldn’t it? Much better than pretending. And things wouldn’t be so complicated, and people like myself will be unable to criticize you at all, and suggest that maybe you’re a fake. And you also wouldn’t be giving Christ such a bad name, as though he were a shirt you could just try on, and then change.

But in this day and age the rare, precious gem is that thing which is sincerely worth dying for, that which demands everything you have, and even more. That which will stretch all your notions of love and loyalty to its utter limits. It means the forever-commitment. The real kind of Christianity, hidden amidst all these clutter of easy, instant conversions, of mechanical institutions that churn out Christian-buzzing drones, is a Christianity that is UTTERLY IMPOSSIBLE, that will take from you everything, absolutely everything that you have. It is Christ in his singular, breathtaking glory, blinding in his beauty, asking you to “leave everything behind and follow Me.” And there is nothing else you can hold on to, nothing else that you can keep. And it’s like finally, after wading so long in the water with your feet touching the bottom, you are suddenly swept away in the current and into the stormy deeps, and you can’t even swim. Real Christianity is this kind of glorious suicide.

But that is what real Love is, anyway, isn’t it? And that is what real Faith is, isn’t it? Knowing that all these things shall be the death of me, all these things are impossible for me—“And yet, my dear, with God all things are possible.” And He will own all of me, absolutely all of me! I will be completely consumed! And do not ever think, like some of these people do, that you can have God as your savior and yet not as your Lord, Master, King. Do not ever think that eternal salvation is worth the poor thanks that most people give it.

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1534802.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1534802.html Fri, 14 Mar 2008 14:30:39 +0000 * In sunlight summer sailing the water lilies bloom in colors transposing, transporting, crystalline hues dancing, in red ruby lavender emerald violet and deep sea-greens, then diving like a laughing dolphin into deeper seas. When inspiration descends like a golden chariot with wings, it will catch you on the wrist and the horses will neigh, and snort, and stamp their feet. Ascend! Ascend! Come to the kingdom in the clouds where all the stories will sleep and end, and let’s lay our weary heads at the feet of the King, and weep, smiling, all our glistening tears. And let my fairy sisters with the golden braids sing, in their voices like high-flying violins, and let the skies carousel and melt and bend and blend, round and round and sink into me, into free, into this beautiful finality.

My voice will carry the stars, and my soul will flame in flaming fire, and I will bird, like a new rebirth, among the spires of this heavenly world. And the crescent horizon will spread as wide as a lifetime’s journey, like the glaze of a glass goblet, and the oceans will blush in love, like vintage wine, and the Sun will rise as immense as my intense inner revelry, saying, sail the sky, sail the seas! Promise me just one thing, please! Marriage and bliss, and when reunited, you’ll wear my golden ring, and we’ll become the wind that fills the grass and the trees, the breathless breeze, this covenant with you my dear is my release. Lips touch my lips, in an everlasting kiss.

When I lift the satin veil, when I lift the curtain, oh great mystery that will greet me! Oh gifted glory that will embrace me! And my soul will kneel, and all my sorrows will rose and unpeel, and the memory that was once mine will no longer avail! In approaching the silver tower, in the middle of the sundered valley, in the magic of destiny, I will be in my overjoy joyfully crying, crying…

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1533938.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1533938.html Tue, 11 Mar 2008 17:52:44 +0000 Sketching Sexuality pt. 2 But a voice will also say: “But what now of the Sacred Erotic? Surely you cannot deny the dense theme which runs through all of nature, invisibly through the mystic spheres, far beyond mere humanity? How it permeates the Prince Sun and the Princess Moon, the masculine wind and the feminine seas? How the whole of creation also dances to the tune of ecstasy, and how it is my oneness with Mother Earth that compels me, and that the act in itself is nothing short of a vehicle to commune with the divine? And this thing that you propound, it is so dry, so restrictive, the bane of all mankind that keeps him from realizing his original state of innocence, of happiness, and you make of him such a pitiful and guilty creature, when in truth in only needs to look inward, into a wild, pure, and passionate love, bestowed by the grace of Nature herself…”

And I would answer, you step ahead of yourself, you sly creature, and you try to sneak into the realm of the Spirit without first paying taxes to the Body. In other words, you try to pass through a concrete wall and yet you only keep on bruising your head. Because you are no sexual spirit first and foremost, and what is this ruse except another play at pretending you are not first a body, and you are not caught up in the mass and tangle of humanity? Just another trick you try to feign independence from the dirty physicality of existence. Imagining yourself being Nature-born when you are just man-born, and Nature would be shocked to have someone like you for a son or daughter! You, especially, who cannot and never will fit into the elegant scheme of things. Or can you tell me sincerely where your place is in Paradise?

But let me suggest instead that you only try to repaint the world from the individual (romanticized) palette of your flesh and blood, and then, once it is accomplished, you imagine that you were the painting, and Nature was the Master Painter, and your whole sexual existence was instantly sanctified. In other words you spiritualize even when there is no room to do so. And you have forgotten God, and your own false godhood has swelled your head.

And so we can look back at the whole history of pagan religions and discover the inversion—that they set up their Great Phalluses and Ashtoreths, and thought that they honored a primeval force that compelled them, when it is in fact a deliberate confusion of impulses. That when they did so it was humanity, and themselves, they worshiped, but not in the honest way of owning up to their perversion, the Fallen Body of Adam, but attempted to step ahead of fallenness into transcendence, like the crafting of a golden, brilliant crown which at first they said they would give to their idols—but idols are really nothing—yet deep inside they knew they were the ones to wear it. Make no mistake, any religion which puts sexual-spirituality first, without first confronting the recalcitrance and forlornness of the empirical, human body, that which grows old, withers and dies—these are all clever attempts at self-glorification.

And nothing much is different between the pagan and modern times, with its “sexual liberation” and the dulling of all decency, except at least now, it is more honest, and we can give it that much credit. You can look at the modern, sexual license, and the intoxicated pagan rituals as two sides of the same coin, each of them explains the other. On the one hand, the present sexual liberation exposes the superfluousness of appealing to deities, and on the other, the old, pagan subservience reveal what a man really wants: the sanctioned worship of self.

But it is in fact a very bitter irony. Because in adopting this strategy, man cannot even assert himself with any true individuality, but always falls back into the nameless mass of humanity. How so? Consider again the man who hunts after sexual-love—whether in the quasi-religious sense or in the secular, popularized sense, it doesn’t really matter. Consider once more how, unless he can retain a sexual commitment to a single, unique individual, and continuously find his self reflected concretely in her eyes for the rest of his living days, he will be swept away into nothing, into a universality that merely gobbles him up and leaves him empty like a dry husk, just another man who had women, or, had Woman in the ambiguous, abstract sense. Consider also that sexuality does not include “commitment” in its bargain—that element comes from an entirely different source, which we will deal with later on. Instead, consider how the pagans resorted to shrine prostitution, and how it meant sleeping with a nameless woman in the night, just one body among a thousand, and when you returned, it would be the same thing, she would be someone else, but you would not care for she was as good as any—this was their spiritual service of worship. And consider too how in modern times it is repeated all too glibly, except without the solemn ritual—or wait, maybe with a solemn ritual, like imagining commitments, or promising forevers, which are destined to break in time—but don’t worry, he or she will soon be replaced. Another one will come along.

[And do you even know how the point is driven home when you look past facades and peer into people’s hearts? Does betrayal already count as betrayal when it is already full-grown in the heart, though it may look as though everything’s fine, and they’re still together?]

[An interesting aside: how in many cases the sexual religion thrives once the woman is placed above the pedestal, as the priestess, the goddess, the dominatrix, nameless as she is. And how Paul, in one of his epistles, certainly does not disparage women but gives them their rightful due: “The woman is the glory of man.” For man (specific sex) to really glorify himself he must put the woman over him. For man (general) to really glorify himself, man (specific) must be utterly infatuated with women, oh, and have you taken even just a cursory glance at the movies lately, or the magazine stands, or the list of websites that immediately pop up when you type in the sacred keyword?]

You protest: “But so far you have talked like one of our old, cranky grandmothers and grandfathers who died without really knowing what passion is, and who only sought to kill the joy in free love and free exchange. And for all we know you they were envious of our liberties, and for all we know so are you. And you only seek to dampen our freedom, to douse our fire, and to hamper any of the great progressive movements of humankind to discard the old, restrictive ways and just fly!”

At first glance that would seem so, and I know that in your eyes I can never be anything else but guilty. But I wonder indeed if you can really fly. But I look at you and you flitter from one flower to the next, and I see you always agitated and restless, flittering, flittering, almost hopping, and hoping that the next flower will provide you at least with a longer, more peaceful respite. And continuously drawn by a hunger that is never fully satisfied. And even as you rest your tired wings on the petals of this flower—and you imagine you’ve achieved a blissful state of commitment, yes, by your own pursuit of happiness you have found it—your legs tremble in anticipation of being disappointed, and having to find someone else, someone new.. as such your wings buzz in readiness to leave.

And even when sexual-love has achieved its fever pitch, its orgasmic scream, what then comes next? You want it to stay, you want it repeated, recycled, in all its glory. But the excitement begins to fade, and new people enter the picture and start winking, and you are torn between the conflict of commitment and caprice. And if you do not give in, what will guarantee that your partner will not exchange you for another one in the dance? And if you still hold each other’s hand, what guarantees you still hold each other’s heart?

No, rather, let me hint that you cannot fly. You are too worried to even leave the ground for a minute, much less soar through the clouds in genuine independence, and much less with a mate. But the whole weight of humanity brings you down, with its sexual, and immoral, rhythm of individuality and universality, its confusion of who you are and what it really means.. and neither can you grant anyone you love with a real, intrinsic personhood.

All this because you do not want to own up to being a part of the sexual Body of Adam with all his sins. But if only you did, then there is a chance of replacing the old body for something new. And you will know what real commitment and consummation means, and where the originality of marriage really came from.

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1533260.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1533260.html Sun, 09 Mar 2008 19:36:20 +0000 Sketching Sexuality pt. 1 It is an interesting theory. Explaining why sexuality is such a powerful force in the world, why the impulse, the longing is so strong, so embedded in every individual. Why it is even oftentimes involuntary, but it is like being swept away in a current, helpless, to find a completion, to find blissful consummation. Why it takes on so many guises, sometimes noble love, sometimes pure animal lust. The subject is always so blurry, so wild, entangled, involving too many facets of a human being—emotions and feelings overlapping: love turning to hate, intimacy turning into indifference, loyalty turning into adultery. And so many theories already! From the sexual psychology of Freud, to the natural selection of Darwin, to the three sexes of Plato… and how people in our society can’t stop talking about sex, thinking about sex, each in their own levels of decency and perversity, from fantastic fairytale romances, to a mixture of realism and dream, to bitter pain and pessimism, to the outright pornographic. The paramount of love represented in the sexual ideal, and yet, also, the paramount of sin in betrayal.

The interesting theory can be worth something, or it can be worth nothing at all, depending on where you come from. It speaks of sexuality involving an intoxicating confusion. It speaks of the irresolvable tension between individuality on the one hand, and then your humanity on the other, and being pushed and pulled apart by the forces of self-denial.

How does it work? Well, the man says he is attracted to a woman—now, whether or not he says he loves with the suicidal martyrdom of Romeo, or the pure objective want of Amnon, leave that out for now, because for all you know he is continually vacillating between the two states, sometimes melting them together, sometimes riding on both ends like a see-saw—all he knows is that he is drawn… explanations, convictions, only follow later.

But immediately you can see here the seed of tension between individuality and universality, the struggle first to see the woman as unique, one, singular, irreplaceable, with a name and a body and a soul that no one else can replace, within this lifetime and the next. But when he does this, do you think he does it out of the goodness of his heart? It depends, if you believe that man is inherently good and wonderful, then you can stop reading here and wait for such a perfect man (or woman) to come into your life. But say you are no longer so naïve, and you know that man, even if he tries his best to be good, to be an absolute darling, is so very often confused, then maybe an explanation, no matter how grim (or precisely because it is realistic and grim) will suffice. Maybe we can borrow some thoughts from Sartre. The man sees the beloved as singular, irreplaceable and unique only because of selfishness. Because in doing so, he affirms his own individuality—and then he can say, “it’s just you and me baby, against the world”—and in focusing all of his energies on the one, the possible bone of his bones, flesh of his flesh, he sees himself also as one, this time imagining himself as he appears in the girl’s eyes. Oh, such a moment as this! When he stares at those black, trusting eyes, and see his own reflection as in a mirror! And to see there nothing else, but only his face! Then what can be a stronger confirmation of your own individuality than this? To be reflected in the soul of the beloved.

But now the hidden danger, because he cannot sustain this perilous state on his own, that is, bestowing another human being with a soul that is as real and palpable as his own. The moment he makes a misstep in the dance, the moment he loses his concentration, he will realize, but ah, there are also so many women in this world—yes, like that woman over there, whom I don’t really know, who doesn’t have a name for me—but there must be something to this multiplicity… and then, if he isn’t careful, he will look back at his beloved and no longer see that irreplaceable Juliet, beautiful and blinding as the Sun, rendering all other stars in the heavens as invisible in the sky, but well, he will look at her and see… simply, a woman. And then here begins the frustration, because he sought out a confirmation of his own individuality in her, and now he cannot see it! And he slowly loses all those romantic feelings, those palpitations, the sweating of his palms, which used to indicate this person as something quite different from the rest. Now he cannot feel it! And if he does not revive it soon by some magic or principle that transcends mere sexuality, then he will suddenly meet Sarah, and oh, waitaminute, she’s someone new, and Sarah’s such a nice name… and what if, what if… “oh it’s so hard to belong to someone else, when the right one comes along!”

But that’s not even the theory yet. No, that’s just a symptom.

The real theory goes way deeper than that. It says that sexuality is like the force of gravity, but it’s also not in the same proportion as imagining that you are the Earth, and the beloved is the Moon (or vice versa) and you just keep on revolving around each other. No, that’s the mistake you see, that’s the flattery. But it’s more like you are a tiny, insignificant pebble floating in space, and it is Jupiter that draws you—and in Jupiter you find the whole mass of humankind since the very beginning, the first man, to the end, the last man, billions and billions of particles, drawing you, claiming you, to be just another particle in its immeasurable density—

“But wait! Sexuality was just about the man and the woman, no one else!”

That is usually how the brief objection goes, and it’s funny, because the laws of nature state otherwise, that whether you like it or not, the sexual union sometimes produces a life—and oh, wonder of wonders, that you would not have existed here if not for a certain man and woman pursued their own pleasure. Though in modern society we sometimes live and act as though we were simply “thrown into the world”, as though we simply popped out of thin air, and we are not that dependent on our own parents. And then there is the of course the obsession with contraceptives, and the mindset that a child is such a nuisance to sex. And it’s such an unfortunate event.

But if you were to look at some of the ancients, they knew what it was all about. It was about genealogies, it was about tracing your lineage as far back as it can go. It is recognizing that Adam begot Seth, Seth begot Enosh, Enosh begot Cainan, Cainan begot Mahalaleel, Mahalaleel begot Jared, Jared begot Enoch, and so on, and so on, until you were born, and you too, whom will you beget?… This is the point, this is the point: Don’t you know that your sexuality is the gravity that pulls you back to the whole of humanity? That sexuality is your inclusion in the Body of Adam? That is why it is so hard to resist, and almost impossible to deny. And why people talk about sexuality repressed and suppressed and how dangerous it is, because you might as well deny that all other human beings never existed, and to deny that you have any part at all with every other person on the face of the earth. And it’s so common-sensical, and it’s nothing new at all, except now you have to identify the tension, the deliberate blinding to this fact, especially in modern society.

Because now it’s all about selfishness, or, to make is sound a little nicer, “freedom”. To say, and imagine, that all things begin with you, and you start anew. And it’s all about you, this life. I have no part in Adam, I have no inherent responsibilities to my fellow man, especially now! It’s a dog-eat-dog world out there, every man for himself! And especially, the concept of original sin, of being blamed for the sin of someone else, is so repugnant to me, and I will have nothing to do with it. But if this is really the case then, then why sexuality? Why the longing that renders even the most “rational” mind helpless, dependent, panting for another body? It’s just biology? Go ahead and fool yourself. If man was really free of the other in the way you think, then you know we would all be hermaphrodites. But consider instead the triangulation of life, of two becoming one and then becoming three, is that not a complete mystery? And never, never in isolation, mind you, but repeated above and below the whole line of ancestry…

But you do not want to acknowledge this! You want to say I am free, I am free! But you are not! You are all confused when the sexual juices finally kick up, and really clueless about what it all means, and the forces behind it. You want to look at the sexual act in isolation, “just you and me baby, just you and me”. And you insist that the sexual encounter only proves that you are a separate individual, voluntarily, consciously, drawing closer to another separate individual, and that is all there is—when in reality it is all the forces of humanity from the beginning of time acting on your soul, emphasizing its ownership of you. And you are not so free as you think, but you are part of the Body of Adam, and that is why you can’t control your own body, but it has, as it were, a life of its own.

“But I don’t really want her for her body, I want her for her soul… I… I … love her.”

But when you say this make sure you do not hesitate and you do not stutter. Because you cannot even say this without the foundation of your sexuality already laid down. Why do you even want? Why is there even such a thing? And if you want the fundamental question—it really is the unanswerable question, I tell you, philosophy is scared of it—why are there two sexes? Why any sexes at all? In Genesis it says they were once one: the woman taken out of man, and then from the woman the first begotten man (a far cry from the myth of Aristophanes, which has no notion of birthing, which is precisely the denial of the most important fact). The whole of humanity is just one body, and we are the tiny cells disassembled from the first man and reassembling, and you cannot even rise up to talking about spirituality if you have not first acknowledged this doctrine.

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1532707.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1532707.html Fri, 07 Mar 2008 20:57:38 +0000 Prescript to Life Dearest,

It’s been almost two years since I last wrote to you, but for me it almost feels like just two days. I’ve been thinking a lot about you, and about everything I said back then. So much has changed I don’t even know where to begin. Sometimes I can still feel faint tremors of the life I used to live; it passes over me like a shiver. It’s like a scent that was once so familiar but now so strange. Sometimes I can recall it like I can recall an old photograph, how old photos in an album seem to look at life with a blur, a certain dulling of colors; my memories have that visual thing about them. When I try to remember who I was I almost see a certain tightening around the edges of my vision, like a suffocation of sight. But mostly I guess there’s also an inner physical shiver, when I remember, like the emptying of my chest, like suddenly being out of breath. It’s like my heart dries up all over again, and everything again seems so bleak not just outwardly but inwardly as well. That is the effect of the life I used to live.

I can’t say that I’ve worked all things out, and that I’ve left everything that I was once and for all and suddenly become a saint. But I’m learning so many lessons and I don’t suppose that it’ll ever finally end in this life. One of the things I’ve lately come to grips with is what my former agitation was all about. Sometimes I tend to call it the quest for individuality, and yet, it was an utter and perpetual failing. I think you will understand what I mean. How we sometimes have that intuition that you have to escape from this mindless mass and assert yourself, to make a name for yourself, to find yourself, and though we do not want to admit it, we would like to do so in the same manner as those great names that we ourselves admire, but then again, differently. And I think it’s both the confusion and the dishonesty that makes it a failure from the very start. How you want to find your identity in originality but you never can be original—and this not just in your words, or in your works, but in all aspects of your personality. That you are constantly forced to live a life of illusion, saying I am I, I am myself, but I am really not. And no matter how I insist, it is others who make me who I am. And when that shameless fact confronts me, like the head of a snake peeping out from the basket, I try to cover it up, to pretend it isn’t there, to pretend that I am independent, I am free, but the guilt of inauthenticity slithers and slides beneath my clothes and bites me in my most private parts.

The soul goes crazy, it growls against the world, hisses against every intruder, real or imagined. It tries everything, everything so that it knows that it is still its own, and then is constantly disappointed by its lack of ownership. It’s a vicious cycle, of trying to build yourself from the ground up, and maybe you go up until a certain level, finishing the legs of the sculpture, when suddenly you notice that all the while you’ve been using the tools and instruments that you yourself despise, and then in your panic you pulverize everything you’ve worked on so far, and then call it another opportunity for rebirth—but you never get born again do you? But it’s like humpty-dumpty all over again, being glued together, then being shattered. And again and again you are disgusted by that fact that you have to use the same old shells, dirty, and so very unsanitary.

I think I kept striving for individuality, but I never really knew what it is, and whether it exists, and whether it’s really worth it. And so my personality was tossed around in the waves of my moods, and other people’s opinions, and an over-sensitivity to public fashion. And it’s odd, how the more individual you’d like to be—and you imagine it should mean a concreteness, and consistency—the more you become like a cloud, ever changing and unpredictable, never without a solid form, until the point when you can even evaporate into thin air, into nothing. And yes, I remember those times when I said to myself I loved you, but obviously I really didn’t. And then when finally you were gone I said I missed loving you, and I felt I really did. And how my emotions could vacillate, and oscillate and fluctuate! And even now, when I remember, it almost feels like my bones would like to bend and warp into the most tortuous shapes, and I remember how my soul used to appear like a most wrangled and grotesque figure.

But now, my dear, I’ve experienced a most profound irony. How you can find your life only after you lose it, and not for your own sake. How you can gain everything you’ve ever dreamed and desired only after you give everything up the dreams and desires in total surrender. And it is so easy to mention the Name but I feel I would rather not, but reserve it when we meet, so I can speak the name in front of you with all the reverence and love I can muster. And I would really like for you to see me now, so that you can be sure of the sincerity in my eyes, and make sure that I am not faking it.

And it’s so funny, because for a while, even after losing my life I thought it was still, basically, about me, and the old corpse of a mistaken quest would sometimes try to raise itself up. It sometimes comes to me like an old ghost, like a succubus, a temptation. But the same goals no longer apply. It’s like comparing the hunt for gold when you can leave the worn-out trail behind and find the meaning of life in a secret valley, to spend all your days amidst flowers in full bloom, and the young woman you always loved, in a sacred place where nothing will ever pass away. And then, whereas the hunt for gold only caused a rivalry between every other person who also sought it ought, and you eyed every other person with a suspicion, if not outright hostility, this reward of infinity made you part of a complete and whole Body, made you Somebody, made everything fit together perfectly with you, because the things you now love are loved by so many others, and this love loves in return. And you no longer struggled to find your name because instead of a name you’ve been given a family. You realize your individuality but at the same time, simultaneously, you also witness your negation, your beautiful assimilation, into the greater part, the greater scheme of things. And you can look at another person’s eyes and never again feel that need to assert yourself over and against him, but say, “Brother!”, and then act in compassion, in love, instinctively, or maybe it is action based on something even deeper and primeval than instinct, but on the infinity that remained even before everything began.

I know the things I’m writing now may sound stranger even than before. But my dear, I think I’ve found peace, and I hope to share it with you when we finally meet. But until then, I ask you in advance, please forgive me, please forgive me.

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1531769.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1531769.html Wed, 05 Mar 2008 00:52:47 +0000 Postscript to Suicide Dearest,

I’ve been very schizophrenic lately. I can hardly control my moods, and they’re getting the better of me. Like just a while ago I had already concluded that the world is alright, and all the pieces they suddenly fit together perfectly, with me inside it, what a wonderful vision! But the day hasn’t even ended, only a few hours have past, and here I am again, sinking lower and lower in my own despondency. Why? That’s just the thing, I don’t know why. I feel like a pendulum being swung back and forth, in regular rhythm, except these days the pendulum’s swinging faster, and I almost can’t keep up. And so soon, even within the space of a day, I betray all these lofty conceptions of peace in life, and start to bury my head and my hands in my own mental muck. Why? Why? Why do you keep asking ‘why’? There’s really no why. Except the feeling of satisfaction I get in riding this swing, to the other end. The taste of cowardice which I myself hate, but which is like a sour, tingling taste in the mouth, so very stimulating, and at the same time not only a little repulsive. I fancy part of it may be inherited. You see I have an uncle on my father’s side, he was the eldest of eight. All my life he’s been there in the narrow sides of my vision. Every time I remember him I remember a man sulking silently inside a dirty, spare room of the house, listening to the radio or watching TV, and doing so absently, aimlessly. My parents said he used to have a family, children, a successful business in real estate. And then just one day, in the midst of some domestic quarrel, he just snapped. And he left everything, left everything behind, and left them so he could spend the rest of his life sulking inside a dirty, smelly room, to wade in all his regrets, real and imagined, all the wrongs that life has inflicted upon him, real and imagined, and the worth of his life now rediscovered in stealing from the refrigerator at midnight. And so maybe this is all in the genes, you know? And when I think of it that way it becomes a little more satisfactory, so very behaviorist, so scientific, and for a few minutes it tends to calm me down. But that’s just my schizophrenia acting up again, because from here I’ll start talking about a way up, oh, it’ll slowly build up, from small consolations, bits and pieces and fragments of the life I imagine I’m living, how I’m actually, despite these complications, quite blessed, and let’s do some calculations. And it’s perfectly valid in my opinion. In fact you could say when I do this I’m back in my right state of mind. And then, being so infinitely blessed, I’ll bow down on my knees and lift my hands up high—and, sincerely, mind you—to thank Heaven for everything it’s given. Oh, in one brief moment I almost catch a glimpse of eternity spreading out before me! And if only it would generously spread itself over me then things would be permanent finally! Like clouds in all their various and shifting scenery. Did I tell you how much I love clouds? Why, I think they’re nature’s most spectacular artwork, and probably its own rendition of all the pitiful, human abstract art movements. Clouds are so moody, haven’t you noticed? Like just in the morning you’ll stare at the sky and everything looks so serene, and the clouds flatten themselves out like a golden dish, and the sun yawns in anticipation of a new beginning—but say, the day hasn’t even ended and soon the sky is covered in a cancer of gray, suffocating, overbearing, tons and tons of weight pressing the air down, until the sky just becomes one massive cloud, and it explodes in a fury of tears. I think my life is very cloud-like. Or at least in my more light-hearted moment I imagine such a thought, it’s quite sentimental, don’t you think, almost very romantic… not to mention very self-inflating, telling myself I’m like a cloud, or clouds, aerial and dreamy. But even that won’t last long, or rather, when it does last long enough it always causes a great, big storm. And then the pendulum swings back, and oh how fast it does! And I really can’t keep up with this frenzy of ups and downs, and it’s leaving me disoriented. And before I know it I’m composing a suicide note, and I really mean it sincerely, I could do it you know. Or well, I’m not so sure, do you think I really will? I feel as though, even if I were able to write this to the end, the moment I sign my name the world would suddenly look brighter, and then I’ll tell myself again, come now, let’s not fret. Things aren’t really that bad, and it’s all in your head. But even in the midst of that, an inner, suppressed voice will be crying: oh, you fake! You two-timer, see it through to the very end, and stop all this blabbering that postpones—but it’s a curious thing too. Because I don’t really look forward to dying, more than that wonderful possibility that I’ll commit suicide and yet, oh by an honest mistake of my efforts, I’ll survive. And what a wonderful bragging right that would be! Then I can walk around the world and look down on everyone who’s sank down to the depths of depression—but never had the courage, the daring, like I did, to see it through! And what wonderful, poetic authority I should have from then on, to sometimes confide to other people, in hushed tones, with a very serious look in my eye, that one day I committed suicide, and I almost died, and to watch that confused, worried, sympathetic, and worshipful expression on their faces! And then I’d be able to get away with anything at all. Because I’ll always have the excuse that I was as good as dead anyway, and now I’m just savoring the bonus for everything it’s worth. Oh dearest, you don’t mind me calling you dearest, do you? You know you’re really not, but it gives this note a very melodramatic feel to it, as though I were capable of a very deep, intimate relationship. Now that I know I won’t be able to push through with suicide, it only makes me feel worse. Because I won’t be able to advance one step before a more practical, say almost religious, consideration in me kicks in. I mean, don’t laugh at me because I’ll just laugh at you in return, but aren’t you afraid of hell? There, I know you’re laughing at me. But really, what do I care whether you laugh or not? It’s not like I really consider what you think. A childhood friend of mine committed suicide and died. I heard it when I was in high school. The last time I saw her we were barely in elementary. I thought she was a nice girl, I remember we played Nintendo in their garage, and they had a very spacious home, and she had a chubby little sister. From what my parents told me, she killed herself because of low self esteem. Probably her high school classmates took the teasing a little too far. I’m very much afraid my dear, that she’s in hell. How do I know it? Maybe because I think I’m destined for hell too, and my split personality, a religious freak, he’s freaking merciless. And I know all about Jesus, and I also know that I can’t go there, though sometimes I want to, but sometimes I’m decided I shan’t. And don’t you know—I’m really shameless, so depraved—I make fun of Jesus sometimes, and I want you to hate me, despise me, sometimes during Sundays when my parents drag me to church, I sit through the whole service and think about sex. And I feel so daring, so in-your-face, so perverted! God-damn, and all that. I’m the world’s kind of rebel. Oh, oh, no, no, love me! Love me, my dear! I’m a miserable wretch! Can you see now why I even begun this suicide note? I wonder how it’ll all end. How long do I have to live? But it’s not like it really bothers me, though in my more noble moments I believe it does. But I think it’s this misery that will make me lovable. There, I confess it. I sometimes want to be like a wounded puppy dog being cuddled in your arms. I know I’m base, I’m complicated, but if you’ll only say that you’ll love me anyway, that you’ll take me in, what would that be! Oh, that would be just sweet divine! But wait, I can’t promise you I’ll love you back in return, but I know in the future I’ll only hurt you, and don’t be surprised if one day, when my moods get the best of me, I go sleeping with another woman. It’s just like that. That’s just the way I am, I’m so, so complex. At least I’m telling you all of these things in advance. And I know it sounds like I think very much of myself, because, well, I really do. But won’t you love me, please, just the same? I can be a good man. Save me from myself.

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1530811.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1530811.html Sat, 01 Mar 2008 19:10:27 +0000 Dream Bubbles I saw people walking around with bubbles floating round their heads, like space helmets, like spherical haloes. And inside these bubbles are the things which only the person can see, and which I could only catch faint glimmers of from the surface. In fact, it was much harder to tell what their bubbles softly glinted because I confess, I knew I was wearing one myself. Inside each bubble you’ll find personal scenes of life, colorful movements, hopes and dreams spreading out into concrete light, transforming every object of vision in accordance with its own texture. Some people simply call it “the way you see the world”, and in one way they are right, but in another they are wrong. Because it is not always in your control how this world portrays itself to you, but in most cases you have no choice but to live and breathe the air of your own private world, with its familiar scents of ambition, and its comfortable colors of expectancy.

And maybe in one clear, perspicuous moment, when you catch a quick glimpse of these bubbles, like the glimmer of a thread of spider web, you will learn that there is no such thing as an “objective world”, at least as can ever be experienced by any human being, but only God can. But the human world is only the inside-bubble, and the imagination that there is even an outside is a product of the inside. And take this illustration even further, that if you took away your bubble, like an astronaut unscrewing his helmet in deep space, there would suddenly be no air to breathe, and the lack of pressure will cause your very soul to explode. Because what makes this reality bearable is only the air of your aspirations, which is the true oxygen for respiration.

===

This guy was wearing a pretty strong bubble, in fact it reminded me somewhat of a knight’s helmet, and it was more silver than transparent. You could say, it was almost ‘material’. When I tried speaking about sin, salvation and the ethereal, he politely assented but it did not pass through. Because his bubble-world wanted to be solid and concrete, and so did his hopes and dreams. And it meant finding love in the things that the fingertips can touch, and the tastebuds can taste, and the limbs can embrace. And even if I told him with all sincerity that these things would not last, and they are not worth sacrificing the eternal-moral, it did not register a truth in his world: but rather he believed with all his heart that, no, no matter, in this bubble of mine the objects would remain concrete as diamonds. And so happiness is made up of a new loft, a new car, and spending every next paycheck on a shiny little gadget, or a wonderful binge in the fancy restaurant down the street, or sliding under the sheets with his unwed lover. And in his world there was little room for the abstract and invisible, but it must be abstracts made concrete, like a list of accomplishments etched in stone, memorial plaques, printed photographs, and token souvenirs. And I said, well, what about eternity? And he said, well what about it? Eternity is this, happiness is this, and in fact he was right, in his own private way he was right. In his bubble the air was dense, and it condensed, and it solidified. And I tried pricking it with a needle but my needle bent.

But what will happen when it is God’s turn to burst all bubbles?

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1530214.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1530214.html Thu, 28 Feb 2008 18:43:15 +0000 A Fictition She lays there all curled up in bed, no one else in the room. It’s here in the enveloping of the night, in the silence all full and pregnant, that her fantasy breathes life, whirling around like a colorful whirlpool, siphoning into her soul. With her head resting on the pillow, and her mind stretching and tensing like her limbs except inside the blanket of imagination and possibility, reaching the inside-outside time, into the invisible realm of hope.

You see, she’s just met someone new. And he was very nice at work today, and when he smiled he smiled with a shining promise. And this first impression was so powerful, like the shining ray of sunlight after a cloudy storm. She hasn’t really known him that long. To tell you the truth they’ve really only met in person less than three times. But she’s done her homework, yes she has, checking out his profile over the net, asking around, even secretly keeping a neat little photograph of her new find. And she doesn’t really remember much of anything they spoke of when they were together, except that every now and then he’d insert a nice little flirtatious remark, like a bright and shiny lure, and oh he’d say it with the utmost confidence, like an experienced fisher who sees through the surface of the waters, into the depths where light can hardly reach. And now she wonders, can this person perhaps see into mine?

Because if he could then he would know everything she’s been through, and maybe here’s someone who can finally understand. How her last relationship was a complete mess, and it’s left her stained and broken, and even now she’s still suffering and the scars still hurt. And all her life she’s only wished for some good thing, perhaps a love song suddenly made alive, and someone she can simply adore. And she feels so empty here, in this room, in this bed, and she strains to imagine him there, body, soul, snuggling by her side. And not only that, oh, but let a new thing come over her, wash over her, and let this man open a realm of possibilities.

And lying there, the mental film starts to play, the room’s emptiness is brought to vivid fullness, and the darkness blooms bright, and she imagines life: how maybe tomorrow or the next day she’ll open up to his advances and she’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. And she imagines how this guy will surely treat her right, and that his love will certainly be true. What else can it be if not that? After all, after her last shipwreck the universe can only conspire for something better. And so, in the alone-ness of alone, she imagines the conversations that will transpire between them, the certain witty remarks that will be scented with honesty, and desire, and how her eyes will twinkle as it reflects his. She starts imagining how the next time he passes by the cubicle to say “hello”, she’ll give him more than just a casual smile, but a smile full of her excited being, tingling, tantalized. And how he, in the sensitivity of his soul, will surely pursue this wonderful, unique beginnings of what can only be love.

And then he’ll ask her out, yes, maybe to that nice fancy restaurant a block away. And he’ll be the perfect gentleman, even pulling her chair before she sits down. And over some fancy bread and a cup of coffee they’ll share each other’s lives, and oh what a revelation it’ll be! How they’ve had so many similar experiences, and how they have so much in common. And he’ll tell her the most interesting jokes and stories, and she’ll laugh like a child. They won’t even notice the time until the restaurant starts to close, everyone’s left and it’s late past midnight. The conversation was too good to end, every fiber of their lives connected like a new fabric, and she’s never had a meeting-point like this, so innocent, and so full of promise. But it's late, and being the gentleman he’ll offer to drive her home, they’ll have moments of profound silence, as she stares out the window at dancing city lights, and as he heaves a sigh. They’ll walk up to her place with a newly discovered shyness, playful now with their touches, and upon reaching the door he’ll give her a glistening kiss, saying this night he’ll go away, but maybe one day soon he’ll come in. And it will be a kiss ladened with respect, and nobility, stretching the possibilities even further, into more than just a casual romance but something that comes closer to forever.

And so she dreams this even before she sleeps, and as she dreams this dream she can hardly sleep. And sometimes the scenes venture even further, into a marriage saturated with loyalty, sometimes into the waking heat of passion, and sometimes into the most serene and intimate union of souls. On him she is building up a new future from the ruins of her former life. She promises to herself that this time it will be different, this time she will work hard for her happiness, that this time she won't be disappointed. She sleeps, she sleeps it over, and she tells herself that she definitely won't be disappointed...

]]> http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1528529.html http://tabulas.com/~jeremiah/1528529.html Sat, 23 Feb 2008 16:45:53 +0000