When my mother took her life, she took the life she had helped me build with her. Everything that was bright and exciting in my life was built on the steady foundation of her support and encouragement.
I do not know why she thought her death was a positive decision. Did she not have faith in me, as I had faith in her? Did she not believe that a mother and son are always such?
I struggle now for a heart to expose myself to, and find only indifference, sex, philosophy, vapid suggestions, poetry and an impenetrable apathy and nihilism.
What we call hope in this world is willful denial, blind adherence to preordained goals in an ever-changing and complex world.
What we call faith is a blind and violent destruction of everything truthful and real, a raising up of banalities and plastic figurines in defiance of the Supreme Divinity forever visible to those those brave enough to look.
What we call love hesitantly peeks through the routines of convenience and humour, terrified of the intensity and perversity and filthy nudity of a love that penetrates us everywhere - fiercely in a single shared moment - and doesn't necessarily result in contracts and domestic arrangements.
We fill our sadness with objects - not too beautiful, not too sexy - pathetic in their limits. Not to remind us of our best moments - exuberant, dangerous - authority and culture forgotten!
Before paranoia, before the ugliness and violence of the world became so unavoidably central, before fear of the world, I had a mother who believed in me, who knew what I knew, though our irrelevant thoughts were different. I had a life that stretched out into a future, out into a world - out into a world that would be breathless and impressed in my presence.
Now there is a pervasive silence and endless empty streets in identical cities all over the planet. Nowhere to go when everywhere is the same. Familiarity in the most extreme. No one to be shocked. No one to hold me unselfishly. No one I would go to unselfishly myself.
She made her decision, sucked her life out via the portal of a common poison. So common we all spew it out into the atmosphere every day. We all kill ourselves and each other little by little daily, pretending we're alive.
The world is dying and my mother told me with her own death.
She gave me life, love, hope, and then she cursed me with a lifetime in knowledge that we're all dead.
I can never forgive her, cos she's not here to forgive; I cannot resent her cos she's not here to resent.
There are seven billion humans on this planet and not one of them is my mother.
My father is a teenager. My best friends are all infants and I am supposed to pretend to be an adult.
I am an unweaned baby with no breast to suckle on.
The religions and entertainments my countrymen suckle make me sick. The dairy industry my nation is built on is not a viable source of nutrition. Eating and fasting make me feel equally disgusting. The houses I was raised in make me feel weak and humiliated.
She's dead and the son she knew is dead. There's a man sitting here, writing. A man she will never know.
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
Showing posts with label mother. Show all posts
2013-08-30
2012-02-01
The demonic artifice of instrumentality take 4
This is the first excerpt from the audio version of my book "How Australia Made Me An Anarchist", soon to be available in full.
The demonic artifice of instrumentality take 4
The original text is also available.
The demonic artifice of instrumentality take 4
The original text is also available.
2011-08-02
The demonic artifice of instrumentality
We discuss it in jest with healthy minds but it is happening to us, has been happening and will happen. We have been blinded by the doctrines of Universal Education as a common good and the First World as the epitome of terrestrial life. Our culture is our blind spot because it prevents us, everywhere it is present, from correctly perceiving reality. We are at unconscious odds with our own creation and we do not recognise our predicament, bound as we are by the illusion of good versus evil and the consequential arbitrary distinctions of what belongs to which category. When we wake up from our self-imposed psychotic delusion through the healing pain of massive trauma we will perceive an environment in constant change but with fundamental unchangeables, such as the portal of death and the process of decay.
A war is being fought behind our eyes, so close we cannot see it, between humanity, the terrestrial creature of breath and water, and the extra-terrestrial, a linguistic creation that does not exist in the traditional sense but none-the-less exerts a great influence on our mutagenic lives. This extra-terrestrial has been worshipped as Jahweh, condemned as Satan, but each attempt to name, and therefore destroy, the influence of the creation has been culturally assimilated by the creation itself and today it flaunts every futile attempt to disempower it as "cultural diversity" or "freedom of religion" or the tragic loss of what has become "art" to cultural assimilation.
Within every human soul there is a desire to destroy the artifice of our creation, a desire to reach through the non-existent veil of human superiority and touch beauty. A daring few step beyond the veil, experience beauty and try to communicate it or share it with their lovers. Those amongst these precious few who manage to get their message out, who may or may not have been crucified in their own day, are today being mass-produced by Penguin and are available everywhere for $9.95. Those who were once burned at the stake and condemned as heretics or witches, a practice we now condemn as "inhuman", are now being hailed as "artists" and "scientists" and are burned on the slow fire of material wealth and the perverse attention of fame.
The smart use the trenches dug by the alien to send messages to sympathetic heretics across the world and around the corner; the desperate destroy themselves in public, screaming obscenities and slogans. Some find love and decide to share their love with only one in private in a secure kingdom, but even love has been culturally assimilated as heterosexual monogamy and this behaviour soon results in children who must be sacrificed to the greater good of Human Superiority and at the age of six they are handed over to the State and the extra-terrestrial influence, having relied on the tenuous grip of television and materialism, proceeds to systematically destroy their ability to process sensory data autonomously and ridicules their intuitive connection to the earth, to each other, and to their own body, until it can easily be labelled "superstition", "paganism", "psychic powers" or "mental illness".
At every step of the process we give our consent for it to continue. Rather than shed ourselves of its obvious poisons, such as alcohol and nicotine, and therefore begin the process of examining its relatively non-existent poisons, such as ideology and shame, we become addicted to everything that temporarily removes us from the illusion and thus cling to the veil like a helpless baby, having glimpsed the vast expanse of reality on the other side, rather than tearing it down easily with our own weight.
We are fundamentally perverse, our perversions have taken us here and our perversions can break us out. We find love or beauty or truth and we greedily drink it all up and cling to the empty plastic bottle as it begins the slow process of decaying in the sun over thousands of years. We stumble upon a lover and we suffocate them to death with the perversity of our love and then we fuck their corpse until their bodies break and then we consume their rotten flesh until we're violently ill; this we call romantic love.
There is also the love of the mother, who gives us life and lets us go into the chaos and freedom of the world and whose form then falls back naturally and selflessly and becomes the topsoil from which our own children sprout; but we place the mother who gave us life into hospitals and nursing homes, where she is attached to machines and institutions which artificially and tortuously prolong a spent life in a decomposing body. We then cruelly exhibit her to our children like some sort of demented artifact.
We are under the influence of an extra-terrestrial force of our own creation that we fail to recognise as our own. We believe that extra-terrestrials come out of the sky in flying discs and we even see these creatures and call them angels and gods and reptilians.
We do not consider why we feel pain or see beauty, we simply label one "bad", the other "good", and satisfied we continue to perpetuate our own entrapment, lamenting the strain and envying the free and turning a blind eye when the unlocked shackles fall open and the policeman taps us gently on the head with his baton and pushes them closed.
"The demonic artifice of instrumentality" (Terence McKenna)
A war is being fought behind our eyes, so close we cannot see it, between humanity, the terrestrial creature of breath and water, and the extra-terrestrial, a linguistic creation that does not exist in the traditional sense but none-the-less exerts a great influence on our mutagenic lives. This extra-terrestrial has been worshipped as Jahweh, condemned as Satan, but each attempt to name, and therefore destroy, the influence of the creation has been culturally assimilated by the creation itself and today it flaunts every futile attempt to disempower it as "cultural diversity" or "freedom of religion" or the tragic loss of what has become "art" to cultural assimilation.
Within every human soul there is a desire to destroy the artifice of our creation, a desire to reach through the non-existent veil of human superiority and touch beauty. A daring few step beyond the veil, experience beauty and try to communicate it or share it with their lovers. Those amongst these precious few who manage to get their message out, who may or may not have been crucified in their own day, are today being mass-produced by Penguin and are available everywhere for $9.95. Those who were once burned at the stake and condemned as heretics or witches, a practice we now condemn as "inhuman", are now being hailed as "artists" and "scientists" and are burned on the slow fire of material wealth and the perverse attention of fame.
The smart use the trenches dug by the alien to send messages to sympathetic heretics across the world and around the corner; the desperate destroy themselves in public, screaming obscenities and slogans. Some find love and decide to share their love with only one in private in a secure kingdom, but even love has been culturally assimilated as heterosexual monogamy and this behaviour soon results in children who must be sacrificed to the greater good of Human Superiority and at the age of six they are handed over to the State and the extra-terrestrial influence, having relied on the tenuous grip of television and materialism, proceeds to systematically destroy their ability to process sensory data autonomously and ridicules their intuitive connection to the earth, to each other, and to their own body, until it can easily be labelled "superstition", "paganism", "psychic powers" or "mental illness".
At every step of the process we give our consent for it to continue. Rather than shed ourselves of its obvious poisons, such as alcohol and nicotine, and therefore begin the process of examining its relatively non-existent poisons, such as ideology and shame, we become addicted to everything that temporarily removes us from the illusion and thus cling to the veil like a helpless baby, having glimpsed the vast expanse of reality on the other side, rather than tearing it down easily with our own weight.
We are fundamentally perverse, our perversions have taken us here and our perversions can break us out. We find love or beauty or truth and we greedily drink it all up and cling to the empty plastic bottle as it begins the slow process of decaying in the sun over thousands of years. We stumble upon a lover and we suffocate them to death with the perversity of our love and then we fuck their corpse until their bodies break and then we consume their rotten flesh until we're violently ill; this we call romantic love.
There is also the love of the mother, who gives us life and lets us go into the chaos and freedom of the world and whose form then falls back naturally and selflessly and becomes the topsoil from which our own children sprout; but we place the mother who gave us life into hospitals and nursing homes, where she is attached to machines and institutions which artificially and tortuously prolong a spent life in a decomposing body. We then cruelly exhibit her to our children like some sort of demented artifact.
We are under the influence of an extra-terrestrial force of our own creation that we fail to recognise as our own. We believe that extra-terrestrials come out of the sky in flying discs and we even see these creatures and call them angels and gods and reptilians.
We do not consider why we feel pain or see beauty, we simply label one "bad", the other "good", and satisfied we continue to perpetuate our own entrapment, lamenting the strain and envying the free and turning a blind eye when the unlocked shackles fall open and the policeman taps us gently on the head with his baton and pushes them closed.
"The demonic artifice of instrumentality" (Terence McKenna)
2010-12-18
Es un mundo pequeño
I have always known what it feels like to be loved. As a child my mother loved me and this was not the mundane love of sitcoms and romantic comedies; I knew that long before I had a language to express it. I grew up in a land where my mother's love was not taken away from me so people on the other side of the world can drink coffee and eat bananas. Rather, my mother was always at home when I finished school and the New Zealand government paid her a domestic purposes benefit to facilitate her love. Every idea of love I was taught by Walt Disney and my Sunday school teachers was superseded by the true love I experienced every day of my life and I grew up with the truth that resounded throughout my entire body and so had little time for the truth that rattled around in my confused head.
Before she met my father, my mother was beaten by her husband, the man she was in love with and married, pregnant, at the age of 18. It was 1968 and until then she had known only the love of her kind and gentle father and her two older brothers who would take her out and look after her. She thought that a man should honour and protect a woman until she discovered a different type of love; a love that makes a woman beg her husband not to leave her after years of abuse.
My mother taught me that a man should not hit a woman. My mother taught me that words like "cunt" are offensive to women and a nice boy like me should not use them. While my other values slowly formed amidst the cultural noise I grew up surrounded by I knew in every cell of my body that a man should not hurt a woman. I also knew that a man should not have sex with another man, which is the lesser evil of merely "disgusting". So I wasn't entirely confident of what to do when my love starting swarming up from loins to my brain in swirling streams of desperate desire. I was 11 years old. I liked to kiss girls, but I liked to feel the presence of the body of the boys warm and thick beside me. It was clear to me early that the rough dirty physical nature of my sexuality would be more appropriately aimed at boys than girls.
I have always been loved and it was true love when Bobby Bish and I dreamed about each others' naked flesh. It was true love when my friend was older than me, sexually experienced, and we watched The Graduate together and my mother feared that we must be having sex but I was more scared than anybody of her sexuality. It was true love when Jane and I found each other and she was 33 and I was 17 and she was married and I was virginous and we kissed for hours and found little or no context in which to express our love for one another and when we sat in the front seat of her car and she asked me what I wanted I couldn't tell her that I wanted to be inside her so I simply pulled her towards me in a directive manner and she said no because we don't have any condoms and now our love is just a memory held in the recesses of my body where apparently a great deal of love can be stored for many years.
I wonder about the love my mother stored in her flesh when after 35 years of trying to sustain love through heterosexual monogamy she told me, "I've always found women more attractive than men. If I grew up when you grew up I probably would have called myself a lesbian. But I chose men." When I told her I "am" "gay" this is what she told me. She knew before I did that this is how I would express myself in this life. Eight years later I wander around staring at men and wanting to touch them and the ones I stare at are no longer 13 years old and my homosexuality is no longer a secret and yet still my desire is not being manifest as the physical act of love within heterosexual monogamy or homosexual promiscuity or by any other means. I am as far away from marriage as I have ever been and I respect and honour women as much as I ever did and yet no woman holds me at night and draws me into her body and her vast abundance and I am not sure I want that, I'm not sure I would prefer a man to take into my mouth.
Perhaps it is too dangerous to fall in love with a woman because I know that falling in love is losing control and if I fall in love with a woman she may just accept me and I would be lost. Perhaps it is safer to fall in love with men, especially men who don't know how to express themselves. It is real love because I see the beauty inside of them and I understand why it does not come out. I write stories about the blossoming of the hidden beauty inside of me and I pretend that my love will draw them out of their protective shell but the silent projection of my fantasies produces nothing but masturbation and confusion. I would like to think that one day I will fall in love with some beautiful man at precisely the time in his life he decides he wants his beauty to be seen by the world. I visualise some sort of committed relationship, kissing each other on the lips before we go to work, but I don't understand what monogamy is so I don't know how I will sustain it for the rest of my life.
Why is there so much silence at the core of all this cultural noise about sexuality? Why do we make so many jokes when we can't even look each other in the eyes without filling the air with banal language vibrations? What does it mean that only in the most loving and accepting places in our society am I allowed to expose my body as if I have nothing to be ashamed of and yet even in these places there is the unspoken certainty that if my penis becomes erect it also becomes inappropriate, even unacceptable? I have the idea that other people have a more fluid experience of touching than I do, less uncertainty and tension around hugging or making love or wrestling naked in the mud but I am not sure because only my experience is recorded in my body. I do know that every human being on this planet wants to be touched and to touch.
I imply that I am sad, and yet throughout my life I have witnessed my ability to express myself expand beyond limits I previously never conceived of. It seems to me this process will continue and soon love will flow through me as effortlessly as the water I drink and it will cleanse me, taking with it all the impurities I have collected. This effortless flow will transform the part of the universe in my vicinity with an aura of beauty the power of which is not yet imaginable. Okay, I said, I'm no longer ashamed of my love for you. Just because you are a man and you are beautiful and you probably consider yourself heterosexual does not mean you don't want to be touched.
My mother used to give me hugs that would fill my being with the certainty of love and security the memory of which has never left my body even though I can't remember in my brain what these hugs felt like. One time I hugged her and I felt blood swell to my penis and I realised that the physical manifestations of love are not always straight forward.
And while I hunch over the keyboard attempting to say something meaningful about love to post for the entire planet to read I am interrupted by two naked little Estonian girls offering me milk and singing "It's a small world after all" in Spanish, saying more than I have in hours of typing.
Before she met my father, my mother was beaten by her husband, the man she was in love with and married, pregnant, at the age of 18. It was 1968 and until then she had known only the love of her kind and gentle father and her two older brothers who would take her out and look after her. She thought that a man should honour and protect a woman until she discovered a different type of love; a love that makes a woman beg her husband not to leave her after years of abuse.
My mother taught me that a man should not hit a woman. My mother taught me that words like "cunt" are offensive to women and a nice boy like me should not use them. While my other values slowly formed amidst the cultural noise I grew up surrounded by I knew in every cell of my body that a man should not hurt a woman. I also knew that a man should not have sex with another man, which is the lesser evil of merely "disgusting". So I wasn't entirely confident of what to do when my love starting swarming up from loins to my brain in swirling streams of desperate desire. I was 11 years old. I liked to kiss girls, but I liked to feel the presence of the body of the boys warm and thick beside me. It was clear to me early that the rough dirty physical nature of my sexuality would be more appropriately aimed at boys than girls.
I have always been loved and it was true love when Bobby Bish and I dreamed about each others' naked flesh. It was true love when my friend was older than me, sexually experienced, and we watched The Graduate together and my mother feared that we must be having sex but I was more scared than anybody of her sexuality. It was true love when Jane and I found each other and she was 33 and I was 17 and she was married and I was virginous and we kissed for hours and found little or no context in which to express our love for one another and when we sat in the front seat of her car and she asked me what I wanted I couldn't tell her that I wanted to be inside her so I simply pulled her towards me in a directive manner and she said no because we don't have any condoms and now our love is just a memory held in the recesses of my body where apparently a great deal of love can be stored for many years.
I wonder about the love my mother stored in her flesh when after 35 years of trying to sustain love through heterosexual monogamy she told me, "I've always found women more attractive than men. If I grew up when you grew up I probably would have called myself a lesbian. But I chose men." When I told her I "am" "gay" this is what she told me. She knew before I did that this is how I would express myself in this life. Eight years later I wander around staring at men and wanting to touch them and the ones I stare at are no longer 13 years old and my homosexuality is no longer a secret and yet still my desire is not being manifest as the physical act of love within heterosexual monogamy or homosexual promiscuity or by any other means. I am as far away from marriage as I have ever been and I respect and honour women as much as I ever did and yet no woman holds me at night and draws me into her body and her vast abundance and I am not sure I want that, I'm not sure I would prefer a man to take into my mouth.
Perhaps it is too dangerous to fall in love with a woman because I know that falling in love is losing control and if I fall in love with a woman she may just accept me and I would be lost. Perhaps it is safer to fall in love with men, especially men who don't know how to express themselves. It is real love because I see the beauty inside of them and I understand why it does not come out. I write stories about the blossoming of the hidden beauty inside of me and I pretend that my love will draw them out of their protective shell but the silent projection of my fantasies produces nothing but masturbation and confusion. I would like to think that one day I will fall in love with some beautiful man at precisely the time in his life he decides he wants his beauty to be seen by the world. I visualise some sort of committed relationship, kissing each other on the lips before we go to work, but I don't understand what monogamy is so I don't know how I will sustain it for the rest of my life.
Why is there so much silence at the core of all this cultural noise about sexuality? Why do we make so many jokes when we can't even look each other in the eyes without filling the air with banal language vibrations? What does it mean that only in the most loving and accepting places in our society am I allowed to expose my body as if I have nothing to be ashamed of and yet even in these places there is the unspoken certainty that if my penis becomes erect it also becomes inappropriate, even unacceptable? I have the idea that other people have a more fluid experience of touching than I do, less uncertainty and tension around hugging or making love or wrestling naked in the mud but I am not sure because only my experience is recorded in my body. I do know that every human being on this planet wants to be touched and to touch.
I imply that I am sad, and yet throughout my life I have witnessed my ability to express myself expand beyond limits I previously never conceived of. It seems to me this process will continue and soon love will flow through me as effortlessly as the water I drink and it will cleanse me, taking with it all the impurities I have collected. This effortless flow will transform the part of the universe in my vicinity with an aura of beauty the power of which is not yet imaginable. Okay, I said, I'm no longer ashamed of my love for you. Just because you are a man and you are beautiful and you probably consider yourself heterosexual does not mean you don't want to be touched.
My mother used to give me hugs that would fill my being with the certainty of love and security the memory of which has never left my body even though I can't remember in my brain what these hugs felt like. One time I hugged her and I felt blood swell to my penis and I realised that the physical manifestations of love are not always straight forward.
And while I hunch over the keyboard attempting to say something meaningful about love to post for the entire planet to read I am interrupted by two naked little Estonian girls offering me milk and singing "It's a small world after all" in Spanish, saying more than I have in hours of typing.
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