Eternal damnation

March 5, 2011

How much can the truth hurt? This question arose in my head when assessing my own life. I was very ambitious. And those ambitions were never met. I have a wonderful family and friends. I have met many interesting people. I have fallen in love with some wonderful women. And yet, my conclusion regarding my life is that I failed. Failed to become what I had aspired toward. When I state this (and I don’t do so often) people are taken back. But to my mind, it is the truth. And admitting the truth does not alter my life… I want to take it up a notch. If humanity were of no importance. (Imagining that there is no God.) If we were just a life form on a small planet in the middle of nowhere. If we were the only life form in the universe. We would be beyond insignificant. Our presence in the universe would amount to zero. Would that matter? And if it was the truth and we admitted it, would it make any difference? Facing the truth is not daunting. There is a group of people who faced this issue. Eons ago. It was the ancient Greeks. Who turned away from the gods and thrust themselves naked into existence. Look at what they produced. There is another example. A fictional character in a novel. Huck Finn. He turned away from his society and looked at the world with open eyes. He would help his friend, Jim, even if it meant (and he believed it would) going to eternal damnation. Personally, I don’t want to leave this life with my fingers crossed.


A cloud in trousers

March 5, 2011

There was a young man. A poet. At university with me. He looked like a  poet.  He was Hungarian, I think. And he was always prepared to discuss his poetry with me. ‘I could never get it’. So he would explain. Even his explanations seemed vague. It was as if he lived in a universe with his own private symbols, relationships, ideas. And they were all inaccessible to most people. Although he did have his followers. I find a lot of contemporary poetry  is like that. Inaccessible. Concerning itself with minute almost biological reactions to experience. Of course we all have our own tastes. In poetry, I love T. S. Eliot. But honestly, am bored by Ezra Pound. In ideas, I get Hegel. But am bewildered by Heidegger. In music, I love Tom Waits but am bored by the Rollingstones. So I get ‘tastes’. What I am talking about is something akin to ‘B.S.’ Except that these poets are very sincere. There was a revolutionary Russian poet (whose name eludes me) who described some public figure as ‘a cloud in trousers’. Now, that’s poetry.

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