A Manifesto

Ours is a nation of insecurity and arrogance.

Our idols are false and we know this

(yet we continue to pursue them as ideals).

We perpetuate a profoundly deep and damaging existential crisis

as we seek these impossible (and inhuman) standards:

gods that never existed

in whose image we were not created

and with power they do not have

damn us to continue in an existence we do not want.

but it is the only existence we have.

We hold them up, these golden calves,

though their enhanced features disappoint our mirrors,

and their success is but a smelting of our tawdry desires,

of them we are so proud—

whose can compare with ours?!—

And the dissonance continues

because we know that these gods will never be,

and that we will never be these gods,

that we’ve placed our meaning in the meaningless.

But we are so proud.

And we do not match up.

But we are all we are.

We fear intimacy

and out of this fear we bastardize it.

We fear vulnerability

and out of this fear we lose our chance to matter.

We fear failure

and out of this fear we fail—

we fail to try,

we fail to live,

we fail to be human.

But human is all we can be.

Let us reject this insecurity.

Let us reject this arrogance.

Let us live

to try

to be.

"i think leprechauns are good at poker"

There’s something to be said about a man that will live in the context of the difficult things.

For years I’ve listened to David Bazan’s trying and honest exploration of his religious tradition, and life in general, in light of experience. The product of what must have been (and perhaps still is) a distressing challenge to his identity, Bazan has used his hard-earned wisdom to give a voice to an unrecognized margin: those pursuing Truth and arriving at something painfully near nihilism.

It’s a hard world.

I’m glad to have David Bazan articulate its challenges.

I can only extol the living room tour on which Bazan is currently performing. Sitting there among 30ish other people pressed into a stranger’s living room, all yearning for the catharsis of sorrow expressed, the intimacy of a small audience in close quarters is almost necessary. He willingly experiences the trials of his music alongside us, talking about both trivial and profound things between songs, helping us process what we’re going through with him.

And he maintains contentment throughout.

He is characterized by a humble recognition of the solidarity of humanness.

He is realistic in his understanding of life.

He loves his family

and he is a real human being.

don’t think twice, it’s alright

what if tomorrow I don’t wake up?

this isn’t a morbid or even particularly dark reflection,

but simply recognition that life

is fleeting.

we

are fragile.

sometimes I focus a bit too much on fragility,

on inevitability and the consequent inconsequential-ism.

and this should lead me to release from concern,

but I remain concerned.

and that should lead me to action,

but I’m tired.

so, what if I don’t wake up?

I say, “sleep is good.

and you’ll be fine.”

but you contest,

“fine is the worst,

and sleep isn’t sleep

without dreams.”

fine might be the worst,
but contentment might be
for what we really hope.

and who said I wouldn’t dream?

I dream now,

and metaphor is only animated by loss of logic.

and, to us now, what is death but that:

the animation of our greatest metaphors?

and what is a metaphor but extrapolation

of things seen unto things unseen,

or rather of things understood

unto things not understood,

or rather,

in the case of the problems of consciousness,

of this tangible world

unto that sublime slumber that

draws each of us in:

as our heads nod and our eyes get heavy,

as perception disconnects and emotionalism overcomes (and how),

as the hour grows late and the birds awake

surely we’ll fear not that infinite slumber,

but instead yearn for a cosmic pillow.

and if I don’t wake up,

that’s ok—
I've a decent command of metaphor.

when life became Meta

It strikes me as humorous that humans expend such energy researching the human.

I think back to the dawn of consciousness. I imagine recognizing that I was recognizing.

The exploration of reality from that point has taken place in baby steps. Those baby steps have us now studying the mind in a sort of Meta Meta: we are now awkwardly aware of our existence.

With consciousness came an existential fear: we needed meaning and something after to appease our awareness of death (enter religion). Now, as consciousness itself becomes old news, we settle into a soft nihilism: a shrinking world begot relativity that bred atheism and a lack of significance.

What’s next?

Probably a swing back in the cycle.

We’ll move from an overly objective approach to existence to a romantic understanding of reality, from expansion to contentment, from science to religion, from constructing meaning to… well, constructing meaning.

and I tell myself again, “it is still a beautiful world”

It’s easy to miss where we’ve been.

I think our best defense mechanism is how we romanticize history: I have no doubt that my past was not as marvelous as I remember it to be,

yet I allow the perfection of those days

to inform the perception of these days.

I entertain a stoic sentimentality.

I understand far too well how very distant the past is, but my heart has been hardened to the hints of sadness in nostalgia.

(And I say that with a pit in my stomach.

And I say that knowing my heart still breaks and my heart still bleeds.)

Sometimes, as my mind withdraws from the moment, I find myself feeling nostalgic about what’s to come. Constant regret makes the heart sick.

I’m learning what it means to live in the moment.

to appreciate what I have, when I have it

to be content with the God of my life

to keep peace with my soul

to be cheerful

to understand that though the world is full of sham, drudgery and broken dreams,

it is still beautiful.

(thanks, Max Ehrmann, for giving me perspective)

a disagreeable blessing

a moment of bliss

it’s that time before consciousness of inarticulate awareness

it’s the dawn of self-consciousness,

I only just perceiving it is,

wherein all you understand

is the contented sentiment

of existence

before the spoiler of reflection

profundity is like a great smog,

the reaching ever further into the heavens

to drag them down into our heads,

the very thing which prevents us

from getting our heads 

into the heavens (cf. Chesterton)

as i lay in cool sheets,

the fan encouraging the breeze

to blow over my contented face,

i prolong the nostalgic experience

of existing as my primate ancestors

: a lack of that vile blessing, my mind

this thing called consciousness: on loss

Why do we get so upset about death?

If you’re religious, it’s likely that you hold some sort of belief in an afterlife that is actually an improvement on this one (and faith that you’ll arrive there), or at least some sort of hope (that is probably a reaction to the psychological stress of death awareness). If you’re irreligious, presumably you don’t believe in an afterlife but perhaps more of the pre-birth nonexistence continued post-mortem.

In either case, this trauma is clearly not caused by death. What is it caused by?

It must be caused by some consequence outside of the death.

I suggest it is merely the lack of their continued presence in our lives that causes such distress.

Likely we get so upset because we’re going to miss them. (And how.) But this doesn’t really warrant just how upset we get. I mean, we don’t rend our clothes and shave our heads when our friend moves away (though I suppose that’s because we hold onto hope that they’ll come back… hope sure is persistent, hmm? whether or not we feel it, it’s there in our subconscious, keeping us alive…).

So, really I think it comes down to irrational possessiveness:

we experience terrific suffering because something we have built our life around – our identity, our soul – is no longer there for us. We seemingly feel entitled to their presence, maybe even feel we need it.

Of course these aren’t thoughts we entertain, but rather the subconscious triggers for what we understand as a terrible loss.

I think the same goes for losing most anything we've come to find important, that we've come to attach significance to. Faith, relationships, mementos, items and idols of any sort – we can derive such awful suffering from such arbitrary and even inane things.

This isn’t to discount the emotions we do go through. They are terrible and they are real.

It’s more of an exploration of the consequences of this thing called consciousness.