Bigger than the culture wars, or even our war against mortality, is our struggle against being defined by context. We all give in.

The problem with age is that passion gets too much context. Mood gets heavily regulated, and by influences outside the personal. Context dilutes and em-broadens stuff into embroidered webs of not-only-this-just-now. The sickness of vision is to not be with-in the flow, but on the periphery of it, nostalgic for what the flow reminds us of. The magic of intelligence which rises us above the fishes sinks us in a different depth of ink – an ocean of words and context. We confuse words with now. That’s plainly ill.

No one wants to be a cynic. Cynics are soul less. Cynics consider suicidal thoughts as insightful. They think while fucking. Cynics have a sense that the world needs improving. They swim in an aesthetic of doubt and dis-comfort. As if that was knowledge or wisdom.

I’ve heard an old Jew explain to knock on wood, to ward off the hungers of the jealous gods of fate. This kind advice was offered as if such vision would be an upgrade to my ignorance. Like the advice of the gold-digger to the tweenager in love – to focus instead on wealth during the productive years. Like the hangover after the love affair, moody cynical visions warn us against peril, warn us to step back, and get out of the dangerous flow. As if that were an upgrade over ignorance.

It’s difficult for the horse to see the blinder. Goedell, and now, of natural course, the other big mathematical figure of our age, have agreed that an insider can, by nature, not see a big picture that includes a context bigger than the insider. Hawking has declared his search for a theory of everything that includes the observer as beyond him and beyond reason.

Within our blinds, our imports ought to respect a good fit with each other, and so evolve better fits and hierarchies of relations. Language can point to its own limits. Goedell pointed. Meditators hold up flowers, as if they could explain with a gesture that they have no power to explain. Hawking had reason to talk of reasons limits. No ultimate upgrade is pending. At least, not a rational one. Nor irrational, needless to say – irrationality is only broken rationality – if there might be some ultimate upgrade it must be not conceptual – but we can’t expect concepts to grasp or even to point with anything but vagueness at what the upgrade might be. It’s neither rational nor irrational that we have subjective experience, and forever unexplainable.

And we all intuit. Love. Engage. Seek truth. Go deep, and aim high. No idea or emotion or act will snapshot eternity for you. No trophies awarded. No Great rebirth. No winning circle. But get a soul, if you can. For now. Cynics don’t have souls. They want a re-wind button or a frame.

Cynics are conservative. They require snapshots and steady lego blocks to steady their thoughts. Assumptions, to a conservative, are choice nuggets of Count-Chokula-Bits, and Fairy-Green-Irish-Sugar-Stars. No need to pull them apart – they are goodness as their pieces. Conservatives relish pieces, as good.

Language and pictures are hypnotically emotive. Consider the skill of the propagandist Tolkien:

Tolkien: “Having wrought the Ring”

Average speech “Having made a powerful ring”

Average speech uses adjectives, which latch onto words like lamprey eels onto a shark or girlfriends onto a rock star. They don’t carry the power of the shark or the icon. Adjectives suck on nouns, tinting and perfuming, but separate. Like that too powerful internal locus that thinks while fucking, or the tourist with a camera. Sucking and perfuming, but sidelined more than being.

Powerful writing sets apart little things to stand on their own. The craft is an aesthetic to dig in deeply until new resonance. Adjectives are cynical, they stand back as if one could. Powerful writing sucks you in and makes your foot tap along with the swinging metaphor.

Chemicals influence awareness and suck one under also. I’ve been under the influence of the chemicals produced by a fungus that is smelling up my balls and itches my head and sullies my nails and fouls my blood with foreigners. Candida affects my sleep and mood and personality. It also hijacks immunity, as any well paid virus programmer will take care to disable anti-virus routines and firewalls.

An alligator is not a dog. In no language and under no influence of cultural relativity is coffee equal to blood. Context shifts, but does not dis-embed our bodies. We can’t think our way out of this. So, for goodness sake, I advocate hedonism, not cynicism, to guide our compass in the prime direction, to find what priorities in this beautiful poisoned sand castle that we can. It’s more fun to love than to buy a fuck machine on E-bay and settle into to it with a friendly bag of coke. The sign of success at hedonism is having a noticeable soul. And minty breath.

Women tend to be human enough to take all thoughts as opportunities for being pleasure filters. A good man is a filtered man. Men do the same. No surprise that the sexes have filters that at times seem skewed and discordant. Men want status-tits and regular life altering orgasms, maybe from different supplies, and women want status men and supplies of similar emotion. You know how we get at our familiar itch can be a fight for resources. Proof is that men and women fight over the terms of engagement. It’s about marriage. It’s about healthy sex. It’s about. Men and women tend to have different fairy tails and movies and bar room stories about what it’s about. Cinderella versus 007.


I was hammered when I wrote the first draft of this post. The next day it was tough work even for me to understand the cryptic poetic meaning – it was close to unreadable. At the time of writing, it seemed obvious and brilliant. I left the original up for weeks out of respect that the vagueness in it should be given gravity to see what could condense and evolve; a few thoughts in the muddle seemed alive, and still this post is interesting to me in how it eludes effort to make it congeal into something beautiful. It’s an interesting dichotomy between innocence and cynicism. Between ignorant passion and removed perspective.

We try to heal our heady split, and be earthy and wise, so it’s fun to highlight how we can’t quite shake the neurosis and stupidity of our lives – how we are built up of and composed of shards.