Most of us know the biblical story of Lot and his incestuous daughters. Fine. But I wonder what, in this painting by the Surrealist Max Ernst, the scary-looking lady just got done doing ... Was she torturing him with a long slow tease? Did she sit on his face until he nearly passed out? Did she make him kiss her feet as he begged for release? It seems to me that cruel women (who rarely exist in the real world) serve (paradoxically) as a subtext for the best of art.
I read Ego by Ayn Rand recently. Perhaps I've included this in other posts. But I'm a drunk and I forget things. Anyway ... The birth of self-consciousness through material invention is a capitalistic myth that I find highly offensive. The notion of self that emerges from the bubbling cauldron of childhood and congeals into the sickly self of adulthood is the product of one thing only: the desire to control one's environment. Power is the key; we all seek it. I don't want to sit in a sewer and "create" a light bulb: I want to hold sway over an empire of whimpering slaves who praise my name because they are afraid not to do so. The greatest accomplishment a person can achieve is to overcome this selfish desire and find love amidst one's fellows.
As St. Augustine remarked in Book 1 of the Confessions: “no one is free from sin in [God's] sight, not even an infant whose span of earthly life is but a single day”. Indeed, for we all seek power, from the day of our birth; whether it is refusing to share a toy, or desiring to possess a country -- we all feel this way. To learn to love, however, is a virtue, and not necessarily a Christian one -- for we all know that Christians are often the most intolerant of fools.
In my best moments, I want to extend my love even to the most deliberately debased beings; in my worst moments, I want to breed fear and discord -- and control it. It is a sad version of humanity that remains in the latter state for the span of life. I feel I'm losing my touch, for the very reason that I'm stuck in the former. It is time to reconnect with what matters: poetry, Music, the arts ... I don't want to become inhuman. I might die soon, and so be it ... But I want to die a Man.
Ulysses awoke from a violent dream
Penelope comforted him with soft warm hands
Yet the sea beckoned
Life is motion
There is no stasis
The more we seek the comfort of home
The less we arrive at GNOTHE AUTON
End of life is frightening and comforting
Depending upon how we end
My end has already passed
What remains is a waiting
A slow painful waiting
