For the discussion of all things philosophical.
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I'm not contemplating suicide. I'm scared to death of death and pain. I will never take my own life. However, if I may die suddenly, unbeknownst to me in my sleep, then I will welcome that with open arms if it happens tomorrow. My problem is with fear of death and pain. I couldn't even work up the nerve to give myself an OD of morphine. The anxiety of going through with the steps would send me through the ceiling tiles. But if I go peacefully and don't wake up tomorrow, then I would consider it a blessing. Hands down. I implore God to please do so, though I doubt there is an ounce of concern in the fate of any human being or living creature in this world on the part of God.Alexis Jacobi wrote: ↑Mon Mar 27, 2023 2:53 am Note: you are beginning to sound as if you are on the verge of or are contemplating suicide Gary. I’ve noticed these notes in some of what you write. I certainly hope you have real people who you can talk to.
Gary, I think you may be happier in Oregon. I myself hope that when or if I want to die fast I can get it done in Switzerland.Gary Childress wrote: ↑Mon Mar 27, 2023 3:06 amI'm not contemplating suicide. I'm scared to death of death and pain. I will never take my own life. However, if I may die suddenly, unbeknownst to me in my sleep, then I will welcome that with open arms if it happens tomorrow. My problem is with fear of death and pain. I couldn't even work up the nerve to give myself an OD of morphine. The anxiety of going through with the steps would send me through the ceiling tiles. But if I go peacefully and don't wake up tomorrow, then I would consider it a blessing. Hands down. I implore God to please do so, though I doubt there is an ounce of concern in the fate of any human being or living creature in this world on the part of God.Alexis Jacobi wrote: ↑Mon Mar 27, 2023 2:53 am Note: you are beginning to sound as if you are on the verge of or are contemplating suicide Gary. I’ve noticed these notes in some of what you write. I certainly hope you have real people who you can talk to.
In short, I am a foil to religion. I've done very little measurably wrong in this world and I maybe ought to go to heaven (if lack of reverence and worshipfulness won't disqualify me), if there is such a thing. But the world is trash. I don't want to lower myself to meet the landlord of this dumpster. I'd rather undergo root canal surgery.
God probably doesn't care one way or the other, unless perhaps they happen to be wealthy Catholics. I'm sure things are a little different then. The gates to heaven are supposedly narrow and it's probably easier to get a Ferrari through than a Ford pickup.iambiguous wrote: ↑Mon Mar 27, 2023 9:52 pm How can something like this not be particularly hard to square with a loving, just and merciful God's "mysterious ways"?
I see desperate mortals hoping the universe will cut them a break. But I see a universe where them getting a break has more to do with random chance than with anything coming out of kneeling in prayer. I see them in a Church originally founded by the priestly caste of what was a brutal empire in its day. Is see the main principles of that church emphasizing servitude and obedience. I see those principles as primarily serving the needs of the emperors of that empire. I see a cross bearing the likeness of a human who was slain for little more reason than annoying the clergy of his day, who called upon the soldiers of that brutal empire to carry out that merciless act on their behalf.Alexis Jacobi wrote: ↑Tue Mar 28, 2023 2:18 am
Taken today in Cali, Colombia. What a trip it is to consider faith and devotion after the recent months of conversation.
I see Christ represented in the state of crew see fiction, above what appears to be a tabenacle. Two people either side, the one to the right clearly wearing red denoting Love and the one to the left wearing a deep blue, though not clear, this represents Wisdom. Hence the two together Love & Wisdom represent the key to what Christ did.Gary Childress wrote: ↑Tue Mar 28, 2023 3:02 amI see desperate mortals hoping the universe will cut them a break. But I see a universe where them getting a break has more to do with random chance than with anything coming out of kneeling in prayer. I see them in a Church originally founded by the priestly caste of what was a brutal empire in its day. Is see the main principles of that church emphasizing servitude and obedience. I see those principles as primarily serving the needs of the emperors of that empire. I see a cross bearing the likeness of a human who was slain for little more reason than annoying the clergy of his day, who called upon the soldiers of that brutal empire to carry out that merciless act on their behalf.Alexis Jacobi wrote: ↑Tue Mar 28, 2023 2:18 am
Taken today in Cali, Colombia. What a trip it is to consider faith and devotion after the recent months of conversation.
I wish I could see something truly magical or miraculous in it. But I mostly see ugliness, manipulation, and greed on the part of those doing the manipulating.
Am I wrong?
One of the terms I often refer to is *angle of view* -- the angle from which something is viewed. If I have learned anything over the years, and perhaps more in the last years, it is that the description of something is a formulation that arises to express a narrative function which encapsulates ideological predicates. When I was at that particular church yesterday I had forgotten that beside the main church (Iglesia de San Francisco) there is that devotional chamber the walls of which are blackened with candle smoke from generations of worship. The image is surprisingly successful (speaking from a photographer's perspective) and at the same time I find it ironic that at the upper left there is a surveillance camera! The lighting of course makes the shot -- nearly perfect chiaroscuro!Gary Childress wrote: ↑Tue Mar 28, 2023 3:02 amI see desperate mortals hoping the universe will cut them a break. But I see a universe where them getting a break has more to do with random chance than with anything coming out of kneeling in prayer. I see them in a Church originally founded by the priestly caste of what was a brutal empire in its day. I see the main principles of that church emphasizing servitude and obedience. I see those principles as primarily serving the needs of the emperors of that empire. I see a cross bearing the likeness of a human who was slain for little more reason than annoying the clergy of his day, who called upon the soldiers of that brutal empire to carry out that merciless act on their behalf.
I wish I could see something truly magical or miraculous in it. But I mostly see ugliness, manipulation, and greed on the part of those doing the manipulating.
Am I wrong?
Yes, but to say that God has died is not to relinquish responsibility but to shoulder the whole of it sans Authority but with authenticity.o say that God had died is to admit that all that overworld, and upperworld, and underworld, would no longer be conceived as real and important. What matters is this world and you in it. Then, instead of an existential ideology of escapism, there opened up the entire domain, indeed the possibility, of living a fulsome life in a healthy body, enjoying all that life had to offer, which means of course sensual life in all its dimensions.
Nietzsche has begun the process of replacement. The superman is he who can carry responsibiity for himself and others to the extent of his particular powers.Alexis Jacobi wrote: ↑Wed Mar 29, 2023 12:47 am
There is another element that always strikes me, and which makes churches rewarding to photograph: the mandala-like forms. So man (and the man in this photo) come to offer themselves before a unified, structured picture of a world ordered by beauty and measure. Seen in that way it is, then, the imposition of man's content onto a far more arbitrary, and incomprehensible, world.
But then so too is all art really.
Man will always (it seems to me) organize the world according to material that arises in him. Mustn't there always be impositions of this sort? What world would we live in if these were absent?
The Christian picture, or perhaps more properly the Catholic picture, is outmoded. But what to replace it with?
Hellish Night (Arthur Rimbaud, 1873)
I've swallowed a terrific mouthful of poison.—Blessings three times over on the impulse that came to me!—My guts are on fire. The poison's violence twists my limbs, deforms me, knocks me down. I'm dying of thirst, I'm choking, I can't scream. It's hell, endless pain! Look how the fire flashes up! I'm burning nicely. Go on, demon!
I'd caught a glimpse of conversion to goodness and happiness, salvation. Can I describe the vision? Hell's atmosphere won't suffer hymns! There were millions of charming people, a sweet spiritual concert, strength and peace, noble ambitions, who knows?
Noble ambitions!
And this is still life!— What if damnation's everlasting! A man who wants to mutilate himself is pretty well damned, right? I think I'm in hell, therefore I am. It's the catechism come true. I'm the slave of my baptism. Parents, you've created my tortures and yours.—Poor nitwit! Hell can't wield power over pagans.— This is still life! Later on, the delights of damnation will be much deeper. A crime, quick, so I can plunge into nothingness in accordance with human law.
Shut up, will you shut up. .. ! There's disgrace and reproaches here—Satan who says the fire's contemptible, who says my temper's desperately silly.— Enough. .. ! Errors they're whispering to me, magic, misleading perfumes, childish music.—And to think I'm dealing in truth, I'm looking at justice: my reasoning powers are sane and sound, I'm ready for perfection. .. Pride.—My scalp is drying up. Help! Lord, I'm scared. I'm thirsty, so thirsty! O childhood, the grass, the rain, the lake water on stones, the moonlight when the hell struck twelve. . . . The devil's in the tower right now. Mary! Holy Virgin. . . !— Loathing for my blunder.
Out there, aren't those virtuous souls who are wishing me well. . . ? Come.. .. I've got a pillow over my mouth, they won't hear me, they're ghosts. Besides, no one ever thinks of others. Don't come near me. I smell of heresy, that's for sure.
No end to these hallucinations. It's exactly what I've always known: no more faith in history, principles forgotten. I'll keep quiet: poets and visionaries would be jealous. I'm a thousand times richer, let's be miserly like the sea.
Well now! the clock of life stopped a few minutes ago. I'm not in the world any more.— Theology's a serious thing, hell is certainly way down—and heaven's above.—Ecstasy, nightmare, sleep in a nest of flames.
How malicious one's outlook in the country. . . Satan—Old Scratch——goes running around with the wild grain. . . Jesus is walking on the blackberry bushes without bending them. .. Jesus used to walk on troubled waters. The lantern revealed him to us, standing, pale with long brownish hair, on the crest of an emerald wave. . . .
I'm going to unveil all the mysteries: religious mysteries or natural, death, birth, future, past, cosmogony, nothingness. I'm a master of hal— lucinations.
Listen...!
I've got all the talents!— There's no one here and there's someone: I wouldn't want to waste my treasure.—Do you want n***** songs, houri dances? Do you want me to disappear, to dive down for the ring? Do you want that? I'm going to make gold. . . remedies.
Then have faith in me, faith is soothing, it guides, it cures. Come, all of you—even the little children—and I'll comfort you, I'll spill out my heart for you,—the marvelous heart!—Poor men, workers! I don't ask for your prayers. With your trust alone, I'll be happy.
—And what about me? All of this doesn't make me miss the world much. I'm lucky not to suffer more. My life was nothing but lovely mistakes, it's too bad.
Bah! let's make every possible ugly face.
We're out of the world, for sure. Not even a sound. My touch has disappeared. Ah, my castle, my Saxony, my willow woods. Evenings, mornings, nights, days. . . I'm worn out!
I should have my hell for anger, my hell for conceit—and the hell of caresses: a concert of hells.
I'm dying of tiredness. It's the grave, horror of horrors, I'm going to the worms! Satan, you joker, you want to melt me down with your charms. I demand it, I demand it! a poke of the pitchfork, a drop of fire. Ah, to come back to life again! To feast my eyes on our deformities.
And that poison, that kiss a thousand times damned! My weakness, the world's cruelty! My God, mercy, hide me, I always misbehave!—I'm hidden and then again I'm not.
It's the fire flaring up again with its damned!
It strikes me that something like this could only be produced by one suffering a mental illness. Were one curious about how it must feel to be not quite right in the head, I can see how it might be of interest, but I fail to see any value in it beyond that.Alexis Jacobi wrote: ↑Wed Mar 29, 2023 4:24 pmHellish Night (Arthur Rimbaud, 1873)
I've swallowed a terrific mouthful of poison.—Blessings three times over on the impulse that came to me!—My guts are on fire. The poison's violence twists my limbs, deforms me, knocks me down. I'm dying of thirst, I'm choking, I can't scream. It's hell, endless pain! Look how the fire flashes up! I'm burning nicely. Go on, demon!
I'd caught a glimpse of conversion to goodness and happiness, salvation. Can I describe the vision? Hell's atmosphere won't suffer hymns! There were millions of charming people, a sweet spiritual concert, strength and peace, noble ambitions, who knows?
Noble ambitions!
And this is still life!— What if damnation's everlasting! A man who wants to mutilate himself is pretty well damned, right? I think I'm in hell, therefore I am. It's the catechism come true. I'm the slave of my baptism. Parents, you've created my tortures and yours.—Poor nitwit! Hell can't wield power over pagans.— This is still life! Later on, the delights of damnation will be much deeper. A crime, quick, so I can plunge into nothingness in accordance with human law.
Shut up, will you shut up. .. ! There's disgrace and reproaches here—Satan who says the fire's contemptible, who says my temper's desperately silly.— Enough. .. ! Errors they're whispering to me, magic, misleading perfumes, childish music.—And to think I'm dealing in truth, I'm looking at justice: my reasoning powers are sane and sound, I'm ready for perfection. .. Pride.—My scalp is drying up. Help! Lord, I'm scared. I'm thirsty, so thirsty! O childhood, the grass, the rain, the lake water on stones, the moonlight when the hell struck twelve. . . . The devil's in the tower right now. Mary! Holy Virgin. . . !— Loathing for my blunder.
Out there, aren't those virtuous souls who are wishing me well. . . ? Come.. .. I've got a pillow over my mouth, they won't hear me, they're ghosts. Besides, no one ever thinks of others. Don't come near me. I smell of heresy, that's for sure.
No end to these hallucinations. It's exactly what I've always known: no more faith in history, principles forgotten. I'll keep quiet: poets and visionaries would be jealous. I'm a thousand times richer, let's be miserly like the sea.
Well now! the clock of life stopped a few minutes ago. I'm not in the world any more.— Theology's a serious thing, hell is certainly way down—and heaven's above.—Ecstasy, nightmare, sleep in a nest of flames.
How malicious one's outlook in the country. . . Satan—Old Scratch——goes running around with the wild grain. . . Jesus is walking on the blackberry bushes without bending them. .. Jesus used to walk on troubled waters. The lantern revealed him to us, standing, pale with long brownish hair, on the crest of an emerald wave. . . .
I'm going to unveil all the mysteries: religious mysteries or natural, death, birth, future, past, cosmogony, nothingness. I'm a master of hal— lucinations.
Listen...!
I've got all the talents!— There's no one here and there's someone: I wouldn't want to waste my treasure.—Do you want n***** songs, houri dances? Do you want me to disappear, to dive down for the ring? Do you want that? I'm going to make gold. . . remedies.
Then have faith in me, faith is soothing, it guides, it cures. Come, all of you—even the little children—and I'll comfort you, I'll spill out my heart for you,—the marvelous heart!—Poor men, workers! I don't ask for your prayers. With your trust alone, I'll be happy.
—And what about me? All of this doesn't make me miss the world much. I'm lucky not to suffer more. My life was nothing but lovely mistakes, it's too bad.
Bah! let's make every possible ugly face.
We're out of the world, for sure. Not even a sound. My touch has disappeared. Ah, my castle, my Saxony, my willow woods. Evenings, mornings, nights, days. . . I'm worn out!
I should have my hell for anger, my hell for conceit—and the hell of caresses: a concert of hells.
I'm dying of tiredness. It's the grave, horror of horrors, I'm going to the worms! Satan, you joker, you want to melt me down with your charms. I demand it, I demand it! a poke of the pitchfork, a drop of fire. Ah, to come back to life again! To feast my eyes on our deformities.
And that poison, that kiss a thousand times damned! My weakness, the world's cruelty! My God, mercy, hide me, I always misbehave!—I'm hidden and then again I'm not.
It's the fire flaring up again with its damned!
