The Hairless Ape

2009-07-17T21:31:00.000-07:00

The Quest for Identity—

Ceaselessly, you forge ahead—but will you ever be satisfied with this ceaseless forgery?

2009-07-16T13:53:00.000-07:00

Beware of looking Fortune in the face, or else risk being underwhelmed by her toothless grin.

2009-07-15T08:40:00.000-07:00

Ownership—

If you have no ears for your own voice, you will mistake yourself for an interlocutor; if you have no ears for your own words, you will mistake parrots for kindred spirits.

2009-07-14T20:27:00.000-07:00

Envy is admiration without respect; shame is regret without self-respect.

2009-07-13T18:59:00.000-07:00

Origins—

She has no mercy, no sympathy. Evolution does not let anyone make her decisions for her, nor ours for ourselves. She dominates us, our origins, our children. We are the descendants of slaves, all serving the same mistress. All of who we are and could be springs from the same source, from her womb. Certainly, we can begin from these degrading origins and reach higher, become more. But no man lives forever, and, as each generation passes, she reaps what has been sown, readying the fields anew. And even if a man should see every day that will ever come to pass, time has a way of tracking us down, beckoning for us to return from our idle wanderings.

And as soon as we return, she takes us back in, forgives—or, better, forgets—our transgressions. She, much like her shadow, Language, has no memory, no history of her own. She is all of us, but she persists while we perish, so long as we have discharged our duties. Our love, our anger, our faith, our fear—she grants us, foists upon us, all of them. And these aspects of our humanity might drive us farther and farther from our origins, but they can never belie them, only confirm and, ultimately, reinforce them.

Culture, technology—these are no answers. They cannot touch Evolution. Yes, they free us, in some ways, from her grasp, take us beyond our origins. But they can never touch her, not in any of the ways we could intend. We have not devised systems enduring enough to interact with her, but so fleeting that they are only ever acted upon—by her. We move too quickly—she recoils. We distance ourselves, ever farther, but go nowhere. We may extend our lives, heighten our senses—perhaps even discover novel ones—but to what end? To some end, certainly, and necessarily a timely one, for our drives and our purposes, the ones we possess, right now, are merely the latest instance in her perpetuation. Look down, my friends! These are the hands that will sculpt the future, but a future that should never know you, never be so burdened—not in the ways that you have had to know and be burdened with yourself. And so it is fitting that you know nothing of your own origins, and indeed, my friends, preferable.

2009-05-01T10:01:00.000-07:00

Honesty? Manipulation? Fear? One and the same behavior is again and again co-opted by conflicting motivations—each, in turn, laying absolute claim to the soul.

—But this describes us all, no?

2009-04-30T09:52:00.000-07:00

Kennel of the Soul—

Some sentiments are warehoused, others put to sleep. Every so often someone comes by to rescue one, and, even more seldomly, one breaks loose.

2009-04-29T11:41:00.000-07:00

Disinhibition—

Among the principle functions of the brain's more recently evolved structures is the inhibition of certain behaviors. Thus, many injuries to these structures result in the disinhibition of the "corresponding" actions.

—But evolution is blind to the psychological cost of this psychic tension. She sees only outputs, not processes. The same level of external activity implies much more internal force for a human than for the "less evolved" organisms. The soil of consciousness is continuously renewed by the ashes of these dynamic contradictions.

2009-04-28T10:20:00.000-07:00

Character Witness—

Our reasons for our actions are the first things we forget—and the first things we call to our defense.

2009-04-27T10:17:00.000-07:00

If you spend too long telling them what they want to hear, you'll end up mistaking it for what you wanted to say.

2009-04-03T11:20:00.000-07:00

Listen—just listen—as your self-directed antipathy resolves into antiphony. There is no mantra, no maxim you could repeat to yourself for which you don't already have a retort—?

2009-04-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

... —No, contradiction is not inherent in the world; the world is endowed therewith by consciousness. The currents of reality are invisible, like a steady wind, until made apparent by those little things they overcome and toss about.—But, then again, shouldn't we rather posit the primacy of the subject? "No will: no representation, no ... " The currents of reality are indeed transparent, but consciousness is no mere scrap, tossed about at the mercy of the winds; it is the atmosphere. It is not an actor, but the stage, upon which the world unfolds.—Nevertheless, ...

—Well, we could spend our evenings pondering, vacillating between the chicken and the egg, but, either way, it's omelets for breakfast every day.

2009-04-01T11:33:00.000-07:00

He who serves knowledge enslaves himself.

2009-03-31T12:00:00.000-07:00

Blind Spot—

There is a blind spot where the optic nerve attaches to your retina—that is the price you pay for seeing. You do not know why you do these things you do—that is the price you pay for existing in this world.

2009-03-30T12:20:00.000-07:00

Turn the page and turn your back on a previous self.

And, when you have the strength to turn back, to turn to that other you, let him remind you of what you have forgotten, but don't forget to tell him what you have learned.

—Forgiving another is a subtle process of reminding and correcting the multitude of selves.

2009-02-13T19:54:00.000-08:00

If the neurophysiologists will allow me this indulgence, I say that we already have ample reason to expect that smell should be the sense most closely linked to memory—namely, that it is the dimmest. Smell is parasitic on the other senses, always "eating at their tables," for it is never satisfied within itself, but always only finds completion in the company of the others.

Now, in contrast, imagine each of the other senses exulting in its own glory: the agonizing ecstasy of music; the way in which Nature's majesty can so clearly display the pathetic meaninglessness of Man's own existence; the exhilarating longing and heart-rending self-loathing that accompany the tender touch and implicit promise of an illicit lover's hand. We must even give a nod to the gourmand and the connoisseur, whose appetites sometimes drive them across the globe in pursuit of their satisfaction. But smell? In isolation, where does smell attain its height? In fancy perfumes? In the stench of death? Or perhaps in the appetizing scent of a subtle yet sudden terror?—Mere trivialities, by comparison! So, you see, smell needs the other senses, depends on them, for it is the weakest. But in this way, smell loses itself, becomes the mediator of the other senses, and the smell of a thing is thus intimately bound to our other impressions.

Through her smell you can see the softness of her skin. Through her smell you can taste her words and her moans, indifferent to which you preferred. Through her smell you can access every way in which you knew her, in all their combinations.—How convenient for you, since that's all she left behind.

2009-02-12T06:00:00.000-08:00

If it weren't for women, we would never have to use the subjunctive.

2009-02-11T17:45:00.000-08:00

"I have no idea what makes a woman great."

—The complaint of a lesser man, the confession of a great one.

2009-02-10T06:59:00.000-08:00

Change Blindness—

Our vision clouded by so many preconceptions, burdened with the memories that have confirmed them all—we know so much about each other that we have become strangers, alienated through an overabundance of familiarity.

2009-02-09T05:29:00.000-08:00

Fellow Feeling—

The comfort we find in the discovery that others have suffered as we suffer is of a very peculiar sort: it shifts the balance of power in the struggle between the selves to trivialize one another.—"If even they have felt this, then ... "

2009-01-09T19:56:00.001-08:00

Great men carry with them great regret, for the "I" that categorically refuses to repudiate its own origins does not deserve even that one letter.

2009-01-08T09:15:00.000-08:00

The great enemy of greatness is pettiness: it's the petty things that make us disgusted with ourselves—and, because we are all obsessed with ourselves, we all become petty. The things about the world that bring you the most pain say nothing about who she is. You are petty, and for this you shall suffer.

2009-01-07T13:57:00.000-08:00

Greatness requires the shelter of solitude—not as a shield against the wickedness of the world, but against her weakness.

2009-01-06T09:35:00.000-08:00

You shall be vain, you great men—and this shall not be the vanity of the common, that automatic and superficial self-love, but a genuine fascination with perspective, with a world in which you are objects: lovers of mirrors, yes, but you shall know them as mirrors. You shall seek to become the masters of your own reception.

2009-01-05T06:00:00.000-08:00

Great men walk against the sun: if you desire to follow in their footsteps, you must be prepared to live in their shadow.

—Unless, of course, you are willing to keep your distance ...

2008-12-26T04:45:00.000-08:00

Sleight of hand,

The slightest touch,

Slighted and slighted,

Because you demand too much.

And why make demands? After all, it's all just a dream.

But before—before it always seems so real. We, whose task is wakefulness itself? We? He who flees the world of dreamers awakens to a world of slumbering corpses, alone and haunted by an unfamiliar chill. The "he" is real—the "we": a dream.

2008-12-25T06:00:00.000-08:00

Solacium Solum—

You will never know the bliss of standing together with the like-minded—only the solace of indulging yourself among the similarly disposed. Don't ever expect to find fellowship in this world. For, if you should scuttle your solitude, you shall risk drowning in your own demands, gnashing your teeth and thrashing your arms amidst an ocean of broken glass.

2008-12-24T22:43:00.000-08:00

The Blank Compass—

In a world lacking cardinal directions, infinite regress might mean—infinite progress.

2008-12-23T08:05:00.000-08:00

Déjà Senti—

Tired and threadbare, the same familiar feelings return to you time and again. You long to turn yourself inside out, to locate the foundations of your repetitive constitution in the world, and not in yourself—as if there were a regularity to the world that lent legitimacy to the regularity of your soul. But the world presents us with an infinity of possible encounters. It is you who has exhausted your repertoire; you have lived too long. But worry not—this, too, shall pass.

2008-12-22T14:11:00.001-08:00

And still,

We dance this dance,

Every step,

Every word,

Prepared in advance.

2008-12-19T06:00:00.000-08:00

Every misunderstanding and every deception must be causally connected to the Truth.

—Every word: a tragic inevitability.

2008-12-18T06:00:00.000-08:00

Even the most intimate of relationships cannot weather the extremes of honesty.

—Every word: a necessary deception.

2008-12-17T06:00:00.000-08:00

This world cares nothing for us, and yet the whole of language concerns only humans.

—Every word: a self-centered fiction.

2008-12-16T08:46:00.000-08:00

Your ability to resist the seductions of your language is the measure of the strength of your spirit.

—Every word: a temptation.

2008-12-15T20:57:00.000-08:00

We desire to be understood, and so we resort to language; but this means taking up tools designed for coarser hands.

—Every word: a popular prejudice.

2008-12-12T02:19:00.000-08:00

The Recognition of Potential—

This ranks among the most profound marks of difference between Man and Woman. For Woman is either blind and deaf to the potential in a man, or else willfully oblivious: she wants an older man, one who is already accomplished, one who has proven his ability to succeed through—success!

Man, on the other hand, knows the value of a woman only through her potential: every "deed" is a blemish on her virtue, so to speak. He wants a younger woman, one to whom the world is fresh and as yet unexperienced, one who has not yet become a credit to her name and so won't mind—taking his!

2008-12-11T00:32:00.000-08:00

The Tyranny of Happiness—

From what terrible necessity do we derive the imperative that happiness shall stand as our highest goal? Even the martyr, who undoubtedly suffers for his martyrdom, cherishes the notion that his deed will contribute to the collective happiness of those he has left behind; for, has there ever been a martyr who sacrificed himself solely for the benefit of future martyrs?—No, the redemption in his deed is parasitic on the happiness of the others—the martyr is beholden to the grateful. But they know, we know, that happiness is, in the end, a reaffirmation of our animal heritage, and are thus doubly enslaved: first to our gratitude, and then to our guilt.

2008-12-10T20:46:00.000-08:00

Back to the Orphanage—

Mother Nature! Father Time! You are such callous step-parents. All of those lullabies you sang to us sounded so sincere. But even as we were still settling into this newfound security, you were already conspiring to replace us.

What fools we have been, blind to the all the signs and symptoms, to the reality that Nature's maw stands ready to consume her own excess.

2008-12-09T21:00:00.000-08:00

Sometimes we speak with a friend as a friend: when others are around we whisper in hushed tones, or else communicate only through glances. Other times we speak to him as a proxy for the whole world: we use grandiose gestures and express ourselves loudly enough that anyone who could overhear us does—eh, my friend?

2008-12-08T14:14:00.000-08:00

Nostalgia—

The cold candor of childhood—you fear you'll never recover it, never recover from it. For you have never taken another's perspective; each and every time one was forced upon you. And now, softened by a cruel awareness, you long for those days of indifference and oblivion.

2008-12-05T22:13:00.000-08:00

If there is a cyclical essence to the world—to history—it would be the height of arrogance to assume that we have seen and recorded even a fraction of a single cycle. We search in vain for a pattern, yet, for all this, the foundations of human meaning might only be the idiosyncrasies of a single iteration.

2008-12-04T00:48:00.000-08:00

We had thought that we were taming the river, mastering the rapids—making progress. The stern confidence we affected as the water tore against our face, our firm yet exhilaratingly tenuous grip on the oars—these were taken as proof of our merit: “We are up to this task! We deserve this task!”

But this day is different; we see the waters for what they are: not a river, no, but an ocean! Our battle with the rapids was just the battery of the tides—our “progress” has been a sham; and the cool, serious look which once posited its possessor as worthy of this illusory challenge has now turned against itself and become our humiliation.

2008-12-03T08:56:00.000-08:00

Phenomenology of Truth—

We sit together and hear the word “truth.” We each turn inward and clutch tightly the most certain parts of our realities. You hold them, run your fingers over them; you let them remind you of all the previous moments in which you've found yourself in this same position—and all I see is the smirk spreading across your face.

2008-12-02T07:45:00.000-08:00

The Father proclaimed: "Any man who presumes to speak for the law shall be killed!"

The Son, approaching manhood, realized that this maxim was not to be found anywhere in the law. He looked up at his father as he moved toward him and, overwhelmed with loyalty, struck him dead.

As he rose from his deed, the Son looked down over the world and knew exactly who he was.

2008-12-01T17:58:00.000-08:00

Ah, World!—you reliable old friend: I know you well.

It took a long time for things to develop this far between us. When we used to speak in the beginning, all of your words were foreign, abrasive—alien, alienating.

But now—now things are otherwise: our friendship has blossomed. Now I can barely recall why it wounded my pride so to see my face reflected in your eyes, my eyes in yours. Did it, even?—No, it was nothing more than the inevitable pain of intimacy, the caustic sting of the skin-to-skin.

Here, though, we have reached our limit. Our relationship has been perfected—and I suppose it never could have been the perfect relationship. World!—you are a woman: Sister, Mother, secret lover, but never—a brother!