The Progonometer


we must rise above to escape

The Truth offers no advantage except in the world of Truth.

Nature never evolved to adapt to human greed.

we are entering a world of walls.

Everything is empirical now- including love.


It takes courage to love in this world.

We must let the rainbow coloured angels into our life

Let them speak their peculiar language to us.

Modern man- as a wise man once said- has no memory, for he is captive to the horrible amnesia of cultural conceit. Yet somehow it’s more than this. Maybe it’s the fact he is surrounded by so much scientific debris, so much technological shrapnel; these objects, like some form of contemporary wizardry, magically put him in a peculiar state of terminal complacency- a complacency in what? Eternality. For the infinite, for death, for immortality, for beautiful illusions, poetry, love and truth- he has desensitised himself with his amnesia and his complacency.

These objects that surround modern man seem to shrink existence, like a conspiracy to make life small, they succeed, and by doing so amputate man from wider, richer, and deeper existence. It’s this complacency and desensitivization that makes him turn to excess irony. Modern man seems to find irony in everything; even n the suffering of others- it’s when we lose sight of what is sacred that we become pitiless cynics- a cynicism exacerbated by a sense of impotent futility.

Modern man, like all men throughout history, must worship something or somebody, for man at his root is a religious being- he transforms all activity into ritual no matter how mundane/to be human is to be a hostage to metamorphosis, to posses the transformational power of a protean will and inherit Divine creativity. Yet modern man has nothing to believe in: his shrunken amputated existence has left him with nothing left to admire, to adore, to elevate his passion to the sublime obstinacy of aesthetic bliss, the experience of transcendence. What then does he do?

This poor wretched being- so claustrophobically crowded in by his superfluity of objects- worships the totem of the self, and exalts his own ego- but such worship cannot sustain passion or kindle its flame or help him rise above the solidus quotidian- and yet the spark of passion still abides in him like a fiery worm. What then does a man do who has not the stamina nor the incentive for enduring ecstasy? Ecstasy is our capacity for embracing the infinite- we psychically contract to the preoccupations of the minutiae in order to compensate-  cramming our lives full of the busy emptiness of the finite.  He consoles himself with these immediate pleasures of finitude and compensates himself with the convenient distractions of choreographed experience designed to elicit amnesia- modern man above all else is a slave to convenience.

He has a religious commitment to pleasure- to the counterfeit pursuit of happiness ( a  happiness defines by whatever comes closest to satisfying desire) only reinforces his existential amnesia- which is its purpose, even if he doesn’t know it. A man  who lives for pleasure has no need of memory- especially when his pleasures are so convenient- pleasure is never adequately remembered psychologically, as it is largely sensation- it is memorised by the body as habit. Was Pavlov as conditioned to sensory stimuli as the dogs he studied? Did any of his research liberate or enlighten him or make him freer as a human being?

Westernised modern civilization has forgotten- in the cloudy narcotic haze of self worship- the simple truths of human existence: to live for ourselves is to be amputated from the golden root of being, reality- it is only by living for others that we come to live ourselves.

These objects that modern man is herded in by, suffocated as he his by the avalanche of things, somehow distorts his sense of time- its this condition that robs him of his apprehension of eternality or as Wordsworth said: his “intimations of immortality”.


The Prelude
William Wordsworth


(An excerpt from Book IV, “Summer Vacation,” Lines 354-370)

When from our better selves we have too long
Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop,
Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,
How gracious, how benign, is Solitude;
How potent a mere image of her sway;
Most potent when impressed upon the mind
With an appropriate human centre—hermit,
Deep in the bosom of the wilderness;
Votary (in vast cathedral, where no foot
Is treading, where no other face is seen)
Kneeling at prayers; or watchman on the top
Of lighthouse, beaten by Atlantic waves;
Or as the soul of that great Power is met
Sometimes embodied on a public road,
When, for the night deserted, it assumes
A character of quiet more profound
Than pathless wastes.

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1 Response to The Progonometer

  1. Pingback: Sunday Cryptoquote Spoiler – 04/21/13 | Unclerave's Wordy Weblog

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