Freedom, loneliness, and belonging

taken from ANARCHY OF SPIRIT: an epistle for ridiculous times,  from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book

page 14


Trying to find a place in this world where I belonged was like trying to eat through my asshole, and shit through my mouth. And though the world has invented suppositories and emetics, that leads only sodomy and false purge.

I neither ingested, nor digested, I bled.

I bled from the bosh and distractions of the day. My belly was full of their poisons, and yet a great hunger still swallowed me whole, so I did the only thing I could do- I began to puke. And I have not yet stopped barfing, and I shall not stop, and to hell with their schools and teachings. It cannot be digested, none of it. Quit eating you idiots. Quit eating!

When the lies the world has served up, and rammed down your gullet, fail to fulfill and appease any of your needs, that is when you turn about and head the other way.

I realized quickly that the only thing I longingly gravitated toward was the innocent wondering of our unknowable Creator; to sit and stare at nothing and infinity, that is all I wanted. The freedom to slow down, to stop, to exalt; I loved life too much to be busy.

Loneliness is the only power I had over the world.

I did not wince, nor bobble, nor swoon in the silent requiem of the darkening night. I did not falter, but only wept a bit.

To be lost is the closest thing I knew to freedom, everything else was a trap.

There was, in the end, no solution except to tough it out. To sit with it, to feel it, to accept it, and to throw up my arms in agony, resignation, and hallelujah.

It was only in ghostly solitude, only when I was alone, only when I was lonely (conceptually lonely), could I dispute the dubious finitude that was myself. Did I just say conceptually lonely? Yes, it was there, as the mystery engulfed itself in a breathless utopia of intimate strangeness, that the tickling communion of light and grace would trickle down through my innocent nothingness. The methodology was easy- I simply forgot what I was told to remember.

This is the death I came to die, this is the life I lost by living.

            It truly is a death to lose all need for the world; to do nothing, to think nothing, to be nothing. Yet a single moment of honest apathy is worth a thousand years of reckless striving.

Thus, as if the verdant and bloody field of Kurukshetra itself were laid out beneath me, I fought without fighting and did battle without battling; all this by holding firmly onto apathy- my aegis shield against the tolerable.

Which is to say: a miraculous privilege happened to me one day‑ boredom; I had tasted life, and found it bitter.

Nothing is more dangerous than to have ideas about what is, and what should be. Pity them who have real lives. Screw it all- their doom and glory, passion and false play.

At times you must leave it all behind, all of it, for you can only free others by first freeing yourself. So you must free yourself from others. Better to shiver in the brittle chill of an arctic soul, than be coddled comfortably by the tepid minds of men. 

That is when you fall in step- when you stop walking in the maelstrom of the mind's apologies, you spit for the last time on the ground, halt short in your tracks, forget the reason you were moving, forget where you were headed, why you were going there, where you are now, and who you are. The earthquake of your life ends softly, and that is when you realize nothing of what you were is you. The mad movements are merely over, the interference has cleared, and the blessed congress of perverse redemption forces you out of the storm. The clouds blow away. The birds begin to sing again. The children come out to play. But nothing really changes. The clarity of your absence negates nothing. You still sleep, and shit, and fuck, and wait like before. And yet...and yet, something has changed. Everything has changed. And that war is over.

I myself came eventually to the point where I had narrowed my focus away from the world; I closed my eyes and kept moving, until the only thing I could sense was myself stumbling blindly. Then one time, but only once I tell you, I looked up and saw a boisterous crowd, excited and chattering, headed the other way. I wondered what was their joyous destination. Then I didn't wonder. I did not run to view what caused exuberance in the masses. I kept on going towards where I happily ...had no idea.






Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.










Related links