Love, hesitation, disquiet, boredom, faith, and anger
taken from ANARCHY OF SPIRIT: an epistle for ridiculous times, from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book
Thus in the formative days which followed my inaugural, immanent plunge, in order to live upon this earth, I did not so much as even look in the direction of the bold, glorious norm, but struck out instead within myself, and haunted down lost passageways, makeshift as if all my own. As if to suddenly stare through infinity, onto this glazed incongruous known, was suddenly mine, and mine alone. I neither acquiesced, nor adhered to the fake conclusions driven hard upon us by the godless hordes about; which is to say, in order to live upon this earth as a refugee from both heaven and hell, I had to wriggle my way out of my false self, and become what never was me.
And so as the journey went on I did not begin to live truly until after many years of the most lonely and painful uphill battle- fighting my way through the false self, false perspectives, and false purpose, all of which had been inculcated into my formative being by the magnanimous elders of our times- from which, as I said, finally, in the quagmire of lostness, I found something I cared for more than comfort, honor (if that is possible in their world), and money. And that something was ...me. And I will never play in their prison again.
It was a temperate dismemberment within the world's malice and errors which had left me slow to wallow. I had been trapped and languid in the horrible pathos of the day. I had no composite tendencies, replete or inviting, which might have gathered me full into a fury. I suffocated in the torpor of lies because I had no anger, not even for myself. And without anger there is no way out of this lovelessness. The only way out is to punch your way out, with a wrathful love as murderous as a mother has for her child in danger.
Love, violent love- that merciless, uncompromising mandate; you must love your own soul with a suicidal madness bent on nothing but freedom, or you will die softly in this world of courteous lies.
It took me many bewildering years of painful confusion and struggle to finally understand and overcome the useless fears that others had driven endlessly into my innocent life from day one. The endless, justified, irrational, irrevocable, cultural fears: fear of being lost in the world, of being different, of believing in nothing but yourself, of having no job (let alone a career), of having little or no money, no home, of living illegally wherever you chose to squat. Fear of existing in squalor amongst the pimps, and prostitutes, the heroin addicts, thieves, drunks, mutants and beggars, fear of being dirty, of wiping your ass with your own hand, of neither caring for, nor needing anything created by mankind, fear of owning nothing, of thinking your own thoughts, of dreaming your own dreams, of being idle, of being nobody. Fear of death, fear of life, fear of disappointing your friends and family, of being disowned or of disowning, of admitting that everyone around you is an idiot, of insulting or offending them irreparably. Fear of being absolutely alone, fear of standing your own ground while the cyclone of madness spins relentlessly about you, fear of believing in and following your own reality, fear of being wrong, of never finding truth. Fear of the wildlands, of bears, and snakes, of cold and rain, of darkness and discomfort, of where you'd lay your head that night, of what you'd eat tomorrow, of where you'd wash, and what you'd do when you woke in the sun with nothing to do but sit in the sun. Fear, fear, fear, and more fear, all ensconcing, all pervasive, encumbering, deceiving, disfiguring fear. All of it.
Many people talked as if they understood life and knew how to properly live it, but once you sat down and got inside of them, once they opened up the can of worms contained within and came forth with candor to expose themselves truly, it was always the same thing- uncertainty, hesitation, disquiet, boredom, anger, worry, envy, hate, disease, corruption, and panic. There it was, in all and everyone, lying buried just beneath the shining veneer of their own private lie, which itself was haplessly buried deep inside the greater lie- the lie into which they were born and because they had no imagination, no intent, and no energy to extricate themselves, it was the same lie into which they would eventually grow sick, and old, and die.
They would die in fear when they could instead have lived in faith. In faith- not in a dogmatic, religious form- but faith in nothing knowable- faith for faith's sake, because it was the only way out of fear and death and sorrow.
But they had no faith; no faith in life, no faith in death, no faith in themselves, in God, in Creation, in Destruction, in Godlessness. No faith, only fear. As simple and difficult as that.
Early writings by Jack Haas: a rare, online book.