The stupor of Noah after the flood, and reality

taken from I, FOR LACK OF A BETTER TERM: a soul's soliloquy,  from early writings by Jack Haas: this is a rare, online book

page 8

 

After my hallowed disrememberance, it was like the stupor of Noah after the flood; the world was swept pure, and clean of taint. Every last speck of the man I was, or had been, was no longer; every idea of truth, every reason, want and torture- everything had been a lie. I was that lie, and I was done for. But that's what death is anyways- you begin again. What's gone is gone, and though it might have been real, and hopeful, it ain't that way no more. In jocular, euphoric, barnyard ululations, I whinnied, hooted, and clucked my way towards the heavens.

No more of the banter, sniggle, and hogwash. I did not stoically rise out but, coddled and upright in the soothing burn of being, melted away like a wax figure into the glorious, unmanifest One.

For me it was the end of life; I lost and found everything in the cataclysm of lucid ignorance. I woke up, yes, but I woke up in darkness, like one who wakes in the night, in a foreign place, who then stumbles about not knowing where he is, what he is doing there, not even who he is that is there.

As if caught in a blessed vacuum of disbelief, I fell helplessly into the infinite mystery where even God did not know himself.

I had resonated entropy into the tangling forms, tearing all life's hardened images from my virginal eyes, and finally I forgot the knowledge by which I had been ex-communicated in this life. And when I staggered back onto my feet and found my new footing in the ether, that was the first step I ever took forward.

Finally I somehow belonged to the world, and the world belonged to me. I understood it no better, but now I did not need to understand- because Eye existed. I was glad not to understand it. Now my non‑understanding was not a barrier, it was freedom itself.

The infinity which Eye witnessed as the last remnant of memory and recognition dissipated from my dissipating consciousness delivered me into unimaginability after unimaginability; I was given to a showering of 'never beforeness' colliding all about and around.

Oh, there are no samples nor tastes of infinity, there are only unswallowable gulps of life, drowning me in swollen breaths of intobated non-suffocation. Me?, and this?, and all of it, and good god how to come to terms?!

How could it be? How could all of this be? And yet ...and yet it was. I was it- the Mystery incarnate within itself; intimate and detached, part and yet parcel of the whole crazy show, as it were.

I dwell more comfortably now in the perplexity, in the genuine obviousness of non‑discrimination.

I have found what cannot be confirmed; I have discovered lostness, a conclusionless conclusion.

Discharged from these pendulous invalidations, I have unseen, have disproved all things, and have found not‑finding.

I became free because I learned how to forget, how to unknow, how to see everything as if I had never seen it before, and so I broke through the knowledge by which I was tethered to this world so as to rise off of this earth for a greater moment than it has settled upon me.

I did not, at the outset, realize that the world became astounding only when I ceased to understand it, but now I gravitate more easily, in fact unavoidably, towards gratitude ...by not knowing what I am.

Oh, I have only just begun to find the configurations necessary for my life, in order that I can properly not understand it. It is in the simplest of affirmations, in the least of concepts that I lose my new non-self, that I lose unfathomableness. I am torn to pieces by the small meanings comprising things and their apparent configurations; I decompose under platitudes.

I seek to not understand, but to live in the magical grace of the day. I do not writhe ecstatically from conventional euphorias; only when I forget what everybody else says life is, or is supposed to be, does it all become the crazy miracle it always has been and cannot help but be. I am amazed that myself and everything ‘is’. And I am amazed that others are not so amazed; I am astonished by the lack of astonishment.

I no longer yearn for fathomable happenings. This world is as good a place as any to confront implausibility. God and truth, I know nothing of them. I know merely a bewildering, spectacular, authenticity that I can but poorly describe as ‘unfathomableness’- a confounding, wordless, somethingness; I believe only in the outlandishness of being; I am convincingly, absolutely, absorbed by the wonderment of being.

Every moment in which I live, my life becomes more and more mythical to me; I come to realize that I am not what I am; I am less and so much more; I contain everything that was, is, and will be; every event, every fantasy, every reality. I am, and I cannot believe it.

Everyday, reality becomes increasingly less real, and this unreality becomes increasingly more real; the unreality of reality feels more real. Reality is so unreal it must be real; I believe it because it is impossible to believe it; absurdity is the most certain validation of our questionable existence.

It is not logical to see the world logically. The reality of reality is its unrealness; reality is nothing more than the unrealness that it is; a fantasy that is real. Reality occurs as this unreality of the real- as simply the most absurd concoction of improbabilities that a reasoning mind can hope to withstand. It is far beyond anything imaginable; whatever it is- it is; only reality could have come up with this unreality.

Ah, to be the complexity that man is, and yet to not be complex enough to understand that very complexity; existence pondering existence; mystery mystified by mystery. ...It amazes me that I ‘am’, and yet still I must learn of being- that I do not, by the very act of  being, know of it already.

Have I then come into this life only so as to applaud the miraculous implausibility of all that is, by ecstatically not understanding it? Am I here to humbly exalt the glorious mystery of being, and nothing more? Is there anything more?

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

 

 

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