Apocalypse, decapitation, God, and life as a miracle

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 5

 

THE ALBEDO

 

"But on the human plane that would have been destruction: living life instead of living one's own life is forbidden. It is a sin to go into divine matter. And that sin has an inexorable punishment: the person who dares go into that secret, in losing her individual life, disorganizes the human world."

Clarice Lispector

 

 

Allow me to continue this oblique dissemination.

When you have lived existence out completely in its manifold directions- when you have thought and fought, pondered and wondered, yearned and wept, hated and loved- all to their furthest extent, and yet you are still unbroken, still earnest enough, still alive and mad for life, still strong and fighting, still driven on and on like that wild hare fleeing the unforgiving hounds- the most unexpected shift eventually occurs; the self dissolves in the vision of its limitless dimensions, the mind loses meaning, the heart loses loss, and the whole swollen mess of life literally flips inside out, and upside down- as occasionally it seems wont to do- and everything changes at once, yet nothing has changed.

It happens despite everything else that is happening. The trick is that in order to finally remember, first you must forget.

That is- as truth faltered, as the lies melted from my self's fluidity, and the soul shed its worn out old mind, I was undone, absolutely disassembled. Let me tell you, I did not attain, I unattained. What else can be said? I came apart at the seams in the midst of life, and walked about in tatters, tripping over them until I was nude. Hallelujah!

To stand in the centre of it all- without a thought, direction, or meaning, but with love and anguish exploding equally  from your naked guts- is to fall into the still point of living, and to live beyond the hollow of life.

It was the end of all my fidgeting, fleeing, and venial passions; I was ready to begin again, to start all over, to end what was not finishable- because I knew, with the hard honesty born from struggle and futility, that it was time to cut my losses, and that it would be a long while before I rose up again and randomly chose another blind direction. It did not matter at that point anyway, because there was by then no such me to stop me now. There was no such me; there was only the great complexity, and the not-me not navigating within it. But let me explain.

My return to wherever it was I returned, was very stark and absolutely innocent; I was, for most of my life, enveloped in a cocoon of blessed identitilessness, metamorphosizing obscurely away from the light.

But when the wings are finally full, and the spring has arrived from winter, the covering better break, or the butterfly won't fly, but die.

I flew.

Like a happenstance dismay of unknown wonders, those specious and soothing images upon which I had been weaned then broke apart in the apocalypse of unmeaning. 

You see, in the end of this new beginning- when I, so to speak, let it go- I was by that point fully shut down in all my tremulous theories, and left to roam the mystery, blinder than blind in the darker than darkness; everything effortlessly fell apart, and then just as gracefully it all came back together in a hilarious ruse of existential desperation and delight.

That final capitulation, or decapitation, or crowning release came suddenly, as it were, (or perhaps it had taken lifetimes to build up to such a tepid crescendo), and went something like this: I had been out walking alone at night- as I was wont to do at the behest of my demons- thinking of this or that or nothing at all, I don't remember much, but, of course, as you will see- that is the crux of my story. All of the sudden, in the dimensionless gap between strides, as it were, without warning, perhaps because of the many preceding years of sedulous doubt, mania, and freedom, and because I had for one reason or another seen- or at least convinced myself I had- into life's lie and unmeaning, I ...I ruptured mentally; I could not believe it. It? Life? Me? I? Good god, the impossibility of it all! I did not understand a thing. Not a thing. Good and bad were gone forever. Whatever, and whyever, and whoever it is that we are? I did not know. Man, let me tell you, I flew up and fell. I fell, and broke, and was blown away in the breeze.

Indeed, it was only after the grosser movements of my confined imagination had been burned clean of redundancy, privilege, and need; after the mean calamities of our so called life usurped me from all courage and despair; after the whole mad show boiled up in ecstasy and failure; after I stumbled and bloomed, aghast and transparent in what could not be and is; it was then that I broke, redeemed and abolished, as if newly awoken or just fallen to sleep; it was then that I possessed intimacy with gratitude and awe, because I was life and living, and now was all too new forever. Nothing was solved in the maelstrom of my new immanent ubiquity, but, let me tell you, life became a miracle again.

The marvelous magnitude of being had suddenly swelled ferociously up and consumed me whole. Nothing was left which was able to obstruct it; no walls, no thought, no intention, no me. There was neither curse nor praise, but only a transparent, sober nothingness. I was the dumbest man alive. I was free.

Oh perhaps it was only a brief glimpse of the eternal above from the ephemeral below, but a glimpse it was (everything lasting is forgotten). I stared assiduously into the light, and then, forever afterward, because I had seen it, everywhere I looked I saw naught but the refulgent sun.

That moment when I saw right through life made me the craziest of all. It was from such a disastrous, ineffable vision- in which I was dismantled into unrecognized bits and then smashed irrevocably beyond myself- that I was subsequently patched back together, so as to return to the world, to life, and somehow manage to live it. And that is the hard and living hell of it, let me tell you.              

Life is now but this ungraspable remnant of seeing brightness which in its fleeting brilliance continually disappears as I continually try to look for it; like a glorious residue, hovering deceitfully on the periphery of vision, which I can neither fully see, nor describe, nor dispute IT is there.

*

  

 

 

 

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

 

 

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