… This Zarathustra had spoken to his heart as the sun stood at midday: then he looked inquiringly into the heights — for he had heard above him the sharp cry of a bird. And behold! An eagle was sweeping in wide circles through the air, and on him hung a serpent, not like prey, but like a friend: for she kept herself coiled like a ring around his neck.
“It is my animals!” said Zarathustra, and was glad in his heart.
“The proudest animal under the sun and the cleverest animal under the sun — they have come out on reconnaissance. They want to know whether Zarathustra is still alive. Verily, am I still alive? More dangerous I found it among human beings than among beasts; dangerous ways does Zarathustra walk. May my animals lead me!”
When Zarathustra had said this, he recalled the words of the holy man in the forest, then sighed and spoke thus to his heart:
“That I might be more clever! That I might be clever from the ground up, like the serpent! But that is to ask the impossible: so I ask my pride that it always go along with my cleverness! And if my cleverness should one day leave me — ah, how she loves to fly away — may my pride then fly with my folly!” —
— Thus began Zarathustra’s going-under. ~ Friedrich Nietzsche, Thus Spoke Zarathustra
You know, at several points in my early teenage years, I actually considered suicide. At one or two points I even came close to attempts on my life — there were other stupidities also; self-harm included. These sorts of spasms speak of nothing but an underlying chaos and lack of inner form, structure and purpose within my being and, as should come as no surprise, it took considerable shifts in my character to look back upon these things with, not so much “indifference” or “apathy,” but, rather, tolerance and calm. I am not roused by the thoughts — in fact I look to the idea of death, of extinction, with wide-eyes and forthrightness as to better embrace it in an attempt — and success — at its overcoming, its assimilation into my mind and soul. Am I not merely hastening the inevitable in such moments? Of course — man is the only creature aware of his death, and the more he knows of death, the more he knows of himself. Several events in my life have heightened or confirmed a sort of fatalism regarding my self; a sort of admittance of “imperfection,” per se; not in the Christian sense of Fallen Man — this is a metaphysic which stems not from Below but Above — but rather of “tainted presence” which cannot be rectified or indeed purified, at least not in the conventional sense. One is reminded of Dante’s journey and the fact that he had to take the “long way round” to reach Paradiso. I am not sure I am in any position to compare so brazenly myself to such a person as The Poet himself, but I do feel that there are some archetypal parallels I have yet to actually discover proper.
I will be turning twenty this year, on the twentieth of September, symmetrically enough — 20 on the 20th of the 9th, 2016. Two decades of consciousness moreorless… good grief. I remember being fourteen and thinking to myself that I would not be around to see this. My mind wanders back to my last years of secondary school and the start of sixth form — college, here in England — and how I seemed to fall into a pit of sorts; a very dark, confused, lost couple of years where the last remnants of my teenage angst had their final go at me. Growing up fatherless, you do not realise issues until it is too late to solve them. I am indeed very fortunate that I have always been rather introverted and suspicious of other people and their characters, hence I never fell-into many of the social problems which plague many modern youths so violently. I fell inwards, however, and, to tell the truth, it was only this past Friday that I really thought that some degree of confusion — one layer, you could say — had been removed. I underwent about six hours without pause of vomiting, convulsions and hyperventilating to the point where, in bed at four o’clock in the morning, I was almost ready to break my habit of not uttering the word “God” aloud to ask for a little help. I did not, however, and spent the next twenty-four hours moping about between sleeping and playing videogames (Fallout: New Vegas particularly) before being well-enough yesterday to visit my grandparents for dinner. I saw the event, however, as rather symbolic. Even trying to sip boiled water my stomach would turn and I would once again be forced onto my knees in the bathroom. It was an event of purging, and though my body was purged, my mind and soul remain(ed) otherwise; though this realisation and its subsequent consequences were indeed the lifting of this layer of angst. We will see how things turn-out a few months from now.
I often stop writing mid-way and think to myself, “Why so personal?” Indeed it is a conscious effort to include what I often do in writing and recording. I see it, ultimately, as an extension of honestly. I lay my cards; I show my hand. I know that the vast majority of people who will find what I do and respond to it will be of the “particular human type,” moreorless, to understand the deeper or more nuanced implications of what I write and so on — and do hope such threads are detectable. I make this point over and over again that…
And I am all of a sudden stung by the knowledge that I am bleating about myself for no good reason. When I write — even for West Coast Reactionaries — it is a stream of consciousness. I obviously go back and proofread for typos and the like, but it really is just whatever is on my mind. There is no “point” to most of my articles, they are the point in and of themselves. A friend described my writing as “journal-entry-like,” which was fair enough and helps the reader — should you misunderstand or misapproach my words — in seeing what my mind sows for what it is. Most of the time, I am not trying to “convince” anyone or “argue” anything, but, rather, expose certain truths as I perceive them through my own crooked lens.
Enough of jabbering on about me, however — literally one hundred words ago I got sick of it.
In conversation with my good friend James, we came to understanding a dichotomy between him and I. Where he searches for Brothers in the proper sense, I am searching for Fathers. This is interesting because it speaks of the underlying archetypes more generally which make-up the higher echelons of people within these sorts of communities online and offline; those searching to guide, and those searching for guidance. Of course many will be somewhere in the middle of these two style — it is a spectrum to an extent — but the fact remains that in this void we call “modernity” there truly no real structures any longer which would facilitate the organic realisation of these archetypes within some facet of normalcy. The church, the state, the family, the society at large; all exist within chaos due to the inner chaos of most men — this, in turn, creates a feedback loop of chaos which is content to whirl onwards, right off the edge of that cliff-face somewhere over there. Another problem to add to this is that masters, who are amid us, I must say, seldom realise their roles and should they have any exercision upon the outward world it is often in the form of one-to-one relationships which thereafter follow the same route. One person positively effected will tend to carry-on that chain in the same way he is a part of it himself.
Different types of knowledge are fit for different types of people. There is no universal morality: not everyone can be judged by the same rules and the same standards. What worries me is that perhaps the right people do not see this.