Conversion
8-28-06 Conversion
Since my radical transformation at age 30 in Santa Monica, California I have been unable ever to sustain even an hour's worth of absolute tragedy as my companion and philosophy of life. Here is why. I am always seized by the awareness that I am responsible for doing my part in the continuous war of the worlds that goes on non-stop and doesn't give a damn in hell about any person's beliefs in tragedy or pathos or how terrible life is. One cannot retain the luxury to grieve for one's poor perishable self simply because a moment given over to admitting defeat is the devil's victory. I'm putting it in metaphors here. But the fact is this happens to me every time I begin to falter emotionally and feel sadness concerning my own status in the world. My conscience simply won't put up with it. Something jumps into life inside me and orders me to get back in the game. As long as I have a mind and a body in operating condition I have no excuses. Because whatever I actually put into conscious form inside my mind has a destiny in the present tense of the world---whatever publishers decide about my prose & poems & books. My thoughts at this very moment have moment in the world---are potent instruments and indeed influence the very history being made every moment of my life. This sets me apart from every person I know. It also fuels me with a scorn for the mediocrities being paid money for rendering verbal services vastly beneath my standards and below my every day output. "There is no fate," wrote Albert Camus in The Myth Of Sisyphus, "that cannot be surmounted by scorn." And when all of my other energies and imaginations fail I always have at bottom that scorn and rage to fuel my efforts against the liars & frauds & polluters & weapons-makers and war-mongers that threaten to turn this beautiful earth into a garbage dump. Underneath my lethargy and depression and the loneliness of unrecognized genius there is always that Life Force (as I now name it). I don't even know it's there until it announces itself once more to arouse me from my coma as it did a mere ten minutes ago and reminds me once more that resignation is not a possibility for me. I experienced this same amazing phenomenon when some years ago I visited a doctor's office. What went on in that office convinced me the whole operation was a fraud and a delusion and that sickness was not an alternative for me. It simply was not a viable option. That is how radical my conversion was in the amazing last week of November 1968 & then on through December at 2721 Third Street in Santa Monica, CA at age 30. I do remember the cleansing of my mind that took place and the physiological miracle of those days. But how can I explain that after that I no longer had the option of copping out and "giving up"with respect to any vital matters whatsoever? I can't. It just happened that way---outside the jurisdiction of my will. Whatever occurs I look about me and what I hear from my interior is: so what? The world is going to go on going to goddammed hell & murderous rot and the only person who will look after you is you. You are responsible for every iota of your own existence, amen. There are no explanations ever. Not even Love explains. Least of all love! So, yes, I'm climbing up off my knees and I want to beg somebody to get me out of this jam. But everybody else is locked in the same house of flesh and bone. So it's back to numero uno.
RLG copyright 2006
Since my radical transformation at age 30 in Santa Monica, California I have been unable ever to sustain even an hour's worth of absolute tragedy as my companion and philosophy of life. Here is why. I am always seized by the awareness that I am responsible for doing my part in the continuous war of the worlds that goes on non-stop and doesn't give a damn in hell about any person's beliefs in tragedy or pathos or how terrible life is. One cannot retain the luxury to grieve for one's poor perishable self simply because a moment given over to admitting defeat is the devil's victory. I'm putting it in metaphors here. But the fact is this happens to me every time I begin to falter emotionally and feel sadness concerning my own status in the world. My conscience simply won't put up with it. Something jumps into life inside me and orders me to get back in the game. As long as I have a mind and a body in operating condition I have no excuses. Because whatever I actually put into conscious form inside my mind has a destiny in the present tense of the world---whatever publishers decide about my prose & poems & books. My thoughts at this very moment have moment in the world---are potent instruments and indeed influence the very history being made every moment of my life. This sets me apart from every person I know. It also fuels me with a scorn for the mediocrities being paid money for rendering verbal services vastly beneath my standards and below my every day output. "There is no fate," wrote Albert Camus in The Myth Of Sisyphus, "that cannot be surmounted by scorn." And when all of my other energies and imaginations fail I always have at bottom that scorn and rage to fuel my efforts against the liars & frauds & polluters & weapons-makers and war-mongers that threaten to turn this beautiful earth into a garbage dump. Underneath my lethargy and depression and the loneliness of unrecognized genius there is always that Life Force (as I now name it). I don't even know it's there until it announces itself once more to arouse me from my coma as it did a mere ten minutes ago and reminds me once more that resignation is not a possibility for me. I experienced this same amazing phenomenon when some years ago I visited a doctor's office. What went on in that office convinced me the whole operation was a fraud and a delusion and that sickness was not an alternative for me. It simply was not a viable option. That is how radical my conversion was in the amazing last week of November 1968 & then on through December at 2721 Third Street in Santa Monica, CA at age 30. I do remember the cleansing of my mind that took place and the physiological miracle of those days. But how can I explain that after that I no longer had the option of copping out and "giving up"with respect to any vital matters whatsoever? I can't. It just happened that way---outside the jurisdiction of my will. Whatever occurs I look about me and what I hear from my interior is: so what? The world is going to go on going to goddammed hell & murderous rot and the only person who will look after you is you. You are responsible for every iota of your own existence, amen. There are no explanations ever. Not even Love explains. Least of all love! So, yes, I'm climbing up off my knees and I want to beg somebody to get me out of this jam. But everybody else is locked in the same house of flesh and bone. So it's back to numero uno.
RLG copyright 2006
posted by rlg at 3:16 PM
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