List, don’t listen!
Thursday, May 27th, 2010Find out what “to list” means, then drop your books and listen. Or go right now back to your fingerprint-free, beclothed books. I wish to love you, Welt! Nicht mehr diese Töne! But I do not right now. In my horrible ego, I say: this two-minute session is the fleetest beast to take you to it, to what you want, to money and abs, and everything else! Go or listen! Better, list!
What everyone is saying and what I am saying is that what they and you and she and he are saying are all the same, as you know. Use more words, know more words, the bigger it becomes; the louder it becomes, the harder — difficult and more shaft-like — it becomes.
You don’t need me nor anyone else to tell you that all you know (and all I know) is crap.
They all knew it and so do you, and don’t bother telling me you don’t, or didn’t, or won’t, or anything. Whitman knew it, Paul (Simon) knew it, God knew it, all the German Namen knew it. Goethe knew and told. Schopenhauer knew and wrote. Germaine Greer knew and screamed that she didn’t; she screamed so hard that I knew she knew (pure quantity, if you will). Paul (Simon) knew and sang. Jesus knew and lived. The Upanishads have it written, and no human knows who wrote it, not even Schopenhauer, and he said that he didn’t know who wrote them; and of course it doesn’t matter. If you want to know who wrote them, you’re dead. Go, go! Find out whether Bach was sexually repressed and whether Schubert was gay! Whether Freud had a hidden agenda! Whether Paul was a New Yorker at heart and whether you are blah and blah! And who cares about your blah and blah? Nothing less than this is the Problem, yours and theirs and all’s: Paul cares, you care, your dog cares, on and on right up to Shiva who wil destroy you because you deny that you know, crossing past Schopenhauer der Sledgehammerer who didn’t give a damn to what you thought, and across to that little-known poet you identify with and are proud of having discovered and/or of the fact that no-one around you knows his or her poems, and who seems smaller than the Beatles (and smaller than Schrödinger and Heisenberg whose books you dont’ understand and so have kept away for physics class).
Eckhardt knew, but he wrote in German, and that is Herr Adolfs Sprache, so: problem. Beethoven sang, but he was deaf, so: problem. (What caused his deafness, temporomandibular disjointment or cochlear failure? Look up what Kerman has to say; compare and contrast with Sullivan, and write out your latest theory.) Schopenhauer told you all it is, but you don’t trust him because he says he knows it all, and worse: his sentences are long, ganz 45 times longer than the average full SMS.
One German word there and you hate me already! Lots of Germans all over here, oder? Und zo you poken Funnen an dem, no? And you want to learn the world from people spread across a hundred countries! AND you want equal opportunity and equal everything, but you are better, of course, because you’re more equal! And that sounds Russian! All this has become nonsense now!
Analyse all this and it is devoid of sensible material, no? Empty words, yes? And smug you are, no? And smug I am now, yes?
We are both smug; so muß es sein. Thus must it be, but drop it and it’s gone. Trust me. For it to go, you drop it. Simple enough.
Whitman knew it. Whitman wrote poems! Read them! Stop pretending you don’t know! Whitman didn’t! Beethoven didn’t! Whoever told you what they each knew, did they deny that they knew? And is that not how they told you?
Paul is so dear, but you want to analyse his life and his patterns. Analyse and you’ll get crap. Yes, no?
Christ was dear, but someone told you to critically appraise the relevance of the concept of A Messiah as Refuge in the contemporary context. Yes or no? When things become bad, Vishnu comes, then he goes; but he is a painting, yes? Pantheism is bad, yes? But monotheism is also bad, so… hmm. Maybe Zen is better, but they all have slit-like eyes, hence Problem.
Nietzsche speaks loud and goes mad because you didn’t hear, and you don’t listen to him because he was mad. Who is mad?
Where do you want to go from here? If you genuinely want no-one, why does everything you do seem to me like an attempt to place yourself where a god was? And you call me an egoist? Who is an egoist?
The fact is, there is no fact, just you — and now me, because I am speaking.
If I’m right, all your brain is belong to me, and that is your problem and mine too, but I have no problem, and that is the difference. So I’m better than you, and so you won’t listen, and perhaps I’ll be louder next time.
Have I left you with nothing?