Mimesis, Smoking Jackets, and the Dusty Smell of Erudition

I saw photographs of a man whose acquaintance I've held for some years now. He posed before a fireplace with a carefully stoic expression and a pipe, a sweater, and other smoking-room accoutrements. I've watched this carefully guided transformation of his somewhat casually for quite a few years now, and the meticulous grooming of the aura and persona struck me full force tonight.

It's not that I hadn't noticed before. The previous awareness is what has led to the possibility of my being so conscious of the creation of this guise or image. But something about this more recent picture struck me acutely as does a slow, laborious change after years once one has achieved some distance and then looked back.

One element that helped catch my attention was the responses of others toward this man's photo. Of course they expressed some sentiments of its being so captivating, so brooding or erudite--so positively literary or something. I'm playing it fast and loose here about their responses because it wasn't so much the specific content of their feedback that drew my thoughts but rather the overall impression that the appearance and posture were clearly designed to produce in the observer. And the fact that I had an intimate enough knowledge of this person's life to understand just what the process has been made this situation all the more clear.

I thought to myself, now all the observers will see him as a certain way, and that is what he wanted before and still clearly wants (at least on some level). The funny thing is that the aesthetic and impression, the apparent identity, has been purposefully and carefully cultivated to reflect that very sense. "He looks so much like a professor," an observer might offer. True enough. He does.

But the (further) funny thing is that he specifically observed certain personages, like professors and poets, and crafted his own appearance and sensibilities with their auras and aesthetics (yes, with their fashions) in mind. It's a re-projection of what they themselves, usually, picked up from others with whom they had a similar relationship. (A character in a novel once mused that magicians love to cultivate the cartoonish trappings of their archetypes, and it's true; we do.)

I don't think there's anything wrong with this. I have long detected certain elements of this mimetic and conscious cultivation in myself and my own personality and psyche--which neither condemns nor justifies the behavior, though it does help me to understand when I see it in others. And when I see it in others, it helps me understand what I see in myself. The result is both to eliminate and excise rotten places in myself like cutting out bruises in fruit, as well as to give more purposeful attention to parts of myself that need to be actively, consciously cultivated.

This includes mimesis. Actively working to shape myself into certain patterns that I recognize as good, right, and most high. And while I'm comfortable enough with my beard and with standing in impressive places with an erudite manner while looking like a disaffected Ivy Leaguer who escaped his banal campus for the soul-revealing haven of an Irish tavern, that's simply not sufficient for my highest form of becoming.

passing of aeons, part I

God.

I will talk to you like this.

These days I feel such a compulsion, almost like a necessity, to stay silent. Still.

It's what I felt when I still lived in Kansas City. How can it have already been nearly two years since I left? Yet it has been, and I don't know how time has slipped away. I mean I think about that place, how different it was, and strangely it seems both immediately almost within my grasp (just out of fingertip length) and unbelievably far removed. How things were so very different in some ways. In other ways, they were exactly the same. The curious thing is that while on some levels it feels like our relationship was so much closer then, like we were so much more closely living relationally in intimacy, nevertheless our relationship now feels just as sweet, just as close, even though in outward ways it probably wouldn't be perceived to be such. But I don't suppose that's really what matters about all these things.

How strange life becomes sometimes. These shifts happen, and suddenly the qualities or general character that defines one period no longer are the qualities or general character that define the next period. Like unfolding aeons, but unexpectedly so. So things continue to pulse throughout them all, and even though certain realizations, lessons learned, and growth stay on, the new becomes something--such a development--that is wholly different and wholly, specifically its own that a disconnect with the previous aeon becomes absolutely, undeniably, unequivocally established.

How strange this thing, life. It continues to move forward, and it is so rarely what you expect. I guess I thought there would be more returns. So often on the crest of a new age, a new aeon, a new period, I have no clue just exactly how thoroughly a break with an old period is about to occur. It's not that I would go back. That could only be death.

But still. How strange to see life in this manner. It's a miracle when anything real and truly good is preserved from age to age, period to period.

I think I didn't expect to be in this place so long--long enough for it to truly become a period and an era entirely in its own right. To be able to see it unfolding is terribly strange, but it also makes complete sense. At this point I don't even really feel a melancholy or a sadness; I just simply observe it, somewhat less touched by the passing of aeons as I once was. I am no longer just a sapling--how completely strange. The bark on this tree has become thicker and harder, causing certain passings of time and friction to be less effective, even while the inside (perhaps, and let's hope) has become ever softer.

The emotional grating of previous aeons passing away becomes less and less as I become more like the mountains--more like the ancient trees. The pain becomes less. The strain lessens.

Alone Context

"A writer needs to be alone."

I wonder how much this is true. Tonight it's quiet and sleepy outside, and I hear some gentle hum of electronic appliance quietly turning in the house somewhere. Being a writer without a prism is difficult in the way that being a parent without a child must be. You have a waling sense that you should be giving birth to something, but the context is always slipping apart so that the product can never be formed and the end result can never be born.

Return after political season hiatus.

Things have been blank here, and fortunately so. One downside to being one of maybe 5 Christian nihilists on planet Earth is the overwhelming oppressiveness of political horse crap pressing down upon us. It's exacerbated by necessary fact of our having very little support structure. You can understand the logistical nightmare of trying to convene conference between 5 individuals worldwide. We simply can't promise we'll be there. It's an elite group, so it has that going for it, but I just wanted you to be aware that there are downsides. It's my job as public liaison to both set your apprehensions at ease, as well as to simultaneously discourage any attempts at joining our loosely official syndicate.

That is, of course, the danger in going public with one's ideals: screaming, salivating fans. Too much obsession. If I'm not careful to keep this cabal in shadows, soon we'll have a Justin Bieber type of situation. I just can't handle thousands of screaming teenage girls wilting in violent adoration and threatening to tear a chunk of flesh off my body. Too much. I much prefer a quiet, secret gathering, cigarettes and a mystical vibe. We can switch up between hooded occult and Bukowski aeshetics. But it's got to be one of the two, you know. Things in this world have their Proper Order. Order of Operations. Orbium Coelestium.

But now that the political season has waned a bit--cooled, I say, but not dissipated entirely--I can return here to cast into your mind the thoughts which are nearly direct reflections from the heavens above, celestial orders. We all have our orders. Okay, maybe that sounds heavy-handed. It was a fancy way of saying the (somewhat) quiet ruminations of a Christian nihilist. I'm the pen and pad, as it were--the letter from us to you. It was beginning to over-exhaust me, this past election season. I'd about had my fill. Of course, on ye olde sociale medya sites, the irritation presses on, only abated somewhat. And I just want to make something definitively clear right now, so that in the future if the issue arises, I can point back to this highly reputable publication to verify my stance as legitimately and defiantly established early on.

If you morons decide to have another civil or revolutionary war, leave me right out of it. I'll tell you this; I want a semi-automatic rifle, but mostly because they're awesome to shoot and because I should be allowed to. I'm not interested in everyone's stupid squabbles, so if you decide to openly battle it out because your grasp of civil discourse has eroded to such an alarming degree--well, leave me out of it. Whatever is resolved from it will doubtless be unworthy to partake in.

Here's a clue that applies to basically everyone I hear whining today:
The problem is in yourself. Shut up, fix it, and then try to help other people, but not because you're pissed off.

Oh. And leave me the hell alone.