We Slaves

Imagine when one looks upon the familiar and sees in that observation an unfavorable difference. To make a point from the simplest example, take the moment when one looks down upon the poor. We can easily transcribe the inner voice of Reason within the mind of the compassionate. Undoubtedly, it goes something like this, “Let me help them in hope that they may have a better future.” And these words are the very beginning of that atomic tremble which has resonated in the soul of generations. Now, perhaps we allow ourselves permission to expand this inner monologue. Our recording probably goes something like this:

“I would not enjoy a life like theirs. Looking upon them is discomforting. A bad feeling overcomes me at the thought of not having what I have. I know that if they could choose, they would not choose their circumstance. They have only been less fortunate than I have. Now, either they should be given what I have or they should be allowed the resources to help themselves, so that they may have what I have—so that they may live like I do.”

Finally, the voice concludes, “I pity them.” But the voice of reason omits, “Their sight offends me.” Now, in practice our good conscience is not so transparent. Nonetheless, pity is one answer which successfully reconciles the relative-similar. Very plainly, the compassionate want to make the relative-similar all the more similar, or else it must be forced into an object of absolute-difference. Or perhaps we could say with more correctness, pity is only that which surges to baptize imperialism and christen it as altruism.

I have read the words of a psychologist spoken to a weakened culture: "Pity for all—would be hardness and tyranny toward you, my dear neighbor!—” But the subject and condition which has been diagnosed here is much different. And by this I mean to say that the words spoken to a weak individual begin with, “Pity for some—” And now, with little doubt, I have displayed two caricatures on a single stage: one is called the compassionate and the other is the despondent. And with your eyes fix on them I ask again, who could believe the universe fiddles a congruent song that they themselves have been granted permission to hear? Who could be so audacious as to assume that their foresight and united front is the united front of all the universe, and that they are not one of the thousand thousands which stand outside? Who could believe that the fiddles of a thousand thousands fiddle for them? Who could suffer from so much vanity?

Now, Let us consider the assertion of those famous words of progress: “Philosophers have hitherto only interpreted the world in various ways; the point is to change it.” Let us consider the great error we face in reducing that which is property to that which is point—that is to say, reducing that which happens necessarily to purpose—and further, reducing a purpose exclusively to that which is self-conscious, intentional, and which possess the faculty to deduce a meaning of existence.

We must not be hasty. We cannot condemn one man—and surely not for a mere note-to-self which had not been prepped for publication and may, just as well, never have been intended for publication. Instead of attacking the reasoning of this claim, we should investigate its appeal. Consider those in which this pathos has stomped out all mystery and doubt, and has given those thousand thousands a morality in which all inquiries into their books must cross-reference.

I find little difficulty in diagnosing the psychological state which finds pleasure in this claim; one does not even need to refer to clinical research since evidence has been recorded in the greatest books of the world. To dissect this aesthetic experience we must first know that our consciousness is a composition of relationships which relate our environment to us. Next, we must acknowledge the degree of similarity or the degree of difference that one establishes in a relationship. Imagine when one observes the silhouette of an apple, then immediately following, observes someone eating that apple. The observer will establish one of these two figures as more similar than the other.

While the absolute-different is not an altogether separate discussion from the relative-similar, investigation of that side of the spectrum will provide us with little depth here. Instead, we must concern ourselves with the experience of the familiar, and also the difference which keeps the familiar from being something which is identical.

With the preceding in mind, consider that deep misunderstanding which overcame Arthur Schopenhauer when he interpreted that which was most intimate as being more complex, more entangled, higher, and more evolved:

While every human being is then to be regarded as a particularly determined and characterized phenomenon of will, even to a certain extent as an Idea of its own, but in animals this individual character is entirely lacking, with only species having a characteristic significance—and its trace ever more vanishes with every greater distance from human beings, with plants finally possessing no other particularly individual characteristic than those that allow of a complete explanation in terms of external favorable or unfavorable circumstances of soil and climate and other contingencies—all individuality finally vanishes in the inorganic realm of nature.

And later he continues:

That which makes its appearance in clouds, stream, and crystal is the weakest resonance of the will that comes more completely to the fore in plants, still more completely in animals, most completely in human beings.

If anyone has ever held these words in their thoughts, and considered them true with the most serious mind, then surely they have mistaken locality for hierarchy. However, all of this precedes the unexpected. And, to his credit, Schopenhauer seems to have acknowledged his own error.* So, while it is hardly imaginable that he would have had the courage to destroy a work of over six-hundred pages with one single sentence, Schopenhauer’s precedence must be followed. We must be cautious in mistaking that which is present in location for that which is absolute in the world.

*“Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world. This is an error of the intellect as inevitable as that error of the eye which lets us fancy that on the horizon heaven and earth meet. This explains many things, and among them the fact that everyone measures us with his own standard—generally about as long as a tailor’s tape, and we have to put up with it: as also that no one will allow us to be taller than himself—a supposition which is once for all taken for granted.”—from Thomas Bailey Saunders’ translation of Schopenhauer’s Parerga und Paralipomena.

There are two questions which have been bound so tightly for all of history that it is hard to consider one without the other quickly populating our thoughts. In regard to our mental evolution, we cannot say with any certainty whether our faculty to deduce purpose of action developed before or following the faculty to deduce meaning of existence. Today, we are hard pressed to imagine consciousness without the faculty to deduce even simple events to the laws of causality. It is possible that in our pre-history the recognition of cause-and-effect was the foundation on which consciousness itself was built; that is to say, purpose of action cultivated a mental environment for interpreting meaning of existence. We can imagine that we first ate with our hands, walked on our feet and saw with our eyes, and only after naming the facilitators of these actions, deduced that our hands existed to eat, our feet to walk, and our eyes to see.

What we should expect is that our understanding of purpose of action and meaning of existence developed relative to each other. We can even imagine a primitive cultural landscape which hosted a subtle war in which these reductions battled for primacy over one another. However, what we can say with the greatest confidence is that once our narrative crystallized into our present understanding of history, we find only one dominate reduction: throughout history, purpose of action was subordinated to meaning of existence. Thus, it was will that became the expression of purpose of action in regard to a substance.

The respect of oneself necessarily implies the respect for that which is one’s environment. This follows, naturally, from the assertion that we constitute ourselves through our environment. To admit this relationship is difficult—it takes the greatest respect for life and the most devote subordination to environment. Today I have found no deeper example of this than in the spirit behind the slogan which stands in the face of a question and answers with, “keep Detroit beautiful.” The word keep is directed at the pragmatists as a provocation, while beautiful describes that which is in doubt. The statement proclaims, “I think this is beautiful.” The spirit behind these words has been making itself heard for generations within inner city populations—those who find respect for themselves only in respect of their environment. And in doing so, they have flipped valuation on its head.

There is only one who stands in opposition to this affirmation of intimacy and locality—but my ears are closed to their dramatics. I will employ some artistic liberties so that I can appropriately proclaim their name, the abolitionist. But who is the abolitionist to we who are slaves?—no one, but an absurd imperialist or a propagandist who proposes that we hate being so. To demand liberation from the impressions of one’s environment is a sign of confusion. This supposes that the will, after having been given independence, can remain alongside environment. This can only find favor in those who have mistaken Reason as the faculty in which one becomes master of one’s environment.

And now my neighbors,* I ask you to imagine a building which has long lost its intended utility. Now, if by chance an exception came to your mind and the exotic remains of Persepolis materialized before you then surely you thought, “A great civilization once stood here and behold this monument of their success!” And if by chance the remains of the Michigan Central Station came to your mind then surely you thought, “A monument of failure! An eyesore!” And with the imagery of a decaying Detroit in your mind, immediately you fell into the valley of the uncanny.

At the moment of irregularity lability manifests within consciousness. If neither absolute familiarity nor Otherness can be established at the moment of observation, then there can be no doubt in the rise of dissonance for the duration of the experience. This dissonance can only resolve within an observer who establishes a relationship with the observation; the observer must become the master and the observation the mastered.**

If one pities Michigan Central Station—its meaning of existence or any who are involved in that meaning—then one has mastered the observed. Concerning the feeling of the uncanny, one cannot discern between an aesthetic judgment and a moral one.

*Written while living in the United States.

**Here I should mention that Sigmund Freud did himself no favors when he attempted to untangle the mystery of the uncanny by means of ego psychology. Of course, he was concerned with building a system, but nonetheless his authority degrades in his effort to filter all explanations through his topography of the mind. And to be honest, I can hardly bring myself from laughter when I read a diagnosis of the uncanny which emphasizes a dialog between the conscious mind and the unconscious mind—as though the dialog between the conscious mind and our environment meant nothing!

It happened that the painter continued his work under the heed which his neighbors had given. However, as he sat in the midst of his subject, a problem presented itself: the street was so lively with bodies and business that he could not see beyond a few steps in front of him. Therefore, to capture the entirety of the scene, he was forced to guess at that which was beyond his eye’s ability. Despite this, when the work was finished he was satisfied. Though, as it happened—and to his surprise—upon seeing the painting his neighbors cried, “How dare you misrepresent my home? You have twisted and distorted all of that which is closest to me. Your painting is untruthful and you have offended me!”

At this remark the painter reflected, then felt a slight haughtiness come over him. His patrons had no concept of the real—their ambition ran faster than their senses.

A humble painter who becomes inspired to capture the liveliness of a street scene is warned, “Be sure to not crop too tightly! Your canvas is only so large and the larger the scale of your objects, the smaller the scope of the scene. Totality is your aim. You will never know what your audience will interpret outside the scene in which you have captured—the thought is far too frightening to imagine. We warn you, do not crop too tightly!”

The painter is weary. Intimacy and details may be sacrificed. He likes to imagine scope, while confrontation with it scares him.

The moment that Reason was deemed the most satisfying of the mental faculties was the moment that emotion assessed its own self-worth and then suffered reproach. Surely this was emotion’s greatest honor yet—to recognize subordination to Reason. Even at this moment, when Reason was lifted up to the highest esteem, it was our gratification—our resolve—that was the brawn that did so. Unfortunately for us, emotion is the deeper of the mental faculties.

However, following this moment, it came to pass that Reason lent support to its belittled counterpart. And a proclamation was made from the mouth of Reason itself: Our emotional faculty has developed as our most expedient tool for recalling individuations of experience—surely we commend it as such on merit of its severity and immediacy.

With each mental faculty humbled to the next, we are capable of an aesthetic understanding. And with this understanding what is expressed colloquially as material and thought are reducible to the same—both are products which vary only in degree of severity present in our environment. We could easily designate the idea weak, while the material is immediate and strong.

Thankfully emotion strikes us hard enough—we find Reason functioning best with relationships in close proximity of either time or space. And we can read into this union of mind further: if we find an impression too strong for our liking, we look for a relief; and if too weak, we look for a substitution. Either resolve can be satisfied by sublimation. If our product is not a release, then it is a reminder which we keep close—and upon its reoccurring touch, taste, sound, or image we find solace again.

Every stimulation surges only to release from its captivity. Once an expansion, then a contraction; once a movement, then a void which sought to be filled—this is the play of stimulations which I have witness. But what is the scope of our minds? Can we comprehend the resolute existence which stimulation surges to reach? For what our lives will be, will we ever witness an end-in-itself? To be sure, we only have to ask ourselves a series of subsequent questions. Is not the effect of two dissolved and concluded stimulations only a cause for another? And can’t it be said that complete denial of stimulation is unintelligible?

Let us recall a famous story of denial—that story of when Simon Peter drew his sword to Judea. There can be no doubt that his allegiance was certain and his reactions predictable—but on the day of Jesus’ arrest there was another answer: “Then Jesus said unto Peter, Put up thy sword into the sheath: the cup which my Father hath given me, shall I not drink it?” Henceforth, in the face of opposition, Peter found himself with an immediate and mechanical reaction—denial. Suffering at the hand of the opposition had not been invented for him. Jesus knew that Peter could not accept martyrdom, at least, until an example had been made for him to follow.

If stimulation swells and is met with lack of acknowledgement within consciousness, there can only be one resolution for that stimulation: an inward manifestation onto the consciousness. An inward manifestation can only lead to the greatest sickness of consciousness; equally, it leads to a malformation of physiology—I say, stimulation will have its release! Perhaps it was Simon Peter whose consciousness was the first to succumb to a reaction forced back onto its origin. Perhaps he wept not for denying his Lord—he knew no other reaction!—but for denying the stimulation to defend his allegiance.

Today it appears that we have come face-to-face with an undisputable understanding; simply, our consciousness is both a puppet of our environment and a vehicle in which stimulation is forwarded. And when we are presented with a situation in which we intentionally alter the direction of our performance, it is under the influence of stimulation. Stimulation alone allows us to call awareness to our actions, and is that which manipulates our awareness to perform. The faculty to engage in this articulate relationship with our environment is deeply developed, for sure.

When does the turmoil of a thought end? Once our limbs have sublimated stimulation into a reaction against our environment, then consciousness reaches momentary solace. But let our comfort not be our deception! We experience only that which occurs as a passing moment. It is stimulation passing through which we call awareness. Consciousness begins with our in and ends with our out; or more correctly, consciousness is the composition of temporally crystallizing relationships which relate our environment to us.

Our satisfaction: to make a judgment—to know value in order to understand our relationship to our environment—to constitute ourselves in our environment. We enjoy ourselves as quidnuncs.

Our project: to know purpose of action—to know meaning of existence in order to react in our environment. We labor ourselves as quidnuncs.

This could be said, and something else also—don’t we always labor to be entertained?

A few years ago I came across a story which I wish to share, to help me illustrate an altogether inescapable realization concerning our existence of lability. The story comes from Saint Louis, Missouri and requires a bit of visual description regarding the city’s topography. When traveling from one neighborhood to the next there is an observation which cannot go unacknowledged; the streets are more than thoroughfares—they are the framework of the city which set structure to the otherwise coalescent characteristics of each neighborhood.

The residential neighborhood of Lafayette Square rests south of a large freight yard which runs west of the Mississippi and divides Saint Louis’ central commercial district from its residential counterparts. After walking through the train yard five days a week for nearly two years, I came to appreciate the character of the train yard, which is expressed by the unusual adjoining of the industrial operations with commercial and residential.

A few months before I took up residence in Lafayette Square, the people of the neighborhood witnessed a rare, but not altogether unbelievable event; a factory exploded releasing metal debris into the air which damaged lawns, automobiles, and roof tops. This event culminated with a citizen protest whose cause was the relocation of the industrial operation. During my first year in Lafayette Square propaganda populated the windows of the Victorian homes until the relocation was confirmed and completed.

We are blind all too often—our thought always an afterthought. I have to ask, what is the value of foresight to an individual when it is always an exploding factory which is needed to present us the moment in which to push back onto our environment? What is the value of foresight to a united front of thousands when there are always a thousand thousands which stand outside? Why gaze into crystal balls? Why seek a teller of fortunes?

To understand commendable foresight as a faculty of consciousness would mean to understand existence beyond all probability. This would mean to be at one with every cause—even those which are created through the passage of experience. This faculty would be equivalent to knowing every action that has been and the property of every substance which will react—this would be to know the universe as a single thought, and hear its song as a single harmonic tune.

But who could believe the universe fiddles a congruent song that they have been granted permission to hear? Who could be so audacious as to assume that their united front is the united front of all the universe, and that they are not one of the thousand thousands which stand outside? Who could believe that the fiddles of a thousand thousands fiddle for them? Who could suffer from so much vanity and exhort so much arrogance onto the world? And now that we have overcome our selfishness over the world—that is to say, our ego-coddling humanism—how could our modesty before the world allow us that which is so well concealed within that Christian plea: “Forgive them Father, for they know not what they do.”

Even today, when we find ourselves emancipated from the religious delusion we still find this impudence present in those political and economic philosophies which hold that intention can overcome any undesirable counter-finality—those who preach a morality out of their political and economical foresight. Why turn your foresight into the doctrine for your neighbor? And when your neighbor knows that the apple fell once, and when thrown again, will fall again, why become the overbearing mother with the weight of responsibly on your shoulders? Why, when in doing so, you become the thief who steals their feather or their brick?—why steal those experiences away?

An irregularity of experience—this is the moment of judgment. Those changes in tempo, those movements and sounds, and tingles to our flesh—the burning tree and the blooming flower! They demand of us, “Look at me. Judge me. I want a value!” These irregularities of experience, these distortions from normalcy, these surges and stimulations demand a reaction; they call for us to alter and shape them. This is the experience of an existence of lability—a push and shove within an environment and between its components. Today it might please us to believe that we are traveling the ancient footpath beaten by Heraclitus; however, sincerity would have us admit that we have only stumbled upon that venerable depiction of movement while mapping our own journey through the forests of interpretation.

And free will?—that will which reacts upon observation, which is forced into action, which pushes when it is shoved—that will is a slave to its stimulation. We are not so empty, we are not a void which must be filled—there is no void of which we know! There is oxygen even in the emptiness of the air, gravity in the emptiness of space.

The word experience owes its origin to the bias of the human perspective—it was, of course, crafted to describe something uniquely human. In colloquial use it expresses a duration within consciousness, or the state which follows a duration within consciousness; however, our thoughts are a single domino in the course of the physical exchange of simulations. Here, I am mindful not to qualify experience solely as human experience. Our lability is guided by every object in our environment—and don’t you think the same experience extends to every object in our environment? Don’t you think we say to it, “Look at me!  Hear me! Feel Me!”—and then it reacts? Is it so hard to imagine ourselves as the stimulation which forces the burning of a tree or the blooming of a flower?