Life as lived in a late empire, in which one's humanity is deemed only worth its value in dollars to the corporate state.
Wherein one's identity is flooded by the come-ons and emotional coercions of the commercial hologram — one holds unto the debris of one's essential nature, as one is pulled along by powerful currents of a cultural death-drive.
economic imprisonment and exponentially increasing environmental devastation
In this age of economic imprisonment and exponentially increasing environmental devastation (e.g., How can one adapt to a culture that is dangerously altering the climate itself yet denies it?) — what verities should one hold to?
Perhaps, we might grow so desperate we could try this:
'The spirit of justice is nothing other than the supreme and perfect flower of the madness of love.' —Simone Weil
Now we have something to work with: spirits, madness, and love.
Our spirits go into the world with the ardor of a lover–and find madness. How could they not?: Spirits are by definition not human: They speak the eternal language of the cosmos…of spiraling galaxies and spindling earthworms; they are borne of a womb of thunder and the autochthonic urgency of underworld demons.
a life sentence for the crime of not choosing life itself
Although, devoid of spirit, one is a cipher; one lacks vitality; life is a prison yard shuffle, in which the condemned serves a life sentence for the crime of not choosing life itself…the crime of not committing Eros' error.
Yet commit the crime: and one places oneself in an asylum for the hopelessly insane i.e., a life lived in this human realm.
What to do? Proceed to the ward of the madhouse of yourself where the powers in charge have placed in lockdown the most hopeless cases…and love the inmates within.
Give voice to the one whose mouth is frozen in terror. Why should his mouth not be? It is possible, he realizes, we as a species are destroying our planet–our only home and collective body yet we all go along like nothing of the sort looms?
Weep into the darkness with the inmates…rage at invisible demons in the air, until they make themselves visible to you…a strategy deployed in order to keep a close watch on them…because it is from those demons'–these lost, troubled spirits'–palsied fingertips and gibbering tongues blossom forth "the spirit of the supreme and perfect flower of the madness of love."
Phil Rockstroh is a poet, lyricist and philosopher bard living in New York City. He may be contacted at: firstname.lastname@example.org. Visit Phil's website or at FaceBook.
Images: Damian Brandon / FreeDigitalPhotos.net