By the dog and why he alone abides as man’s best friend. Painting of Diogenes by Jean-Léon Gérôme.
“And I lift my glass to the awful truth, which you can’t reveal to the ears of youth, except to say it isn’t worth a dime.” – Leonard Cohen, Closing Time
One of the most enjoyable aspects of being an old man resides in letting go. To no longer be affected by praise or censure; gracefully opting out of the human race with some dignity in tack; saying goodbye to all the hubris and social constructs that have dogged us from our birth. But we are no longer free to leave in peace as we were as First Nations people. Our stories and medicines that enabled us to embrace the long night have been ripped from us. Now we are expected to live on in the land of the undead and appear to be grateful for all the sacrifices made to add on a few extra years to our measly existence.
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The craving for immortality has clawed its way into our souls and has made it impossible to content ourselves with being old. Now we must call ourselves middle aged or some other kind of blarney like that. Anything to avoid the inevitable; namely, death—including its preparation and the precious time required to see it through to the end. How sad to see our elders lingering on and on in zombiehood, pretending to be young in dress and mannerism. Basing and/or debasing their self-worth on the values of a new generation that is as foreign as it is absurd. Force fed with fiat optimism to the point of bloating.
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“Nevertheless, every man desires to reach old age; in other words, a state of life of which it may be said: It is bad to-day, and it will be worse to-morrow; and so on till the worst of all.” ― Arthur Schopenhauer, Studies in Pessimism: On the Sufferings of the World
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Now for the few of us that are unable to keep the shit down, are we not glad for the muses; those deities that make themselves known through nature; that defy everything that this Goddamn world has fabricated; yes, it is true, Christianity collapsed our spiritual world with its metaphysical charms and in its wake we have filled in the gap with endless stuff. Nonetheless, this other world remains in part with its plants and wild life by which to commune with us. In this realm, folk psychology remains essential on many intricate levels, the umbilical cord to spirit: “For you would not find out the boundaries of psyche, even by travelling along every path: so deep a logos does it have.” – Heraclitus
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In other words, there are an infinite number of ways of being in this world. We need not be ‘subject’ to the pomp and thrashing of a power hungry hierarchy. If there is no win/win outcomes and all you have lift are empty promises and broken glass then why not walk away. Better a no-deal than a lose/win or a win/lose which eventually dwindles into lose/lose conditions anyways. Those who wait around in hopes of achieving a so-called good life rarely arrive and when they do its short-lived. And if by a freak of nature they are able to sustain such good fortune for a while the headaches and strife block out its glory. Everything done under the sun is but vanity, meaninglessness, a chasing after the wind.
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Therefore I lift my lamp to unveil the countenance of a generation lost—with neither hope nor fear that my individuality may reside or disappear—knowing that those who gave their best—will also become our most debased; a rejuvenation of endless night by day as well as the other way—round n’ round, up and down, inane or sound; so just as a writer ought to treat each word as though it were gold, and that each fresh entry could very well be our final tale told, may I forfeit —let go and let be— my final word in one so bold:
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The Poets light but Lamps —
Themselves — go out —
The Wicks they stimulate
If vital Light
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Inhere as do the Suns —
Each Age a Lens
Disseminating their
Circumference —
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Even the most appalling eras to be, cannot overlook the fire of Emily Dickinson’s glee; death-&-immortality also breathes thro’ us you see, and by all in all, that includes me.
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Jason the Philosopher Muse
Winter Solstice, Dec 21, 2024.
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PS: By the dog and why he alone abides as man’s best friend. Dog without man remains wild as a wolf. Man without dog becomes a monster; i.e., the more we separate ourselves from nature the greater our arrogance and self-righteous pride.
