The RIP - James Bèyor

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diluted and vortex obscured. Reason justifies and expands blame and excuse while passive feeling can justify nothing. Reason is an enlarged thing, its dominance based on conquest, on the braggadocio of what has been and what will be in constructed time to come through devout intention and proud objective for betterment of somehow, somewhat, sometime and somewhere. Reason is fortified by group cohesion to commonly held and traded beliefs, opinions, traditions and protected agreements. Only by authoritarian guard can the noose of agreement in reason be tightened. Only by absence of self or by self-abandon do we sanction constructs of reason that need validation.

      We intentionally bury our thin and watery selves in solids that are as dense as granite and we admire the masonry no matter how grotesque the convolution of self, no matter the aberrance of our twisted beings who are in want of freedom from pain. We pursue freedom in alcohol and freedom in chemistry. We never pursue freedom in self.

      We admire our reasonableness and pay homage to our heralded brilliance, rejoice in our quotients of intelligence; then we proudly display our neuroses as badges of courage and bravery.

      No matter how happy we claim ourselves to be, inside our solid casts of factory-make, the R.I.P. remains in reason decay. We sense this in our contrite acceptance of mediocrity and we sense this in our willingness to deprive and to be deprived. We sense it in the split that we cannot deny. The R.I.P. is the gaping wound that, for reason, we refuse to repair. The R.I.P. is the fissure through which the human being falls, without once even touching the color and texture dispatched by the nerves of self. We prefer our safe numbness to feeling.

      There is the impulse to stop, to give ourselves over to the caprice of completion. Feigning bewilderment, we do not question motion but allow ourselves to be propelled speedily toward time in future past. We reside in residuals. We can conceive the continuum of one long and unending day but we crave the acquisition of future relics sold by expert sale of noun/verb function. We hoard the products of linguistic prevarication for promise, as if we are incapable of our own determination of self and self constructs. The voice inside us—the voice of the self being, original self—intones the same message, and it is the redundancy of "a tale told by an idiot" and the myth of "tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" when the perfect self is now.

      The R.I.P. locks us inside the tragedy of not being and keeps us a single hair's breadth away from the magic of being: impassionment.

      Blame is a profitable business. It R.I.P.'s the mind and plunders the human heart. This is the seal of political endeavor and religious zeal. Religion exacts redemption by a savior who is charged with saving both those who are blamed and those who blame, while utilizing the latter. Yet religion will condemn those who are without blame and without need to blame to exile in the word. There must always be arch sinners as there must always be saints in the name of hope. There is no such thing as evil except through reasonable and moral devise. A life spent on the outskirts of this premise often marks one as a traitor and as a paladin to a cause. Martyrdom is fraud. There are no saints and sinners and no saviors of our souls: redemption is now.

      How can we amend a five thousand-year-old barter system based on the yoke and the plow, master and slave? Do we begin by giving things away and by making large, sacrificial donations? We cannot. Do we continue to buy and sell and to live the lie of goods that have no value? Is there choice? What is this thing that we claim to be our will?

      We live in paradox and we live in the shadow of reason. By indiscriminate breeding, we are ethical robots. Political and economic inequities, starvation, pestilence and the suffering of the human being across the planet are either the result of faulty questioning or of no questioning at all. The timeless irony of "to be or not to be" is unconcern by reason. The question becomes, then, "What must we throw out and what must we agree?"

      Hope is our eternal docility and the tractable method by which we sentence ourselves to the hells of our own making. Hope is the waiting for the nothingness in which we live to go away. Hope is bittersweet faith in stagnation.

      We fail. Survival of the fittest does not apply. We are all quite fit to fail. If agreement is the universal signpost of intelligence for a species and, if we all agree to accept certain roles for the acting of agreed upon process, then let us act our way out of millennia of abuse and humiliation. Let us, by our exploits, remove the yoke of obedience and duty, remove the struggle between those who have and those who have nothing; for within this struggle for ubiquitous gain through numeration, we are assassins. We either idle in our ignorance or forthrightly kill by our forbearance. The judgments of tolerance are harsh.

      It is our sensibility that reproves reason. To live in disregard of our senses is to live a life unlived. We condemn ourselves by reason alone. Death is not a choice.

      Our antiquated systems of barter are falling apart. There is little room for consumptive gain. Boredom has reached saturation. Can we continue the perpetuation of self fear, sanctified ritual, biased sentiment, fawning adoration of self replication and admiration of the flimsiness that grants us passage into agreement? Are we satisfied with meager return for meager outlay? Are we content inside our failsafe of impasse and reasoned paradox? Do we squirm in the grip of an ancient vise?

      We must ask: What defines feeling and what defines reason? Where does the vortex form? From what vantage do we trick the human beast into a life of suffering?

      Originally, we are not the reservoirs of misery that we make ourselves mean and assume, through the profile of labor, as existence: the substitute for life. To live fully in our senses and in our sense to reason, we must probe the vast regions of self: "to take arms against a vast sea of troubles" that opens to the essence.

      Future is a parody of history. The choice handed down to us through generations is what we may have that has been had. Knowledge is the tool of history and its repetition. Man is not what he cannot realize because he will not depart from the knowledge of history. He falls away from the very bones of his being. The mirror is before us but we will not enter.

      Circumstantial impasse and the breaking of endurance come from the dangling of reward, held always just out of reach. There is a plentiful supply of synthetic distractions to discourage regard for perfect now. Bought and sold and delivered into future past, we disregard the parallel of feeling. The living planet is but a speck in the compelling universe of the mind.

      Past is a parable fashioned for order and for the deposition of future. All that "will be" are relics of the past. Future is artifact. Time is defunct.

      In future past, failure is compact and complete; for that which has been completed is set and does not change. We are ordered into oblivion.

      R.I.P. widens. Will and act, reason and intention, become manifest as trades for empowerment inside the circle of blame. Observance of duty becomes the test of group will that is made to mean and made to intend future past. Act by group belief becomes failure to act. Empowerment becomes success through agreed right to fail or justice.

      Empowerment is reasonable proof through reasonable goals. Schools are merchants of immediate proof. Industries are merchants of guaranteed proof. Every purchase made is like a ring of smoke connected to similar rings until it becomes a cumulus mass. Such a toxic fog screens the natural ingenuity of the mind and forms a uniform blanket of sameness and security. Power is the will to self destruction. Encapsulated in time; wielded in freeze-frame; static, disembodied, miscoded: What is called power is like a virulent cell in living tissue. Pain is cancerous.

      Those who have power through They Entity of group will well know the want for power in the minions who vote and pray—who endow their heroes and saints with a substitution of self. It is not for mere drama that those empowered by group will use the raised hand or clenched fist, for this is a universal symbol for power. From our votes and our prayers there can be no fruitful yield. Every savior is a disappointment. Group mind exhausts itself in an inventive attempt to assuage its madness. There is no winning side, for all sides fail and they fail by the merit of murderous intent; fail by the offering and enforcing of a one-way path in and out of the labyrinth of lexicon knowledge.

      Group psychology is grounded and fed on manipulated turnabout and maneuvered flip-flop of ideations. It is not superstition that drives one into the flock. It is manmade fear. We fear that invalidation by group

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