Embracing the Mundane

(or: Am I Growing My Boneblades Yet?)

As Dawkins said, "mundane" originally meant "of this world", and this world is not as boring as the current meaning of this word suggests. While there might not be greatness in humanity (whether individually or collectively), it's sure as fuck there is no greatness in imaginary alternatives. In other words, if you want to kill your kid by refusing to get proper medical treatment for him/her, then by all means do it, but don't try to justify doing it with some delusional excuse like prayer. If you do something, do it because you mean it.

Most works of art are made for the sake of eternity, and yet perish in a few generations, if not sooner. With that in mind, what does it mean to live life itself as a work of art? Surely it needs imagination, because the principle yields itself to many interpretations in the first place. But then again, imagination is hollow without groundedness, and dead without intent of realization. Maybe pain is an art form - but it is wasted on a nonexistent audience. Everything can be an art form, even self-hatred, but in order to paint clearly, you need to see clearly first. Every artist was a beholder at first - every teacher was once a student.

And behold the greatest artwork of all, that created itself without intelligence, without inspiration, without knowledge or intent. Behold the magnificent accident, the fractal infinities containing worlds like ours and worlds quite unlike ours. The lack of an author itself is ought to teach you something: the same thing those sybarites in my department have been crowing from their provincial rooftops for decades now - that the text is important, not the author; the product, not the progenitor; the ends, not the means. That does not mean that the lies of the successful should be given any more credibility as the lies (and honest mistakes) of the losers - but that if the truths of both sides aren't both incorporated into something new, then the old will eat from inside and revisit itself upon us until we realize that we neglected a lesson there. For the greatest teacher - the greatest author - is this authorless work of art: our Mother the Universe, with her embracing arms Space and Time, and her enticingly spread legs of two possible future realities. There are always two possibilities. Right and wrong, life and death, order and chaos - these are just the empty names we give these (ultimately equivalent) truths.

Sure, we depend on certain things, like air. Sure, freedom is an illusion. But just as we are dependent on certain things, some other things may be dependent on us - and in our present organic form we cannot know what depends on what and to what degree. The fusion with technology might just grant that insight, as well as many others - and a less debilitating dependence, with the elimination of the need to slow-burn organic fuels with remarkably low efficiency. Maybe some of us fear becoming god so much because they think they will be left out - or because they secretly enjoy living a life of suffering and self-deprivation? Or maybe, just maybe, their vocal opposition serves to mimic their intention to keep the opportunity of advancement to themselves, while excluding the idealists and fools who believed them. Either way, they are short-sighted in a way more profound sense than the myopic invalid writing this. They are like tribal leaders who were rightfully condemned in the following terms: "Our people were meant to be living gods, warrior-poets who roamed the stars bringing civilization, not cowards and bullies who prey on the weak and kill each other for sport. I never imagined they'd prove themselves so inferior. I didn't betray our people — they betrayed themselves." After all, bringing down the status quo is one thing - establishing a new one is another. "Society cannot live on perpetual revolutions", and yet, individuals cannot live on anything else. But no individual is free from outside influence, whether he rejects or accepts it explicitly. Even Little Alex embodied the standards of non-violence by opposing them violently. That's why he could be broken in the end - that's why it didn't end with "I recovered all right", no matter how I wished it did.

He got to the stage of the lion, but not that of the child. Those who stayed camels all along wieved him with horror and perhaps envy - but he was just as much of a failure as them. Just as much a failure as me. But I am making an art out of being a failure. I am genetically inferior, yet intellectually superior to some of the best stock. My entire existence is a paradox. This paradox has an archetype already - the nerd/geek type. Proud of the insight granted to him by imperfection, yet secretly (or not-so-secretly) lusting for perfection, hoping that through ingenuity he can create or at least feign it.

Embracing the mundane does not mean embracing miserliness and consumerism. One of the greatest artists of all time, if not the greatest, Richard Wagner, lived off "friends" and loans all his life. Never did anything in a material sense. Yet most of today's moneymakers and successful people do even less. Somewhere along the line, the creation of value (be it food, cures, technology, or most importantly: ideas) got lost in the global holy marketplace. It's lost and looking for mommy - us. And while ours is a dire situation, which needs artists (in the conventional, departmental sense) the least (after all, you cannot feed millions with pretty words - but you can solve their problem with contraception, education, universal healthcare including free euthanasia services, and recycled human meat; again, the power of the mind/idea over matter/resource shortage), it needs their spirit the most. Because it's them who can take breaks from financial anxieties - because they have other mental conditions to attend to, and this maintains their firm grip on reality. Carl Sagan was one memorable example, but I bet there are more out there than we realize.

Most of them today get sectioned, though, or thoroughly ignored as they became part of the vast homeless/invalid population. Until, out of that population, with the aid of lucky circumstances and an extraordinary character, comes forth another Leader... who, while representing something great, inevitably makes mistakes and thus falls because he is too good for what he's been through. See? The system blames the individual, the individual blames the system, while there is no one to blame but ourselves.

There is no bottom line. We are all unfinished - even at the time of death. But who said unfinished works aren't beautiful?