Monthly Archives: February 2018

A Spurious Essay — 13 Feb 2018

by Joseph Raschack

Meditation is a lie. Modern spirituality bears no resemblance to the ancient Living Resurrection. We replace the trance-hypnosis of television with the trance-hypnosis of staring at a candle, or the imagining of staring at a candle. We become fixated on this trance state because it is familiar, and replacing it with the same but quieter feels more “organic”, “natural”, and other empty words. Pick your words and find your spirituality — cyber, virtual, vintage, authentic, exciting, sexy, manly, patriotic, holy, thrilling — our quest for meaning subsumed by a transitory feeling borne of safe experience.

Spirituality used to be real, severe, life-threatening. The whole point was to destroy your life, your self. Today, the closest we come to the — to the what? do we even remember what it was called? — is a campfire weekend, dancing naked while beating a drum and tripping on some chemical; a cheap, watered-down pseudo-bonding that induces a temporary euphoria in an otherwise dull life. This is like listening to someone who has never rode a rollercoaster talk about riding a rollercoaster — not like riding it, not like watching it, nor hearing it; only someone spewing enthusiastic ignorance tailored to fit politically useful ideas of what rollercoasters might or should be like.

To claim that drug-of-the-year is a gateway to mystical experience is a fucking joke. The highest possible cognitive behavior of the brain — if it even happens in the brain — is nothing like the delusional chaotic gibberish of the random slippery misfiring of some drug trip. The feeling of profound insight may happen, but nothing spiritual is connected to it, only some intellectual masturbation about morality or half-understood scientific theories.

The Living Resurrection requires more than a faint modern attempt. Where we would use the disturbance of drugs, it demands the terror of mortality and hunger. When we chatter our mantras and try to distract-o-focus our thoughts, it demands the clear presence in the room, the here-and-now, the objective reality, our environment and all that scampers within it. When we seek union and identity with the universe and all life, it demands our death and return to rotting biomass. Not some arm-chair anarchist idea of ego-death, not some comfortable metaphor that allows a smug sense of superiority over imagined achievements. Actual, physical, fuck-me-up death. To properly escape a prison, the prison must be destroyed. You can sit and imagine yourself free through a stubborn adherence to idealistic bliss-mongering, but that’s all it will be — a fairy tale told by a fool to entertain only its author.

Remove all of the gunk from the brain. Fasting until the edge of hunger becomes the blade of awareness. Resting until the inefficiencies of stress become the scars of experience. Celebrating until the company of boredom becomes the joy of the mundane. Probably not in that order, but in no order, every order. Seek an end to the distractions that plague us and chain us down — the thoughts that we try to focus within, replaced with the disorientation of presence. Symbolisms are parlor games for the mud-brained walking dead. Maps are rags for the snot-nosed lost youths. Stories and myths and legends abound, mere words because talk is cheap. A quest for meaning can only end, for meaning is easy enough to create from snips and shreds. A search for self can never be found, for self is a life to be lived. A journey through the here-after goes nowhere, for there is no veil, no separated realm to journey to. The Living Resurrection is not an answer, a destination, a noun or idea of any form. Not even a transformation, or a rite. The Living Resurrection is only the beginning of life within life, a death-before-death to end death-before-death.

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