.

the goodness of one

frost, and then snow, came way
too early this year and two weeks
ago, where was I? lost in deep six.
caught in nebulous notions of nothing,
the idea of zero deeply rooted in some
sense of not, notsomuch a number as
an innate (ancestral, even primordial)
grasp at naught. of not-having, not-doing,
not-being. "think nothing of it, it's
nothing, nothing to it". thoughts like
these crept in until time stopped (for
me although apparently not for anyone
else). meanwhile, premature frost
hit my fig tree quite surreptitiously.
but by the time I caught its condition,
was way too steeped in a ciphered
zilch to nurse it back to health.
how very uncharacteristic (of me).

and so, from frost to draught, it
was twilight amidst my gods, their
anti-genesis splayed out in full
view of my 10 foot - 15 year old
fig, its brooding heaps of yellow
leaf droppings that were ignored
by my annihilating will. worse
still, it took 2 torturous weeks
to die.

it now seems fitting that today`s
inescapable outside-white is the
perfect equivalent to nietzsche's
nulling words inside my head.
from Zarathrusta`s ten year trek
through wilderness to this raging
winter storm, it is a fitting
metaphor for the guilt of my
all-encompassing crime. but
of course, any sincere gaze into
the abyss eventually leads one
to a Buddha moment, replete
with its "death of God" aha!,
which always wipes horizons
clean. today's blizzard-blur
stared back into me with N's
exact words;

"... how could there be an
outside-of-me? There is no outside!"
(Nietzsche's Zarathustra)

and so, like nihilist-nietzsche bent
on self-overcoming, I now seek
redemption for my crime, a little
solace, and some tender consolation
by writing into the void (for myself
rather than for any amorphously
prefigured notion of audience).
the conception of a(ny) poem
thrives on notions of naught
and like my poor tree, comes
out of no where and does as it
wills until larger forces prevail
to sweep it into its great reversal.
a poem is nothing less than this
arduous journey back from any
abyss, everything vital and
creative asserting itself against
the void. it is the great return
from zero to one.


Nietzsche`s noble lie about his
'will to power' is ultimately
exposed by his understanding of
an überself, the universal man
of Blake`s poetry. N awakens the
notion of one in himself. but if
reading Nietzsche`s internal
struggle (between self and ego)
is much like chewing on tin foil,
nonetheless, his understanding
of an überself approximates the
crossing of a bridge between the
two. it is a Buddhist notion of
`true self`, the unconditioned,
the realization of (his own)
godmanhood. his newly-found
christ-consciousness is a circle
whose centre is everywhere and
whose circumference is no where.
it is this paradoxical notion that
extends the body far beyond
its 'self'.

so what is the universal 'it'
of 'having it all' or of 'losing it'?
according to nietzsche, it is the
seduction away from any organized
religion towards the heart of
Christ's purpose (towards a
body without organs) which
is most likely the realization
of each person's godmanhood,
go(o)dness always being an
equation of one; in this
sense, religionless-nietzsche
ironically becomes the millenial
epitome of a faithful disiciple
of christ. and afterall, isn't
there always a little nietzsche
in christ-mas?


as for me, I weathered the storm.
actually enjoyed the blind adrenalin
rush of driving through white, hitting
drifts in the road without once skidding
off my path, and the sobering sting of
icy wind off a horizonless lake. I
traversed the abyss and made it back
safely from zero to one. but as is
always the case after a blizzard,
after all has resettled, some things
are irreversibly changed, both inside
and out. in this case, the incessant
remains of one thought. nothing will
ever replace my intrepid fig because
some things, like trees and lost
angels, are absolutely irreplaceable
and always need to be remembered
as such.

...