Thursday, 17 January 2008

THE HIGHER MAN


“Lets face it, folks, blogging is bunk!”

Those were the words I used in response to commentaries on someone else’s blog. “The complete blogger is as useless to life as he is to his wife,” I wrote with masterly understatement. “One by one his deeper instincts, his spiritual requirements, are famished by stress of circumstances. The charismatic miscellany of life ceases to have any meaning for him. To console himself he sets up wilful tenets of right and wrong. Nervy mannerism replaces wisdom. Thinking in terms of snippets destroys the ability to think in terms of texture and consistency. Indeed, studies in bloggerism even suggest that chronic habits can lead to solitary addiction and subsequently to reclusivity.”

My statement to the world remains!

And yet, a highbrow attitude makes enemies. A free spirit seems to hostile critics a form of conceit. In truth, I’m a Z-lister - simply a siren possessed of enormous chutzpah. A person for whom the cyber age is not just a post-modern period, but a schizo-riddled stratum of the collective psyche, a never-ending alma mater through whose halls I can meander as an eternal adolescent riddler. Yet, I am here to taunt mortals with the frank confession that I have surrendered myself to the consecrated folly. Restraining my affliction has been daunting, not least because I was born an apostate. I had thirty-two teeth by the time I was six months old, and at twelve was diagnosed as having the mental age of about seven-hundred-and-fifty.

What’s worse, I felt the part.

Of my physical features I would rate the orbito-frontal cortex rather highly. I don’t spend much time on exercising it, preferring clitoral stimulation to full electro-convulsive irrigation, and yet it seems to do quite well. At the age of ten I had solved the riddle of creation (Though almost inevitably - and this will disturb you - the acclaim went straight to Einstein).

My puberty was marked by the development of a time machine designed to hit the 22nd millennium with an error margin of but a few weeks. Zero-Hour was set for 0317 on August 12, 13 minutes before first light. At 0317:05 hours GMT, the mechanism’s time-contraction circuit closed. The trip took me just over 45 minutes. I was almost ripped apart by mc2 and damn near perished in the process. I locked the time-vector in neutral and took a stroll through the bright orange aluminium fibre grass. By an astonishing dispensation of fate, I myself was captured intact during the battle of the Cosmos. Two weeks after my arrival an Anglo-Galactic force surrounded Ophiuchus and during a sortie on the following day I was cut off and pulled from my horse by an archer whom I found to be an Englishman. I won’t even tell you what he did to me - it’s too abhorrent! But a local tribesman saved my life. After endoscopies, colonoscopies, blood tests and further research in obstetrics, ophthalmology and cerebral circulation, he bailed me out with the only currency that was universally recognized as worth having: an unending supply of pubescent virgins. He then asked if I planned to spend the rest of the millennium having sex?

As you can see, it was a whole lot easier getting out of the solar system than it was getting back in. But now, that I’ve returned, nothing has ever looked so desolate.

The news, after all, could hardly have been worse.

Back at the Spearmint Rhino Club, I learnt that my favourite champagne is now only served on Tuesdays and Fridays. More unhappily, the sad moral of this particular planet seems to be that there is a fair proportions of Bloggers who are mentally conditioned to the acceptance of the mediocre rather than the striving to surpass. As I studied the general blogosphere, exasperated by the tedium of it all, I could not help but see the irony of the situation - the fact that I urgently wanted to deprecate what I had come here to admire:
The Higher Man!

Am I alone in this particular nostalgia?

As I began to rationalize the process, forced to appreciate the gradual stultifying power of such blogs, I arrived at an alarming conclusion: that we have succumbed to the most dangerous ailment of the human mind:

Inertia!

Inertia is the privilege of a sated sow. A predicament which leaves me wondering what may be the dreams and ideals after which some of our earth-bound souls are dimly groping:

More blogs?
More sex?
More Kylie Minogues?

Nor is mere blogging the true aim of the creative life. For anybody intentionally trying to sponsor that aspect of his art most likely to restrict his freedom, has no real contribution to make to the genius of his time. I am not going to suggest an exploration of the values and ethics of Plato’s legendary dialogue on the nature of death and the immortality of the soul. Nor am I going to imply that we should recreate an electronic version of the Attic sages’ Lyceum. But I must do you - and myself - the justice of saying that our lives are limited by the ideals to which we aspire. And if anyone desires to be elevated at all, to possess and treasure veracity, no blind struggle, no lack of belief in his own sense of a higher purpose will ever achieve that end.

Death is the first condition of renewal!

And for those of us who will accept neither defeat nor compromise this is the end of an era - as much as a new beginning. We live in a world gone virtual, a world which can only be judged by the technology that created it. And the materialistic, acquisitive, narcissist, self-adulating humanissimus homo of the post-modern age can no more deny this self-fulfilling trend than the tide can cease or the moon stand still.

I bow to the inevitable!

Dreamy

11 comments:

Richard Madeley said...

I'm dashing out, Selena, but I'll get back to read this high quality porn later on. I just wanted to be the first person to comment on your blog.

Love the heels, by the way. They make you look like a stock photographer's dream.

Selena Dreamy said...

Ah, Richard...you're the first to kiss me. So sweet!!

Don't miss THE RICHARD MADELEY MEMORANDUM - now in preparation!

Coming soon...Oooops!

xxx

Selena Dreamy said...

Sorry about the GMTime being out of synch. I wonder how I can fix that.

Any of you boys know?

Richard Madeley said...

It's in your blogger settings. Go to the Dashboard, choose settings and then format. Choose the right timezone.

Selena Dreamy said...

Thank you. I'm gonna give it a try...

Ms Baroque said...

Selena, sweetie, I'm not sure about the ankle straps. But that could be just me.

Congrats though on going out there with both guns blazing - no brow to high for a Baroque, as we like to say hereabouts.

Richard Madeley said...

Well that's done it for me. I've read your first post and declare it a masterpiece of wit and insight. In the fashion of Sir Walter Scott, who abandoned poetry once after he witnessed the genius of Lord Byron, I hereby announce my retirement from the blogosphere. I can't better this post. Nor will I ever come close to matching it. I am going to take up another discipline, perhaps involving matchsticks from which I will create cunning figures engaged in heroic acts. Selena, I salute you.

Neil Forsyth said...

Congratulations, by the way.

Neil Forsyth said...

The "by the way" might seem odd, but I thought I had left another comment. It was a short one, merely questioning the anonymity clause. I won't repeat it verbatim, my main point being that anonymity is in short supply these days. We need more of it. And it can be fun, wouldn't you say?

Selena Dreamy said...

Thank you Ms Baroque and you Richard, for your very kind and so very much appreciated words. You’ve been more than generous. You’re creating expectations I’m certainly going to find hard to live up to.

And thank you, too, Neil for your congrats. As for the matter of anonymity, I confess myself baffled. Am I anonymous? Quite the contrary. In the spirit of confidentiality - Neil, this blog is a confessional. Time will bear me out....!

Dreamy

Selena Dreamy said...

Gosh, Richard, I do believe I got the time zone adjusted. Quite a feat for someone as inadequate as myself.

I can barely manage to post on this blessed thing.

P.S. If I hear you speak of retirement once again, I'm going to be very, very upset...

Dreamy