The most pernicious of the defilements smuggled in by the herd mind – so subtle you couldn’t notice it, a tinny station always playing in the back, just inside earshot – is that ‘given’ veil of mediocrity. That what you see before you is mediocre. Your life – mediocre. Yourself, your world, your inmost powers – mediocre.

A few of its many permutations: the ‘little old me,’ the ‘who am I to X,’ the ‘how likely is it everyone but you…’; the virulent cannibalism of po-mo irony and cynicism, cynicism and irony. No sounds too rude, no thoughts too vivid.

There is operative in this great mediocrity, always a sense of losing track of one’s voice amid the cacophony, of having been swallowed by Other-mind.

Staid standards, sublunary imaginations, desires that regress to the mean… blind dumb and deaf desires, of eyeless longings that vainly grope: able only to say ‘another’, ‘more’, ‘again’.

   *       *       *

How different is the air outside, on whose eddying zephyrs the spirit spirals ever-upward, this holy faculty. At every nerve-end electrified, I take long measure of the distant steppe before me…unbounded are my thoughts in flight, endless is my single sight.


#90 – Westworld (OK-making)

The Kundabuffer is the ‘OK-making’ device of the mind that I have for so long intuited. It’s what I’m driving at in the fifth paragraph of #8.

[” But the mind filters on, makes OK, shields the tender mortal eyes. Binds them once more to its will, booming but one elemental command: ‘LIVE ON.’ “]

It is a relative of the psychic censor, but this concept has a much stronger Gnostic redolence. That most strange and unsayable sense of recognition in watching Westworld… the android in us getting a bit self-conscious.

*       *       *

The scene of a car-crash passed at speed; the look in the face of a roadside vagrant, the faces on the city tube; beauty that calls the soul to arms; intimations of animality; clearings steeped in silence far from scents of the formicary.

A glitch of thought that leads by accident to an inaccessible door of the mind; an uncanny sense of vertigo.

‘What door?’

‘Doesn’t look like anything to me.’