Most peculiar is he, this omniscient third voice of mine, oft leaves me pondering who in this magisterial comedy plays the fool, audaciously transgressing The Tenet - that most fragile membrane of sanity, a murmured whisper housing the chaos; bless it be, thy sanctioned solitude and sanctuary, convent and confinement, pasture and prison. Grieves he –our Yorik- as He had grieved before him, watching them as they stood, alone, that once alone, then forever -once at a time- alone, each alone by the other’s side, likewise alone. Creatures of heaven where they defying The Order and falling, only then stood they, for the first time together, alone, awaiting a judgment already befallen; and there too, bellowing and gathering in the immeasurable space between Before and After was their sentence and prison forming, a word, alone. The indelible chasm their one worded sentence formed they fought to fill, silly children, with words yet more – manically paper sandbagging a firestorm; to justify and qualify, defend and pacify, ultimately –futilely- to reunify. But first a word they sought to give their sentence word, to turn its obstinate to the mere absurd. ‘Anger’ they fancied, but thought it ought for a more general use, most ideally perhaps to justify each other’s abuse; for they feared not torment, but their torment alone –our intrepid Yorik would claim- the scorn in each other’s eyes no more than reflected shame. For it was ashamed they first became, of their nakedness and –far less - their nudity; the latter so very easy to solve, the former – a humanity unfiltered through a grand aesthetic- destined were they to spend eternity flailing to absolve. For how long can one be despite oneself? Shadowboxing at all times, unfaltering zeal it be the guard against the insanity of its underlying paradox –the First and Third staring the other down, each hurling indictment of ‘Clown’; each blow strategic, mental fists magical, erecting in their trails mirror after mirror, each trapping the other - spiegel im spiegel - refracting truths like Arvo’s tinkering bells; echoing extraneous conditions, reflections made perpetually less familiar with each examining glance -normalcy far less real than initially thought, truth far less real than ought- each glide morphing them mid flight till they cease being quite what they were, thoughts that once were no longer quite so. But how to trap gliding thoughts, how to freeze their moments to take them apart? Call them Truth: the shepherd of misery. Through it reality made, profanity of incertitude repelled. Call it Truth, the prophet of faith. Call it I, denier of All.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 11
Is it all theatrics? Talk of the indefinable, expositions of obscurity - all pillarless clouds of rhetoric prone to dissipation with the first encountered destabilisation of significance? Or is there more merit to it all, the fragmentary remnants of what had always been, seeming inadequate only to a majority opposition so overwhelming, mistaking disrepute with falsity. Does it even matter now, is there any more will to care; besides, how is one to rejoin that to which there is no recollection of affiliation? Vague memories flash across inverted eyes, sitting alone in a concrete grassy knowl an old hooded leather jacket visible in the distance, swaying contra breeze as if to make some futile, facile point of defiance. The sounds were his alone, shared by none; a glass cage of immediacy shutting away from a world it has neither claim nor interest in. No one would have guessed at the auditory repetition augmenting this ersatz solitude, soon there was no actual listening, just an appreciation of what momentary isolation is afforded, swaying not even registered; there was no point being made, no statement of rebellion, objection, opposition, discontent, nor was it a valuation of some abstract notions of outsiderness; it was just abstraction, a hollow disputation of the certitude of self. In truth, he was not there. That hooded shelter might as well have been unoccupied - be the stuff of dreams, let what little wind is mustered carry it to its will, swing in the breeze all the same, in acquiescence –to be sure- it would have been, but no different an outcome. And yet -all those seeming centuries ago- it all lasted only till the ‘stop’ button was hit and the world rushed in anew, filling body, sleeves and hood alike, ushering with it a victorious self mocking such feeble resistance, but ever aware each victory a Phyrric one, etching its formidable armour a mighty, insignificant scar. Now jacket and button are gone, that is the only real difference to be found; armour all the less formidable, resistance all the less feeble, battleground no longer confined to that concrete grassy knowl.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 10
Woke up a different man today; received some candour in dreams. The absurdity of a figure head to the many; the purpose of arcane knowledge; and saw a man intoxicated though never saw the intoxicant. Walked streets, entered stores, all along standing aside to let life pass by. Then he sobered and people one and all were gone, clothes left stranded in the streets like so many snake skins shed behind. Walked alone then, nothing else to do. His eyes open to Truth he had no wish to bear; a rubbled (did he chuckle at ‘crumbled’?) civilisation of missing humanity where all else remains, including –he notes- the X% of manmade fibres that constitute the total amount of fabrics produced globally per annum since 19XtyX and he cried a single smile ... or perhaps smiled a tear; was hard to tell. He couldn’t bring himself to touch any of it lest he taint or be tainted by the overwhelming absurdity, not knowing if he was crazed or these the early signs or emerging sanity. A pair of Levi’s caught his eyes, cradling a shirt and a scarf, a ‘circle in a spiral ... a wheel within a wheel’ but no shoes in sight. He bursts out laughing. ‘Circle in a spiral, a wheel within a wheel’, why would he recollect that now? And where are the shoes? ‘Never ending or beginning, on an ever spinning reel’ ... he shudders and his eyes glaze over with emotions till then held back by the wave upon wave of preposterousness his mind was facing; was this the soundtrack to his insanity, was he hearing it whispered on a breeze not strong enough to shift a single silk scarf out of formation- or was it blaring inside his head? How will he know when there’s no one to confirm it, dear gods, was his now the solitary sound of Reality? ‘Like a snowball down a mountain’ ... it’s in his mind, must be, must have always been but too quiet for him to hear before, only now the elsewise oppressing silence making it possible; that’s the sound one mind raving makes, a thunderous clap of something not altogether relevant. Standing there amidst a civilisation frozen in a tableau of haberdashery, its centre at that very moment a blouse, skirt and a hemp dress, another realisation shakes him, ‘or a carnival balloon’, HE is the centre of humanity now, his every gaze dictates focality ... runs back to find the shoes, doesn’t make sense there not being shoes. Some sanity must hold, some things must make sense still. ‘Like a carousel that’s turning, running rings around the moon’ clutching desperate hands to more desperate ears, why would these words animate his madness?! Why not any other? Knowing others would have driven those desperate hands all the same; standard wonderment of a clutching mind. Can’t possibly take much more of this, trailing a phantom resolution the only option, ‘like a clock whose hands are sweeping, past the minutes of its face’; walking by a store saw the only clothes left standing, draped so very elegantly on mocking mannequins, indifferent to his rapidly evaporating ... what’s the current purpose of words -another gut punch- when no shared meaning is to be had? Still, he notes with glee that the mannequins all had shoes, meant he’s right (?), there had ought been shoes centring that spiral of madness event horizoned by a pair of Levi’s, a shirt and a scarf. ‘And the world is like an apple’ -he stopped. A worm in a rotten core. Only survives because it is so. Purification leaves it an empty husk. No use- ‘whirling silently in space’. He runs somewhere unknown, this ulterior self’s secret hideaway, but how can he know it if I don’t? Saw no intoxicant again, but he’s reintoxicated, not sure if it’s sanity or its ‘in’ he just imposed upon himself but doesn’t care. He rejoins the world of empty facades outside, anticipation birthing premature relief. ‘Like the circles that you find ...’ ... could he hear it still? Where is the ungodly pandemonium to drown it out, where is the rot to house his insignificance? Or is he accustomed to madness now, humming its theme tune to himself? All around discarded skins are back to life, but no snakes returned; only empty Levi’s, skirts, silk scarves and hemp dresses going about their business, as though ... as though ... is there a metaphor for a world reborn in his unwanted image? Mannequins still standing- he notes, implacably modelling how the exterior will look once they are hollowed out ‘in the windmills of your mind’.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 09
I died a million times. With every memory that fades away, every word –once so full of meaning- now forgotten, and every dream that slips my fervent grasp like so many grains of sand. Every song lyric that moved me so now a distant hum, every piece of art that griped my heart now an empty frame to the mind’s eye. Every smile smiled and tear shed for a joy and pain no longer felt. Every scar and bruise now healed. Every height of elation now descended. I died a million times yet here is I standing; a million dead things and everything else. So who is this imposter claiming ‘I’, exerting a will on a whole host of nothing? Who is this shadow announcing presence in the broadest light of day? Of what ‘whole’ does he speak, this clown king, asserting lordship over a nonexistent land; what foolish pride! His domain a shattered mirror, in it the memories, the words, the dreams, the songs, the arts, the smiles, the tears, the joys, the pains, the scars, the bruises, the elations; but of what whole does he speak? Does he crave to crawl on hands and knees picking shards, every misstep cutting his very will -fragments breaking all the more- parading his task’s futility? Or will he look upon these broken reflections and by the tyranny of routine claim to be seen in them the whole and clear blue skies of self, and I soaring in it, undamaged and free; free to effortlessly glide to wherever whimsy would yearn. But how far will I fly before illusions dissipate, before jagged edges mercilessly rip those paper wings, worthy for nought but flights of fancy. Battered and beaten –as he deserves to be- will he learn? Will he be humbled, will he bend down and pick –from amidst the resultant chaos of his folly- one piece at a time? Will he finally look at each alone and see what has always been reflected in them? That I was not happy, I was happiness; that I was not sad, I was sadness; that I was the words, the songs, the smiles, and the tears. Will he come to understand that ‘I’ died a million times, and will die a million more to come? And will –in time- his I eventually come to understand it too?
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 08
'No reprieve' writ large across a mind mocking what little clarity residing there in the face of such overwhelming absurdity. Not for lack of introspection be it so, his a self-denying ego, perpetually turned in on itself fervent for a resolution of its defining paradox. Times come when it sees the smell of a whisper of something not altogether unreal, only to mourn this lonesome wisp of smoke’s fortunes amidst the cacophony of the Otherwise grand fire, mourning with it the inch farther towards Manhattan. Mind a bundle of raw nerves, a sword unsheathed, ever exposed to the elements; its gift and curse, for all the burdens it can truly sense what Is, sanity undulled, lies and links apparent. A borrowed gift be it though, fated by time to be weathered, rusted and blunted. Tired. Weary. What would wisdom want with withered, winter worn wanton will, where worthless worries warp whatever was -way when- worthy? The time to feel anything is pressing, to caress truths and lies alike, will and want, purity and sin, and fade home to all the greys in between. To touch futility in the very act of hope and smile in the grips of sorrow, only then will meaningful colours appear. But in the distance will they be, far beyond reach of any who see them, and hidden to those near to touch them. And he will crumble amidst the agony of yet another meaningless compromise. The trade made unbending –heart for mind, warmth for fire, hearing for the devil’s fiddle- what finer punishment for whimsical arrogance? Standing then on distant hills, surveying all that once was so very immediate, the realisation of what was done marked only by a single shudder, then silence. Patterns and meaning will find –he- in those surveys, but to him no avail, they are etchings in the dust. No songs to despair will there be, nor odes to joy, only a reminder; laugh till you weep or cry till you smile, either way there’s no reprieve.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 07
Am I alone? The echo of Henry’s words haunt me now more than ever, in a vacuum of context they are all the more troubling, all the more disheartening; it’s as sitting in the dark, suddenly aware that all which elsetime and elsewhere illuminates is intrusive, and all the more the senses are perturbed by this; the audible ethereal, the tangible unrecognised, the tasted unanticipated, the smelt disembodied, and yet they are all the more real, all the more pervasive. “You have no meaning” he bellows and echoes in those hollowed caverns of memory where his charge reigns unchallenged, “you're like a ghost pointing an empty sleeve and smirking at everything that people feel or want or struggle for. I pity you” I don’t retort, principally under the crushing weight of there being none “Isn't there anything... what touches you, what warms you? Every man has a dream. What do you dream about, what--what do you need? You don't need anything, do you”; I instinctively protest –you err kind sir- but on what grounds? It ought not take a moment’s pondering to invoke a need and yet there I stood, a blade of grass pleading neither sun nor rain, adding nothing but the grace of silence “people, love, an idea, just something to cling to. You poor slob; you're all alone” ever gluttons of a convenient lie over an inconvenient truth are we; never shy of self deception, perpetually mindful of a convenient cover story, a maintainable narrative. But time comes when we all meet our Henry, and this was distinctly looking to be mine “When you go to your grave, there won't be anybody to pull the grass up over your head, nobody to mourn you, nobody to give a damn. You're all alone”. I sigh. Not the hot, heavy angst laden sigh of Lawrence, nor the flustered tired one of Austen, not one of reminiscence or tedium, nor any of the hundred meaningful sighs so oft mused; it was no more than a breath having nowhere else to go, a corporeal existence -bemoaning its forced solitude- moving to second his motion. But was it me in that court room listening to him after it had emptied? Was it me in that gray suit and flat top straw hat smirking even as he spoke? These will be pondered, but not now, not today.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 06
He is as he has long since been, jaded but fighting to remain optimistic. His inclination is to denounce the world but his single mindedness on its singularity cajoles him to make his peace -uneasy though it may be- with it. Still, the sheer fact of his being weighs heavily on his shoulder. The supporting role in his own story, struggling to find the joy in life because there isn’t enough life for him; what there is is existence. An extra in a film, him ‘being’ made meaningful only by the story of the stars, only purposeful to tell their tale. A clouded mind, a weak will, an aimless passion; vying to accept any excuse, but knows the truth won’t be found in a reason, it’s firmly grounded in reason. He’ll try, and fail, and try again, always knowing meaning isn’t found because there is none to be found. It takes an act of will, self delusionary will, to form one, mould it out of nothing, bind it by hope and sustain it by unrest; yet those who do are the stars of their own existence, the main cast in life. An ensemble piece to be sure, more stars than extras, but the few remain. So his hope is to find those to whom life is not a script; those who grasp that “life is a stage” is no longer metaphorical in our state of play. Those who can touch the precious few real things in life and not turn them into props; those who can say “I love” without becoming every cliché contrived; those who can stand on the edge of meaning and tread softly to the other side because they are always anchored to everything there is, illusions extirpated. Those who no longer fear their inevitable demise because it is the ultimate reality; the one last thing that will stand uncorrupted by pretence. So he may not hold much hope for mankind’s sanity, but still fancies a flutter on its persistence. A god gave fire to man, who made it a spotlight; he’s still holding out that some will give it back because they are no longer afraid of the dark.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 05
For a few moments it was just paper; with it a fleeting sense of freedom, no longer bound by its fundamental triviality. But fleeting it was, soon drowned out by the realities of us, what we chose to build, how we decided to operate. A curious word ‘freedom’, so nebulous yet so vital in the conception of the self. Being free; free beings. Is freedom having the cage bars far enough for the canary to choose never to fly farther? Bound by fear, perhaps inadequacy, ravelling in its bordered freedom, singing its pleasure. We sing of it too -what we can say, what we can do- the freedom to be who we are. Yet is that not our cage, who we are? Eric Blair understood this; force and brutality can suppress the few forever, but the many for only a while, and a restless one at that. Thus real control is harnessed by those who let the many be free to be who they are moulded to be. Shape the self and let it stifle the mind, let who they are smother who else they could have beens. Power is the power to mould the self, that flux product of the nature/nurture duality -the grinding plates of the innate and the socialised. Herein ties the Nietzscheian bootstrap; it is at the fault lines that freedom can be gained, wrestled from the grasps of the ‘is’ by the mind’s emancipation. Let not the self restrain the mind, rather let the mind be free to form. Let it evaluate and revalue everything; beliefs and disbeliefs, loves and hates, virtues and vices. Let it view the self for what it is; a part of the greater else, a product of that which binds it. And let a decision mark its liberation, a single decision; a choice to accept what was rejected or deny what was held, a choice to denounce a loved or embrace a hated.The self looks at the shadows in Plato’s cave passing judgement on what they do. But the mind freed recognises one’s own shadow entangled in their midst too, its causes and effects; only then can one gain control of their part in the puppet show.
~Alarm set to 8:03 exactly~
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 04
In the recesses of his mind are the remnants of the air of a dream, wisps of a fleeting thought, fragments of the notes of a song, and a voice he daren’t pay too much attention to. He glimpses from there the limits of language, the boundaries of imagery; all that can be found there is the sense of things, the sense of being. It is stumbling down the deepest caverns, ever aware of the darkness, the emptiness; they are all there is. Engulfed by dread, the aloneness, stumbling ever deeper, seeking ... anything, just something. Fighting to suppress all that fear brings to the light of the mind, back against the wall, arms outstretched; an unuttered mantra: all there is is that in reach. Fighting delusions with delusions. ‘Thunderous silence’ no longer an oxymoron, it’s all around, oppressing the very notion of sound, daring it to challenge it. Fighting an inferno with a spark, every whisper -every escaped whimper- hollowed, magnified & emboldened; audible blood to the terrors all around, inches from the fingertips. How much to push forward before turning back, how much to risk sacrificing? Is there anything to be found, anything worth finding? Go back to the light, live on the surface, sanity is there. Normality, safety, mundanity; there escaped whimpers can quickly die away. But how long can the urge be unheeded? When will the brightness start to blind; bury the remnants, smear the wisps, let fade the final note? To tread the darkness he must embrace the darkness, acknowledge the whimpers, reconcile the demons - as only he can. They are his.
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 03
Lost in his mind’s creation, newly found, paradoxical even to him, he’s frantic for an exorcism. Doesn’t know what to write anymore, maybe never did; such aimless passion, riling against a non-existent foe, tearing at itself for a meaning. Words no longer sea worthy, too deep in and under, all that’s left are emotions -irrational, chaotic, intangible- doing nothing to heal a phantom wound. How would it have been for the firsts finding themselves; curl up in a ball, all their up-to-then fears becoming trivial in face of realising they are afraid; did held back tears clog their heart, numb them. They have him. But he keeps writing because it’s something to do, hoping for inspiration salvation, willing his muse to arrive and his words to find their purpose. The rarest phenomenon in the universe, the most extraordinary product of nature, the pride of creation, a conscious -self conscious- mind; yet all around him there is only the ordinary, the mundane. His eyes shift and catch life; part of it all yet so alone. Eyes unfocused, mind weary, craving sleep but won’t allow himself the pleasure, his muse is yet to visit. He closes his eyes and sees music, light waves, the abstractness of creation, they open and his sight catches an upside down pendant. Heavy hands, heavier eyelids, and a heart heavier still; but his muse is yet to visit. His thoughts too absurd for writing, imagination too inexpressible, feelings even less. He envisages a supreme being, a single consciousness alone in all of existence, it IS existence. Utter solitude with not even the notion of company, a pure awareness with not even the notion of physicality. His eyes close
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 02
Slink away when it's time, go quietly, take your leave with the dignity rarely afforded you till then by her demands pressures and expectations; you're free, the wailing is not for you. No longer need pretences -don't gotta be a whiskey priest no mo’- nothing to lose now, no more hold to bend you to her will; sweet irony of a cruel mistress -dominant to the last- her final act a Pyrrhic victory. Would you rather she kept you chained? Her play thing, do her dirty work for treats; gets you salivating at the ring of a bell even when you well know nothing is coming. Maybe you do, nothing wrong with that, the treats are worthy; just a shame how hard her whip cracks. Got a touch of the Stockholm you do; suppose we all do, maybe even she's got a touch of the Lima … sometimes … who knows. I always want to be part of her, life; bury me next to a tree -outdoors is nice- scoleciphobia be damned then, disconcertion is not for me. Well, I say me but of course I'm no longer I when I slink away, but you get my drift (just a thought, why the angst over such an infinitesimal cosmic shift?). Stand by me then and look around, how far out will you see? How far out do you see now? Curious how we always see but don't often look. When did you last push your vision to probe the distance? Squint if you must, use your hands to block the sun. Now close them and listen, or smell or feel or even taste; strain them all, they won’t break. There is no pleasure in the distance, just rocks and clouds and trees and flowers, but in the perception -the joy of the senses- o my dear, that is your soul.
How far out do you see now?
It will be less then
The Alan Wozawsky Social Experiment: 01
I am aware -almost fully but not quite- of the meaninglessness of my words, but that seems irrelevant, I am losing myself again and they are my straws. They wash at the banks -solid, reliable, meaningful- but carried always by the irrevocably not, ignored by the many: ‘what stream?' Which bank they walk is of no consequence, the illusion is the same. Bundled words, crammed together (held by hope?), giving meaning to each other, something to stand on. It’ll waver from time to time betraying that on which it lies, but they just shake it off; a little sea sick, just a little nausea, it will pass, nothing more. ‘Flights of fancy ‘ll give you unsurely feet young fellar they will’; you gaze too often -‘don’t stare directly at it, just keep it in your peripheral; and don’t look down’- it wavers, unsurely feet, you’re in. You're carried, tossed and turned. The banks remain, you see them, but you are freed. They sway still, but hold no sway on you. The irrevocably not engulfs you, takes you under; it’s mind’s Thanatos (ironically -or is it appropriately?- not a word ‘he’ used). It is. Just is. But you're losing yourself ... or is it me? Me, I, myself, A… clutch at those jetting by alongside; ineluctable modality of the audible indeed, or at least the conceptual. They are my straws, they'll carry me back.
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