The Brasilian flag boldly proclaims Ordem E Progresso. Order and Progress. The conflict between the two has been essentially the hallmark of modernity, to the point that I think that anyone who is on a political team will get bad vibes from one of the two words.
It really is a mean mean conflict: from the standpoint of Order there was a Golden Age, far away in the past, and our duty is to carry the flame of tradition forward, so that we can continue to warm ourselves around a ray of sunshine from the true supernal sun that once bathed all.
From the standpoint of Progress though, there will be a Golden Age in the future, perhaps even in the near future. The past was just a long night, a nightmare even, as Marx said:
The tradition of all the dead generations weighs like a nightmare on the brain of the living.1
We are only just beginning to wake up from the long nightmare, says Progress, the sun has only just risen, and this is no supernal sun, but one we can see with our very fleshly eyes.
A good summary of the conflict comes from this excellent Tibetan Buddhist poem (not by a Tibetan though):
Tibetan Apocalypse
There lies a land beyond where you are seeking
where in dark red rooms musty maps are kept
and tattered ochre robes lie torn in no one’s keeping
Those maps, its seems, no one remembers how to read them
Or to what country, to what rivers they once referred
Stains blot out entire oceans
the names and contours are dimmed and blurred
by loss, a shadow seeping through a nation
where they are scribbling in the children’s books with blood.
Across Tibet, land of our imagination, we grope, hapless,
for a flickering sign: a hand, a voice, a flame
astonishing the darkness, or the comfort of a rag
some other traveler has left behind.
Up ahead a man is stumbling through the tundra
his attention fixed upon a dwindling gleam
We follow unsure of where we’re going
across no promised land but bleak terrain:
the self uncharted, no more than this, no less.
When they’re done beheading all the Buddhas
and the ashes settle from the burning page
and the whores and soldiers smile in satisfaction
and tourists line up to feed the yeti in his cage
why then the old demons will soon be waking
stirring from the starved roots of sapless trees
Now that none know how to tame or to appease them
an alien hunger on the earth will be released. 2
Of course, this one is from the standpoint of Order, but it includes the vision of Progress, the light in the distance, and it seems inspired by the Chinese invasion of Tibet, a bloody battle in the global war of Order and Progress.3
So it is just crazy, absolutely batshit bugfuck insane, to just affirm Order and Progress together this casually.
They got it from Auguste Comte, who said:
Love as a principle and order as the basis; Progress as the goal 4
At a first pass, you just get this impression that it’s a bad idea to take a 19th century philosopher so seriously that you put his crap on your flag, but Brasil is a land of extremes like that.
You can see it in its history. A country that got its independence because of the ambitions of an emperor, and not through a popular uprising like the rest. The last Western country to abolish slavery. Run by a monarchy, until overthrown by a repressive military dictatorship that lasted 36 years. Too much Ordem not enough Progresso.5
Then the republic that replaced the dictatorship collapsed into yet another dictatorship. Amusingly, there were 3 attempts to depose this dictator, Getúlio Vargas, from 3 different directions:
In the 1930s, three attempts to remove Vargas and his supporters from power failed. The first was the Constitutionalist Revolution in 1932, led by the São Paulo’s oligarchy. The second was a Communist uprising in November 1935, and the last one a putsch attempt by local fascists in May 1938.
Brasilian fascists! Now, there’s a real square circle, at least if you go by the sort of vibes Brasil puts out into the world, which is perhaps ill-advised given what we’ve already seen of Brasilian history, and yet, having been there, the vibes are entirely real.
What do these strange creatures believe?
In its outward forms, Integralism was similar to European fascism: a green-shirted paramilitary organization with uniformed ranks, highly regimented street demonstrations, and rhetoric against Marxism and liberalism. However, it differed markedly from it in specific ideology: a prolific writer before turning political leader, Salgado interpreted human history at large as an opposition between “materialism”—understood by him as the normal operation of natural laws guided by blind necessity—and “spiritualism”: the belief in God, in the immortality of the soul, and in the conditioning of individual existence to superior, eternal goals.
Yiiiiiikes! This sounds very much like something I might believe. Perhaps it is my fate to start goose-stepping. I was once an anarchist literally throwing rocks through bank windows 6, what could be more natural than that transition if you have seen that there is an off-ramp from romanticism straight into fascism, and–
Thus the integralists favoured nationalism as a shared spiritual identity, in the context of a heterogeneous and tolerant nation influenced by Christian virtues—such virtues being concretely enforced by means of an authoritarian government enforcing compulsory political activity under the guidance of an acknowledged leader.
Ooooooooo-kay, and that’s where I get off from all that noise. But yes, as one might have surmised, the Brasilian fascists are a strange bunch, and while I’m sure there is a fertile academic career awaiting whoever wants to decrypt the mind that grows up around the samba and decides they would rather goose-step, we have to move on.
Then democracy was “reinstated” through a military coup, the deposed dictator actually won democratic elections some time later, then killed himself.
Then we get some Progresso with Juscelino Kubitschek, who constructed the High Modernist atrocity of Brasilia (along with significant material improvements to the country). Then there was another military dictatorship. This one got a great protest song:
Then it ended by the dictatorship choosing to reinstate democracy, yet again not by a popular uprising, which is a running theme, and I just know inventing the samba has something to do with the remarkable lassitude of the Brasilian demos (though I shouldn’t judge, Puerto Rico is the only Latin American country that didn’t overthrow the Spanish, throwing stones in glass houses and all that, but when you are a literal glass smashing vandal, maybe that proverb doesn’t apply for some reason, or at least, it shouldn’t).
There was and continues to be a lot of political instability in this democracy. And it was during this democracy that the Brasilians got the extremely funny (and disastrous) notion that they could build a rocket.
So this history doesn’t showcase much Progresso, but Brasil is the country of the future:
Brazil [sic] influenced the cosmopolitan Stefan Zweig more than any other nation. He visited the fifth-largest country on Earth in the middle of World War II, at the height of Europe’s self-destruction, and was captivated by its natural beauty, calm way of life, tolerance, and openness of its people. Zweig foresees Brazil’s current position with extraordinary vision, extracting future forecasts from historical events, some of which appear to be not only realized but overfulfilled at the moment.
Or as the Brasilians say:
Brazil is the country of the future – and always will be.
...
“Brazilianness” [principal ingredients are] “spontaneity, improvisation, youthful immaturity, tropical languor, individualism, the patriarchal mind-set, the authoritarian tradition and its corollary of impunity for the rich and powerful, and the various legacies of slavery.”
BUT by its fleeting, antic, episodic nature, Brazilianness – if there is such a thing – doesn’t yield easily to analysis. How to portray a culture whose national stereotype is the malandro, a charming outlaw who survives by his wits, a figure of resourcefulness, courtesy and grace whose stylish cunning passes for the art of living?
One of Mr. Page’s more successful stabs at pinning down Brazilianness is a chapter devoted to individual cultural and political personalities. In an assessment as sinuously artful as a Brazilian soccer player moving into scoring territory, Mr. Page finds the poet and performer Vinicius de Moraes embodying “an approach to life so direct and uncompromising, so charming and at the same time so exasperating that it is impossible to imagine him as anything other than Brazilian.”
So the Brasilians do manifest Ordem e Progresso by their way of being.
But taking it all in, it’s like they get dysfunctional versions of both concepts, and rarely, if ever, at the same time.
And it’s interesting, seeing these oscillations between the two concepts, this disordered relationship.
There is a catch though, which is that that crap wasn’t really Order: the only Order worth speaking of is that of a spiritual civilization built around transcendent metaphysical principles. There is no secular conservatism: without a spiritual core, there is only meaningless custom and routine, which is just boring and lacks the animating fire of true Order.
But of course, the conflict between Order and Progress exists for that Order too, and it’s probably even stronger and more serious.
What is the proper relationship between Order and Progress?
Order gives bad vibes to partisans of progress, being often used as a fetter on it. Yet, Order, like freedom, is one of those essential things that is commonly taken for granted. Once, I was toying around with the notion of Chaos as a good thing, inspired by Liber Null & Psychonaut. Then a number of implausible things started happening. I encountered some of the most bizarre bugs of my career. One morning I wake up to a phone call from my doctor’s office canceling my appointment, and as I’m hearing this, I notice my room is flooded, which upon investigation, it turned out a blown valve had flooded the entire apartment. I was going to spend the night at my parents place some time later because it gives me warm fuzzies to do this occasionally, but they didn’t have my medicine (I prefer not to take it out of my apartment so I don’t forget it or lose it somewhere), so we go the pharmacy, find they didn’t have it there, go back to the car to see it’s not turning on, we call our insurer’s road assistance number only to learn that according to their systems we don’t have a policy at all. A good Samaritan with a jumper pack shows up and we are able to get home, where we find that my car suddenly has a flat. We reposition my car to somewhere with more light and space, but then find that it’s suddenly not turning on either. As all this is happening, we learn that my cousin’s flight did not leave that day due to a mechanical defect being detected on the plane.
And I had to ask myself, "How are you liking the Chaos?". So no, I don’t think it’s such a great idea to speak of Chaos, even though there were some interesting views in that book, and I realized just how for granted I was taking Order.
Chaos is very related to Progress. Certainly there have been many revolutions in the name of Progress, and a fondness among quite a lot of the partisans of Progress for the revelry of riots and vandalism, which is something I have partaken in. And as Richard Hanania conveniently said recently:
Rather than reflecting the will of the people or any such nonsense, democracy is chaos, and chaos is the midwife of progress.
So this is a reason to be suspicious of Progress. And yet, Progress has given us so, so much. Indeed, somewhere perennialist Frithjof Schuon said something like7:
The traditional world was essentially good but contained much evil, while the modern world is essentially evil but contains much good.
The Truth certainly has a ring to it, because that sure sounds true! The holy grail would be to get a civilization that is Ordered, that is, built around those eternal metaphysical principles, but that still gets that “much good” that Progress has given us.
Schuon is very doomy as to the possibility of this however (from The Eye of the Heart):
In sum therefore, there are only two possibilities: an integral, spiritual civilization, implying abuses and superstitions, and a fragmentary, materialistic, progressivist civilization, implying—quite provisionally—certain earthly advantages, but excluding that which constitutes the sufficient reason and final end of all human existence. History proves that there is no other choice; the rest is rhetoric and chimera.
Grim, grim stuff! But Rene Guenon says in Spiritual Authority and Temporal Power:
Now spirit is unity, matter is multiplicity and division; and the more one removes oneself from spirituality, the more antagonisms are accentuated and amplified.
And that sure was an antagonistic view Schuon put forward, a seemingly irreconcilable dualism, which means he was failing at spirituality when he said that, which means he was being retarded, for as Guenon said in that same book:
in their essence and in their profound reality, intellectuality and spirituality are absolutely one and the same thing under two different names
So a failure of spirituality is a failure of the intellect, which is to be retarded.
This really reveals the potency of asserting a unity in Order and Progress: sorting this out would imply a restoration of spirituality that all could accept, the Good End, goddamn Satya Yuga.
How might this be accomplished?
In cybersecurity there is this concept called red teaming, where a group attempts a digital or physical penetration of an organization at the behest of the organization, so they can report back on what weaknesses they found. And this is one half of the proper relation of Progress to Order: the red team of Order. Find the flaws of Order and report back so they can be fixed. And the flaws of Order are indeed quite significant: the Catholic Church attempts to argue that using contraception is irrational, some poor souls take them up on that and they end up having 10 kids, which is a very heavy toll on both parents, but especially on the woman. I have met such families, and it’s just insane: you can personally witness the price they’re paying for a bit of bad doctrine.
Or how about this nice anecdote from The Journey Home: Autobiography of an American Swami:
My joys, sorrows, and cravings were freely expressed as I played the blues. I was crying out for my lost love—God. Hours passed as I played and played.
Suddenly, I was startled by the figure of a young woman standing nearby in the silvery moonlight. Shyly, she stepped forward. “I’m Irene,” she said, explaining that she’d been listening for hours. “Your music touches me. Can I sit close by as you play?”
“If you like,” I replied. Timidly, I played on for some time, but it wasn’t the same. Then, in my shyness I stole a glimpse at her. Irene was as beautiful as a girl could be, her every gesture expressed with modesty and grace.
Nervously pushing her long, light brown hair from her delicate face, she spoke softly, “I come from a village in Switzerland. I’m on holiday to seek spiritual friends.” Tears welled in her hazel eyes. She spoke of her disappointment with the people she’d met, who were after selfish pleasures. She told me how she longed to be closer to God. “From your song, I believe you are also on a spiritual search. Please tell me.”
We spoke for several hours about our lives and our longings. It was alarming how much we had in common. Her soft cheeks glistened with tears. She took a deep breath, highlighting her charming form. “I have been praying for a companion. Please take me with you wherever you go.” I listened in awe as she proposed, in her sincere manner, that we share love as we searched for enlightenment. With a tender gaze she concluded, “Please consider my appeal.” I told her I would.
We spent the next day together visiting museums, strolling through parks, and exchanging our thoughts. She was unlike any other woman I had met. I was enthralled. In the evening, as I shared bread with Gary on a grassy hill, another girl, a stranger to me, climbed up to where we ate, studied my eyes, and placed a letter in my hand. Retreating alone to the forest, I found that the letter was from Irene. She wrote that unless I accepted her plea, it would be too painful for her to ever see me again. “If I do not hear from you,” she wrote, “I will understand.” I spent that night walking alone through the forest. Was this a temptation to divert me from my spiritual path, or was it a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to share my life with a gentle, beautiful angel? I pondered the strangeness of it all. Just hours before I’d met her, in the cathedral, I had the deepest spiritual experience of my life, committing myself before the altar of the Lord. If Irene had come a day before, how could I have resisted her? She was everything I could ever want in a girl, and I felt a deep affection and attraction for her. I could imagine her as an ideal partner in my life. I didn’t know her well, but I knew that to say no would break her heart and mine.
Once again, I found myself at a confluence. There were two streams that could lead me to enlightenment; one that offered the pleasure of a beautiful companion and the other a path I would take alone, offering my whole energy for the Divine. I walked and walked that night in contemplation and prayer. Could I really give up such a chance at earthly love? Gazing into a sky full of stars, I considered Catholic saints, Tibetan Lamas, and yogis of India, who all chose lives of renunciation in their passion for enlightenment. They forsook life’s pleasures to answer the call of exclusive dedication. I longed to follow in their footsteps. I knew it would be difficult, but with God’s help, I decided to try, at least for now.
Under the moonlight a tear fell on my address book as I scratched out Irene’s name.
This is clearly very spiritual, in a sense, but at that level of spirituality, madness is not too far behind, and you end up doing something dumb (from experience, madness is a kind of stupidity) like literally ditching your soulmate. It’s interesting that he mentioned Tibetan Lamas as examples of renunciates: they will quite often marry and have kids, such as Dudjom Rinpoche,Kunzang Dorje Rinpoche8, the hugely important Marpa, and the founder of the religion, Padmasambhava, had at least 5 consorts 9. Also interesting is that he skipped right over Muhammad of all people:
Muhammad told his companions to ease their burden and avoid excess. According to some Sunni hadiths, in a message to some companions who wanted to put an end to their sexual life, pray all night long or fast continuously, Muhammad said: “Do not do that! Fast on some days and eat on others. Sleep part of the night, and stand in prayer another part. For your body has rights upon you, your eyes have a right upon you, your wife has a right upon you, your guest has a right upon you.” Muhammad once exclaimed, repeating it three times: “Woe to those who exaggerate [who are too strict]!” And, on another occasion, Muhammad said: “Moderation, moderation! For only with moderation will you succeed.”
So no, I don’t think this sacrifice was actually necessary.
Order is riddled with insanities like that all over the place, due to the kinship spirituality has with madness. Spirituality and madness are not the same thing, but it’s like they’re twin brothers, and spirituality can hold down a job, but madness can’t, making spirituality functional madness, madness that works, if such a thing can be conceived.
And Order can absolutely be a tyrant, a demented despot, as even a passing knowledge of history shows. Raskolnikov’s nightmare in Crime and Punishment is a good summary of that aspect of Order:
He always liked looking at these enormous draught horses with their long manes and sturdy legs, walking along at a measured pace and pulling entire mountains of stuff, not straining in the slightest, as though they found it easier to carry a load than not to. But now, strangely enough, the horse harnessed to such a big cart is small, scrawny and yellowish-brown, a real peasant’s nag, one of those which he had often seen struggling beneath a load of firewood or hay, especially if the cart had got stuck in mud or in a rut, and then the peasants always beat them so very hard with their whips, sometimes right across their muzzles and eyes, and he would feel so very sorry for them that he’d be on the verge of tears and Mummy would lead him away from the window. But now it’s suddenly become terribly noisy: great strapping peasants, roaring drunk, in red and blue shirts, their heavy coats hanging loose from their shoulders, are coming out of the tavern, shouting, singing and playing balalaikas. ‘Hop on, all of yer!’ shouts one, still young, with a big fat neck and a pulpy, carrot-red face. ‘I’ll take the lot of yer, hop on!’ But everyone starts laughing and yelling:
‘On a nag like that!’
‘Mikolka, you must be soft in the head: an old mare pulling a cart like that!’
‘That sorrel must be going on twenty, lads!’
...
‘Bet she’s not galloped for ten years or more!’
‘She will now!’
‘Show no mercy, brothers – grab your whips, all of yer, and have ’em ready!’
‘Right you are! Flog ’er!’
They clamber into Mikolka’s cart, laughing and joking.
…
This clapped-out old mare galloping with a load like that! Two lads in the cart grab a whip each, to help Mikolka. ‘Gee up!’ someone cries and the old nag tugs with all the strength she can muster, but she’s barely capable of walking, never mind galloping; she just takes tiny little steps, groans and slumps under the blows raining down on her from the three whips. The laughter in the cart and the crowd becomes twice as loud, but Mikolka’s furious and his blows land faster and faster, as if he really does believe that the old mare will start galloping.
‘Brothers, wait for me!’ shouts a lad from the crowd, getting into the spirit.
‘Hop in! Hop in, all of yer!’ shouts Mikolka. ‘She’ll take the lot of yer. I’ll flog ’er dead!’ He’s lashing her and lashing her and no longer knows what to hit her with in his frenzy.
‘Daddy! Daddy!’ he shouts to his father. ‘What are they doing, Daddy? Daddy, they’re beating the poor little horse!’
‘Come on, boy!’ says the father. ‘Just drunken idiots fooling around: off we go, boy, don’t look!’
– and tries to lead him away, but he breaks free of his grasp and, quite beside himself, runs to the horse. But the poor little horse is in a bad way. She’s struggling for breath, stops, gives another tug and almost falls.
‘Flog ’er till she drops!’ shouts Mikolka. ‘She’s asking for it. I’ll flog ’er dead!’
‘Where’s your fear of God, you mad beast?’ yells an old man in the crowd.
‘When’s a mare like that ever hauled such a load?’ adds another.
‘You’ll do ’er in!’ shouts a third.
‘Stay out of it! She’s my property! I’ll do what I like. Hop on! All of yer! I’ll be damned if she don’t gallop!’
A sudden volley of laughter drowns out everything else: the ever more frequent blows prove too much for the old nag and she begins feebly kicking out. Even the old man can’t hold back a grin. And no wonder: a clapped-out old mare like her and still kicking out!
Two other lads in the crowd grab a whip each and run up to the horse to flog her from the side. They race in from opposite directions.
‘Whip her on the snout – the eyes, the eyes!’ shouts Mikolka.
…
‘Mad beast, eh?’ screams Mikolka in wild fury. He drops the whip, bends over the cart and pulls out from the bottom a long thick shaft; he picks up one end with both hands and, straining every sinew, starts swinging it over the sorrel.
‘He’ll smash ’er in two!’ someone shouts.
‘He’ll kill her!’
‘My property!’ shouts Mikolka and brings the shaft down with all his force. The impact is loud and heavy.
‘Flog ’er! Flog ’er! Don’t stop!’ shout voices from the crowd.
Mikolka swings for a second time and another crashing blow lands on the spine of the wretched nag. She falls right back on her rump, but jerks up again and tugs, tugs every which way with her last ounce of strength, trying to shift the cart; but six whips are lashing her from all sides, and again the shaft is raised and falls for a third time, then a fourth, steadily, with heaving swings. Mikolka is furious that one blow is not enough to kill her.
‘She’s a sticker!’ someone shouts from the crowd.
‘Now she’s sure to fall, brothers, now she’s had it!’ yells another enthusiastic observer.
‘An axe’ll do it!’ shouts a third.
‘I’ll feed yer to the flies! Out of my way!’ Mikolka screams uncontrollably. He drops the shaft, leans over the cart once more and pulls out an iron crowbar. ‘Look out!’ he shouts, and clubs his poor mare with all his strength. A shattering blow; the mare begins to totter, slumps, tries to tug, but the bar comes crashing down on her spine once more and she falls to the ground, as if her four legs had all been hacked off at once.
‘Finish ’er off!’ shouts Mikolka and, quite beside himself, jumps down from the cart. Several lads, also red-faced with drink, grab whatever they can – whips, sticks, the shaft – and run over to the dying mare. Mikolka stands on one side and starts hitting her over the back with the crowbar. The nag stretches out her muzzle, sighs heavily and dies.
That is spirituality, Order, at its worst, with its insane rules imposed through force, a vessel of torment being poured into uncomprehending minds.10
Order at its best, far from being this, or some kind of repetitive clockwork, is, well, it’s like the birds. There isn’t a more spiritual sight to be had on this earth than a bird in flight. Unpredictable, yet not Chaos, an endlessly novel harmony, the original Spotify, and it’s free. As Buddha said in the Dhammapada:
Men who have no riches, who live on recognised food, who have perceived void and unconditioned freedom (Nirvana), their path is difficult to understand, like that of birds in the air.
He whose appetites are stilled, who is not absorbed in enjoyment, who has perceived void and unconditioned freedom (Nirvana), his path is difficult to understand, like that of birds in the air.
And Jesus of course:
Look at the birds of the air, for they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns; yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?
To be as the birds of the air, the true goal of spirituality. Order often fails to deliver that, for esoteric reasons which involve a dragon 11. Schuon again:
The abuses one finds in all traditional civilizations are often more or less unavoidable, because evil, being implied in Existence itself, is inherent in everything and cannot but manifest itself in one way or another
Sure, probably a great insight of the 20th Century is that going on a trip where you try to totally stamp out evil is a really bad idea, and yet, let’s not be so complacent, yes?
Order, due to being built on principles, that is, something resembling a series of axioms12, falls victim to Gödel’s incompleteness theorems. Since it’s true in math that you can’t find a set of axioms that gives you the entire truth, it is going to be true in spirituality also, since spirituality, math, and madness are all closely related.
More advanced spiritual traditions, such as most from the East, understand this, and will say things like:
The tao that can be told is not the eternal Tao
The name that can be named is not the eternal Name.
or that their doctrine is ultimately a point of view, and not some final and total systematization. Blind men and elephants.
That is the second half of the value of Progress: the discovery of truths from outside the bounds of a tradition. The traditions are all great, but they’re not the entire truth and can never be, hence the need for Progress.
And the same for Progress. Sure we can do neat/useful/helpful things through reason and science, but again, expecting to uncover the entire truth through such methods is just… unbalanced. This stuff is plainly the yin half of the yin-yang, relying so heavily on the world of the senses that every tradition, the yang half, affirms is essentially 0, the endless “multiplicity and division”.
You have to balance the yin-yang, not turning into the kind of fundamentalist I have had Internet arguments with. And it really is very funny: I have argued with Christian fundamentalists and science fundamentalists (the sort that will argue there is no consciousness), and it genuinely feels exactly the same.
I know the path to the land where the entire Truth lives!
Says the deluded fool. Maybe we will get to that land upon death, but in the meantime, we can trade with it and beautify this thriving dung-heap, the pristine cesspool we call our home.
Or maybe it all implodes. Schuon:
thus, if advances, even those most incontestable when considered in isolation, necessarily go hand in hand, firstly with the forgetting and disparagement of the real values of human existence, secondly, with negative “advances” that neutralize the positive ones, and thirdly with calamities that are the inevitable cosmic reactions to undertakings that are finally impossible, then it is plain to see that the advances in question cannot rightly be considered as criteria of superiority for the civilization that has conceived them.
“calamities that are the inevitable cosmic reactions to undertakings that are finally impossible”. *Nervously glances at The Vulnerable World Hypothesis and The Precipice*. Maybe this turns out to be the executive summary of Progress:
An unhinged schizoprenic rant that destroys the world.
Wouldn’t it be better to go with the unhinged schizoprenic rant that saves the world? It sounds more fun at any rate.
This quote might even have been an influence on the video game *Bloodborne*, where you eventually destroy a brain-driven nightmare.
It's an interesting story how I found that poem: I heard there is a Tibetan apocalyptic prophecy where Islam conquers the whole world and Tibet is the last holdout. I pretty much just typed out "Tibetan apocalypse" on google and got this instead, which was great. The Muslims sure are great at making enemies, which is a pity, because I really like the Sufis.
There is also something else, which is that I felt identified with the man in the tundra, that perhaps it is my role to lead the way to the distant light, and I also felt identified with the Yeti in a cage: during my first LSD-induced psychosis, the one where I tried to enter the cockpit of a plane, I was eventually put in a cell, after a long and trippy (to me) interview with FBI agents. And at that time, I thought I had died and it was my destiny to spend eternity in that cell, that the world would sort itself out if I am just put away forever.
Is it extreme all-or-nothing thinking, is the first narcissism and the second enemy propaganda, are both narcissism, or perhaps I should just walk to the light I see and see if anyone else sees it too, and wants to go there?
Also, that alien hunger sure sounds a lot like capitalism. I kinda think that was Nick Land's point, if I understood him (I don't think I did).
I have heard of Tibetan lamas that say they are grateful for the invasion of Tibet, because now their teachings have spread everywhere and there's no putting that genie back in the bottle: if the Chinese hoped to stamp out Tibetan Buddhism, then they have completely failed.
Interesting decision to capitalize progress and not order.
Though during this military dictatorship, Alberto Santos-Dumont invented the 14-bis, the first heavier-than-air aircraft with a maiden flight recorded by an “aeronautics recordkeeping body”, with the result that Brasil and France apparently consider this to have been the first heavier-than-air flight and not the Wright brothers. It is also the namesake of a great band, 14 Bis.
Ok, one rock, but it was a very big one, because let me tell you, those glass panes banks use sure don’t break easy. On my first attempt, the rock shattered instead, so I had to go in search of something heftier. I found like a 20-pounder. Had to throw it with both hands, even then, it bounced back, in spite of shattering the glass. I quickly ran away, to put some distance between me and the scene of the crime, then started walking, because it would be mighty suspicious if the cops showed and they saw someone running away from a crime in a deserted street in the middle of the night. Boy, bank alarm systems are something else, because the cops did show, and they started asking me questions. I kept walking and answering noncommittally and occasionally. I had no choice: hauling that rock around had dirtied the front of my hoodie. If I stopped to chat, I would for sure had been detained. They asked me if I was off my meds, which is pretty funny since this was long before I ended up on medication. At one point, I made the mistake of looking at them and they shone a flashlight on my face.
The apartment was not far from the bank. I just crossed the street right in front of the patrol car and went in. They hung around and even called reinforcements. Knocked on the door, but there was no reception. Shone lights through the windows. I thought they would be waiting for me in the morning, but Puerto Rican cops are not that diligent.
And it’s so weird why I did this. Occupy Wall Street was a factor, and The Invisibles too, but the main reason is that programmers come in two flavors: squares or degenerates, no in between. In an internship, I had met one of the degenerate ones, extremely smart guy who had done all sorts of drugs, including crack, and once set a truck on fire using a roll of toilet paper, just for the hell of it. And I asked myself, why haven’t I committed any vandalism? I want to be a cool kid too!
Yeah.
The list of things I did before getting laid is so implausible.
As to the morality of this act, Mage: the Ascension has some great lore regarding banks. I’m not saying banks are a manifestation of the power of a deranged Atlantean super-sorcerer, but I am saying they might as well be! Think about that next time you are in a bank or do online banking.
ChatGPT knows of this quote, but it can't pinpoint the source either for some reason. Maybe it and me are hallucinating, and if so, I will gladly claim that quote for myself.
"Rinpoche" is a honorific that means "precious one", which I find very funny as it reminds me of Gollum. It's like your Lama is your precious in a way, meaning you should maybe rub him while making a creepy smile.
I love that guy, he’s like a rock star monk.
Also interesting is that this pretty much is Nietzsche's mental breakdown, which occurred upon seeing a horse being beaten. Personally, I see Nietzsche as a failed or closeted mystic: if he had had a spiritual core, maybe he could have processed whatever enlightenment attempted to reveal itself to him in that poor horse. Perhaps in that moment, he saw that his "philosophy" was just going to be yet another excuse to beat on people, and his mad little heart couldn't take it.
This is going to have an entire article to itself, and it's gonna involve Elden Ring, Shin Megami Tensei, and Yahweh. It's gonna be great!
Though the highest spiritual principles are ineffable, unlike axioms.